#it was supposed to only be a quick 15 minute sketch

[comradekatara]

a quick doodle to commemorate korrasamiversary, the most important day in the history of humankind

[mintytrashart]

This is how I felt in school, always one minor inconvenience from having a breakdown. I thought I was a baby who couldn't help but cry to get my way but looking back I think I was just overwhelmed.

[jaetaimjadore]

doublure d’argent | l.ty

Pairing: Lee Taeyong x reader

Genre: strangers to co-workers to lovers, fashion designer!reader, magazine columnist!Taeyong, hurt/comfort, angst, fluff, PG-15

Warnings: profanity, slow burn, ANGST, mc is the classic bitch-turned-agreeable kinda character, Taeyong is kinda shallow at first, allusions to sex (nothing explicit), mc has hair long enough to tie up, sexual innuendos, kissing, toxic behaviour from aHEM certain individuals, inaccurate depictions of the fashion industry, food and alcohol consumption, Taeyong shirtless at times 

Word count: 48.3k

Synopsis: You’re the renowned founder and fashion designer of Argent, the luxury fashion label known best for its one too many silver linings across the world’s hottest runways. With New York Fashion Week around the corner and your latest collections fresh on the racks, you’re certain to have buyers grovelling at your star-studded heels. But when fake news spreads like a wildfire and your top model pulls out at the last minute, you’re left with no choice but to hire a wide-eyed stranger with an unusual penchant for toast.

a/n: so this was supposed to be 17k...aNYWAYS, four long months and it finally dropped *claps everywhere* !! this fic is laced with all forms of angst so please excuse the sheer amount of it! A huge thank you to @intotheneozone​ for beta-reading it in its initial stages (even though she barely knew me at the time, god bless)!!! Also just as a heads up CFDA stands for Council of Fashion Designers of America. I really hope you enjoy the fic, and I worked super duper hard on it so feedback would be greatly appreciated :))

I. …boyfriend?

Some people say you’re the embodiment of magic, able to mastermind a rough image into the finest cashmere sweater, turn a quick sketch into flowing spools of chiffon. Some say you’re the world’s next Coco Chanel, with high-end collections wooing the fancy of every rehearsed critic sitting at the foot of the catwalk; the cat that never fails to catch their tongues and stun them speechless. And some people may just call you a stubborn bitch – actually, most do; uncompromising to all forces of the universe so long as your expensive little stilettos are able to carry all that heavy rage.

It’s a real wonder how you’ve only managed to break two pairs so far…or perhaps a third now, as you sit in the back seat of your car, Louboutins jabbing furious holes into the mat beneath them as your jaw spasms in anger.

“What do you mean, the seams came undone? If they came undone, fix them!” you snap frustratedly at your executive assistant, thumb and forefinger digging at your temples as he delivers the horrifying news over the phone.

“Y/n, listen-”

“No, Ten, you listen to me. That coat is Argent’s signature for the fall collection. I want those seams fixed and spotless by six o’clock sharp, and if the tailor can’t do that, fire him and find someone who can.”

Ten sighs over the line, your stern voice stunning him to a silence.

“Don’t waste my time again,” you leave him no room to answer, cutting the call.

What a joke. Can’t even fix a simple seam slip.

You eye the Rolex watch on your wrist, deflating into the leather seat. You sink in so deep that the stillness of the car’s engine becomes all too noticeable among the raucous honking outside. Your nose scrunches at the pungent odour of diesel that floats around the air, head turning towards the tinted window that tucks you safely away from the bustling streets of New York Times Square, a place where time remains static, but the world never ceases.

“Charlie, how much longer now?” you speak impatiently to your driver, eyes narrowing at the heavy traffic ahead, cursing all the motionless cars that widen the distance between you and your destination. You’re going to be late for your Harper’s Bazaar photoshoot, and you’re not an ounce bit pleased about it.

He respectfully meets your eyes through the rear-view mirror. “Not long now, miss. Fifteen minutes if the traffic pulls through.”

His words have you pinching the bridge of your nose, teeth grinding together as you attempt to breathe in slowly, hoping the gesture dampens the temper bubbling at your throat. “Do try and hurry up,” you strain out.

“Yes, Miss.”

If there was one thing everyone ought to know about you, it’s that whatever you say is whatever goes. It’s a simple rule, a power you’ve come to possess as director and head designer of your world-class fashion label, Argent.

Things haven’t always been this smooth, however. What the world doesn’t realise is that the person they see – the person you show them – is merely the glistening tip of a cold, submerged iceberg.

It was years ago when you’d left your expensive home, when you’d escaped the vile clutches of what most people would call family. Yours was the textbook definition of everything your friends ever wanted but everything you could never stand. Your family wasn’t a family at all, but a lost cause. Comprised of a runaway father, and a controlling cougar of a mother, whose cheap excuses did nothing but blind her conscience from the blatant fact that she couldn’t do the one job all mothers are supposed to do right.

Paris. You’d taken a one-way ticket into its pulsing heart. It had welcomed you warmly, was there for you when you’d stepped off that plane with two suitcases and a pocket full of cash. While your parents chose neglect, Paris chose you; helped you find your footing among the scrappy sequins and calloused muslin.

From there, you’d clawed your way up the viperous ladders of the fashion industry, one fine sketch at a time, until New York beckoned you with its ritzy finger. 

Recognition was never an easy feat, and critics never ceased with their petty down-talk. But none of it ever compared to your mother. You’d taken the harsh blows and dealt with all the world’s criticisms that told you to give up and that you’d never make it. Hard work eventually bred success and before you knew it, you had indeed, made it. You had built Argent from the ground up, gained fame and fortune through its name and earned your rightful place in the industry. Now, you’re prowess personified. A bat of your eye has your employees cowering in fear, every trend-setting design has your competitors green with envy, and every hand-stitched item has expensive bidders falling to their knees in front of you.

So yes, people may call you a bitch.

But you’re the bitch that keeps the fashion world turning.

“We’ve arrived, Miss Y/l/n.” The car comes to a halt outside a lavish stone building with HB spelt in bold, black letters. You eye the structure from above the frame of your sunglasses with a smile, always impressed by the certain statement exuding through its walls. But your smile only lasts so long – and you’re sure to have aged five full years – as your gaze travels to the horde of blinding cameras that begin to flash from meters always.

You sigh at the sight, muttering an offhand, “Wish me luck, Charlie,” before stepping out onto the sidewalk with the help of a security guard, hand rising to shield yourself from the bright flashing and frantic yelling of your name coming from every which direction.

Being a celebrity fashion designer has always meant fame and fortune come at both name and face value. The paparazzi doesn’t faze you however – by now, you’ve all but harboured their constant buzzing into your daily routine – but they are a royal pain in the ass, tailing your every move to fulfil their quota of shots.

Oh, the perils of being famous.

With one hand wrapped around your Céline handbag and the other tucked fashionably into the pocket of your Burberry trench, you strut right ahead, the security guard tailing behind as you mentally rehearse the drill you’re all too accustomed to by now: straight posture, head down, ignore the questions, smile for every sixth camera, and don’t. Stop. No matter. What.

You follow the drill until the air once more smells clean and your heels echo loudly against the polished lobby tiles, the yelling and flashes another memory held off by the glass doors. You send the security guard a thankful nod before ripping off your sunglasses and scanning the reception area. The pathway from there to the dressing room falls nothing short of memory as you head straight for the elevators to the twelfth floor.

When the doors ding open, you’re greeted with the busy scene of HB staff setting up the photoshoot area; stylists pushing racks of designer clothing in and out of doors, while photographers position their cameras and softboxes around a white paper backdrop.

Now, this is more like it.

You smile as you see Seulgi, the head photographer, approaching from across the room with a large, expensive camera strapped around her neck. “Miss Y/l/n, happy new year! It’s a pleasure to have you back! How are you?” She greets you with two formal pecks.

“Happy new year. I’ve been well, thank you for inviting me again. And please, call me Y/n.”

She nods politely, leading you past all the chatter and commotion, picking up a bright red suit along the way with a sparkly silver strip along one of the blazer’s lapels.

They did their research, you think inwardly.

Silver lines are your signature emblem; every article of haute cotour produced by Argent has at least one visible strip of silver on a given part.

You’d first thought of the idea after hearing your French mentor speak the words ‘chaque nuage a une doublure d'argent’; the French counterpart for the common saying every cloud has a silver lining. 

Ever since then, you’d adopted the saying in every aspect of your life, went as far as naming your brand after the phrase – argent being the French word for silver – and added your own little twist to it. Now, every cloth has a silver lining. And though you still can’t pinpoint exactly why you were originally so smitten by the phrase, one thing you’re sure of is the comfort that blooms when you speak it aloud; a comfort that can’t be brought by anything or anyone else. A comfort that radiates a certain hope when all feels lost.

As your eyes travel down the sparkly silver line along the red suit, that feeling washes over you like a warm shower on a cold winter’s day.

“The makeup team is ready when you are.” Seulgi stops in front of a black door at the far end of the room, handing the suit over as you enter.

You hook it on clothing rack inside, taking a moment to absorb the soft cream walls and the vinyl flooring beneath you.

“Gosh, it’s been a while,” you murmur aloud.

This is the first photoshoot you’ve had in four months, having been buried neck-deep in preparations for New York Fashion Week. If you had it your way, you’d be the only designer on your team. But as the universe would have it, running a world-class fashion label requires hundreds upon hundreds of workers – other designers, fabric researchers, tailors, seamstresses, retail marketers; the whole damn lot. As the head of Argent, it has been your number one priority in these formative months to ensure that every item of clothing – every little stitch and work of embroidery – is perfectly pristine for the runway.

New York Fashion Week is no walk in the park, so imaginably, this is always the busiest time of year for you. But luckily enough, Argent only hires the best of the best in all fields, so majority of the preparations have gone rather smoothly, with your fall and winter collections fast approaching the green light. Now, with less than five weeks remaining until D-day, you’ve finally been able to pick one of the many magazine invites that had been collecting dust in your mailbox.

After changing and having the hair and make-up team work their magic on you, you’re soon posing in front of the white backdrop under Seulgi’s direction.

“Shoulders back a little…tilt your head just a bit…okay, that’s great!” She bends slightly, clicking a few shots the new angle while striking up small talk. “So, how’s work been treating you lately?”

“Stressfully so,” you sigh with a breathy chuckle.

“Hmm, I can tell.”

You give her a questioning look. You don’t really care much for the stress; it comes with the job. But when people outside your company walls can tell you’re stressed, that’s where it becomes a real issue.

“You look tense.” Seulgi lowers the camera to look straight at you. “Try and loosen up a little. Think of something nice.” She snaps another picture. “Like your boyfriend.”

You freeze.

Boyfriend?

What boyfriend?

“I’m sorry, what are you talking about?” you ask, posture slagging with your incredulous expression.

Needless to say, you don’t have a boyfriend. Hell, you can barely fit in time for yourself, let alone a man who wants to eat up the precious minutes of your day. Your career is far more important to you – it’s the sum of your life’s efforts – and a boyfriend would only be an obstacle in your way. Not to mention your public image would be in shambles if the tabloids ever heard of a romantic connection.

“I don’t have a boyfriend,” You clarify rather rudely, still confused as to how Seulgi came to that conclusion.

It’s then that her expression drops. “Oh no.”

“What?” you spit out dubiously, eyes narrowing as she motions to another staff member, who hands her a magazine. “What is it?”

You find yourself suspiciously beckoned by the gaudy paper in her hands, cautiously stepping closer and snatching it from her fingers to read over glossy front page with horrified eyes.

EXCLUSIVE PHOTOS: THE CATWALK’S HOTTEST NEW ITEM! Y/N Y/L/N SPOTTED COSYING UP TO TOP MODEL JUNG JAEHYUN OVER PASTA AND PINOT. IS THIS THE COUPLE WE’VE ALL SECRETLY BEEN WAITING FOR? Read more on page 26

As if on instinct, you feel the harsh grind of teeth behind your red lips, jaw locking as your eyebrows furrow, scanning over the words one, two, three times over.

What the fuck is this?

You turn to Seulgi who visibly shrinks in fear at your piercing gaze. “What is this?”

“It’s all over the tabloids,” she replies nervously.

The room is silent, save for the crisp crumpling of the page in your tightening fist. You inhale deeply, try to maintain your rapidly exhausting composure in front of the dozens of people around you. “It’s fake news,” you grit out, eyeing each and every one of them with an expression that screams and don’t you dare believe otherwise.

You turn back to Seulgi. “I need to leave.”

She nods anxiously, absentmindedly fiddling with her camera. “I understand. Thank you for your time.”

You reply with a firm nod, rushing to change back into your previous clothes and hastily making your way to the elevator. The floors seem to go by slower than ever as you impatiently call your driver to pull up outside the building, head running a mile a minute with your disordered thoughts. You don’t have half the mind to care about the cameras as you charge through them seconds later, slamming the car door shut as soon as you sit inside. The traffic outside has died down since earlier; something you couldn’t be more thankful for as you urge Charlie to speed off while hurriedly dialling Ten’s number.

He picks up on the second ring.

“Ten, arrange an urgent board meeting for this evening. Make sure Jaehyun and his agent are there too.”

“But you have a model inspection durin-”

“NOW!”

─── ⪧ ⪦ ───

“What the hell is this?”

The conference room pulses with the anger coursing through your veins as you glare at the dozen frightened heads seated in front of you, tossing the five magazines in your hands across the long, polished table.

If becoming a fashion designer was your first tribulation, this comes close second.

A scandal.

Seulgi wasn’t wrong when she said the rumour had made it all over the tabloids. Us Weekly, Hello, People, Grazia; you’re plastered on the front cover of every celebrity gossip magazine.

Having witnessed your fair share of celebrity guises gone wrong, you’ve long determined that your reputation precedes you before anything else does. As such, up until this point you’ve managed to keep a clean slate with the public eye, always cautious not to be seen with anyone in a romantic light or speculated to have engaged in risky behaviours. And if for whatever reason you were, your public relations team has always been prompt in striking deals with the press before the release of any absurd articles. 

So, where the fuck were public relations this time?

“Did you know about this?” You turn your hard gaze to Jaehyun, who sits at the other end of the table with his agent, arms crossed over his chest as he shakes his head in confusion.

Jung Jaehyun is the highest ranking male model of SM Agency – one of the most elite modelling agencies in the world. He’s also the representative model of Argent, the face of your advertisements and the finale walker at all runway events. After you, he’s Argent’s attention-grabber, and if your judgement sits correct, that’s precisely the reason the scandal is blowing up so vastly.

A relationship between a designer and her top model is one of the biggest taboos in the industry. It isn’t something unheard of, but it does cast a shameful light of ineptitude on even the most talented of people – though you have to admit you would also be disgusted at yourself if the rumours were true.

Which they aren’t.

You had simply met up with Jaehyun the day before to discuss some outfit alterations over dinner. And though you are friendly with each other, that dinner was strictly business. No romantic feelings whatsoever.

“May I suggest suing?” your public relations advisor, Doyoung, suggests from beside you, inspecting the magazines laid out in front of him with slitted eyes.

You pause at his words, the idea sounding a little too tempting. Even more so considering you’re more than capable of making it happen.

“And how do you propose we do that?” Irene, Jaehyun’s agent, speaks up from across the room. “The writer remains anonymous, and we don’t know the original publisher. On another note, the rumours would only appear true if we started suing every gossip magazine out there.” She looks between the two of you, eyes pointed and snake-like. “Both of your reputations are on the line here. We can’t risk making matters worse by feeding theatrics. Especially not right before NYFS,” she turns to you.

By this point you’re just about ready to pick up the leather chair in front of you and launch it at the windows, but instead, you take a seat on it to dampen the urge, shaking your head in disbelief. What the hell were you supposed to do in a situation like this? Speaking against the press would falsely push the rumours to the affirmative, and remaining silent would do the exact same…or perhaps even worse.

Doyoung huffs frustratedly beside you, tossing down the magazines with a loud smack and eyeing Irene seriously. “What else would you suggest then?”

You look up expectantly, feeling the ripples of anxiety in your chest descend into tidal waves, waiting to crash over you as you wish for Irene to announce an oh-holy solution to this mess. You’ve seen the consequences that come with such rumours, watched other designers undergo merciless removal from fashion shows and even their place in the CFDA. But you’ve worked far too hard, stayed up endless nights in your office and on calls – planning, altering, reviewing, discussing the fate of your fall-winter collections. If you’re removed from New York Fashion Week, you can kiss your precious reputation goodbye along with all of Argent’s high-paying bidders. Now all you can hope is the defamation dies down as quickly as it had come.

“I think I should pull out from the show.”

The tidal wave crashes over you, drenching every fibre in your body with the abrupt snap of your neck towards Jaehyun. 

“Excuse me?” you sputter out, the shock of his words cascading through you as he clasps his fingers on the table.

“The rumours started when we were seen together. It’s more likely than not they’ll die down if I distance myself from Argent…at least until after the show.” He looks to his agent. “Irene?”

“He’s right.” Her nod of approval brings down with it a heavy air that expands throughout the suffocating silence of the room. You feel it grabbing at your throat as you turn towards Ten and Doyoung, who to your dismay, both nod back warily.

“But he’s my top model.” Your tightly collected knot slips with the loud slam of your hands against the table, voice raising in a shroud of panic. “He’s the final walker of the show, he’s supposed to end-”

“Well, there won’t be any show if this escalates any further,” Irene interrupts, the loud echo of her voice strumming at the nerves growing deep inside you. “It’ll only be temporary. We’ll have to release a public statement in the coming weeks, and until then not a word should get out to the press.”

You back down, sighing heavily, head shoving into the cold heels of your palms, searching for any form of comfort as it dawns on you that for the first time in your years at the top of the fashion chain, you’re feeling absolutely helpless.

“Is there no other way?” You want to rebuke yourself for the way you look around the room with a new state of vulnerability swirling through your eyes. These are the people you’re supposed to be bossing around, not searching hopelessly for a solution to save your backside. But somewhere in your mind, you know that throwing a temper-tantrum would only push you towards wrong side of the spectrum. You’re the victim here; you’re the one in need of help. But when nobody answers your desperate plea, all you’re left to do is stand from your seat, gulping down the worry with a deep breath.

Losing your top model is better than losing a year’s worth of effort. It isn’t something you suppose, but rather something you’re forced to accept as you look toward Jaehyun with a final sigh. “Jung Jaehyun, you are temporarily dismissed.”

II. The Grand Toast

Lee Taeyong is a simple man.

He has all but three passions in life; money, writing and toast. And though he’ll never admit it, these three passions are also his three greatest weaknesses, stemming all the way back from his humble beginnings.

Taeyong had lived most of his life in uncertainty, grew up in a little rustic household along the outskirts of New York. Money was always the biggest scarcity; the biggest if that plagued his juvenile mind in times of solitude. He still remembers living pay cheque to pay cheque, watching his mother wake at the crack of dawn to work four tireless jobs; wondering whether or not she’d go to bed with a full stomach that night.

Taeyong remembers seeing the colour drain from his father’s eyes day by day. His old man was a struggling journalist, who spent his tireful days sitting at his old wooden desk surrounded by more piles of crumpled paper than profitable works.

“Don’t ever be a writer, son. You’ll waste your life away.” Taeyong’s father had often spoke these words to him. They were well-meaning in nature, this much Taeyong knew. But nothing could have stopped him from falling in love with the wonderful world of writing and pop culture.

As a child, Taeyong was never granted the luxury of scuffing classroom floors with the spiffy sneakers all his friends wore. He never had the chance to dine at fancy restaurants or drive the hottest wheels, rather learning to enjoy such indulgences through the tall stack of out-seasoned comics and magazines that laid in corner of his room.

Typewrite somehow possessed a certain magic that material possessions never could.

Each night, with delicate hands, Taeyong would dive into each page – every one of them; not a single page went overlooked. And while his body rested in the corner of his room on his twin-sized bed, his mind would drift wild through the boundless limits of his imagination. If he was lucky, his mother would be home early. She’d lull Taeyong from his daydreams with a soft kiss to his temple, and hand him a cool plate with warm slice of buttered toast. This was the most affordable gesture of love he had ever known.

But to this day, his father’s words still linger in the back of his mind every now again.

You’ll waste your life away.

Taeyong tips back the glass flute that now rests between his warm fingers, hissing contentedly at the sweet tingle of pinot that lingers on his tastebuds. He finds a certain comfort in the velvet chair beneath him in this moment, feeling blithe amidst the pleasant murmur of other patrons and the smooth jazz that dampens the tinkling cutlery around the restaurant.

Sorry dad, he thinks to himself, a wry smile forming at his lips.

He had found his calling in journalism years ago, mastering his skills to the point of being offered a columnist job at Luxe, one of New York’s most infamous magazine editorial firms. Since then, he’d expanded his horizons, pitching in on articles in all imaginable sections of a magazine, including – but not limited to – news headlines, home and leisure segments, entertainment issues and even gossip columns.

And with his gracious salary, money no longer became an incessant worry, but a prize for Taeyong; a prize he’d stop at nothing for, so long as it kept filling in his bank account.

“Everyone, I’d like to make a toast.” Taeyong turns a relaxed gaze to his boss, Heechul, who stands in the dim lighting of the restaurant, clinking a dessert fork to the wine glass in his hands and eagerly glancing around the large table that seats the Luxe editorial team. Grinning widely, he raises his glass in Taeyong’s direction. “A toast to the one and only, Mr Lee Taeyong.”

The table erupts in a loud fit of cheers and whistles at the mention of the name, bursting through the once soft ambience of the restaurant. Taeyong smiles, bowing his head bashfully at the pats and nudges he receives from his colleagues.

This isn’t the kind of toast his mother would make him, but it’s a toast, nonetheless.

“This man,” Heechul gestures to him, “is the anonymous genius behind the recent exposé of Y/n Y/l/n and Jung Jaehyun. His article has broken Luxe’s weekly advertisement and subscription records by three, and I repeat, three full times our average sales.” He sets his glass down, shaking his head dramatically. “Give him a round of applause, everyone.”

Taeyong covers his ears, laughing along as the hollers grow almost deafening among the resonating claps that bounce around through the shiny glassware. The article is the first he’s ever published about fashion figures, and he can’t be prouder of himself than to have broken records with it.

The notion embraces him with the one thing he’s always been dreaming of: certainty. Certainty of his job and abilities, certainty of his money, certainty of his life.

“Why don’t you say a few words, eh?” Heechul sits down as the cheering quietens.

Taeyong nods respectfully, reluctantly pushing out his chair to stand up. “Well, uh,” He clears his throat. “I guess I’ll start by saying a huge thank you to every single person here for their endless support and encouragement on this segment. I know I’ve been a pain in the ass…a lot of the time,” he snorts with a small laugh, earning a few chuckles around the table, “but yes, once again, I couldn’t have done it without our amazing editorial team, so thank you all very much.” Taeyong presses his hands together in thanks, bowing and sitting back down in his seat.

The spotlight sure feels warm now that it shines brightly on his perky cheeks.

As he goes to reach for the wine bottle across the table, Heechul grabs it before him, pouring the dark red liquor into his own glass. “Who knew Y/n would stoop so low as to date her cover model?”

Taeyong doesn’t reply. He doesn’t feel the need to. By now the whole world knows of the fact; other magazines have been prickling with envy for being seconds too late from publishing the news.

Instead, Taeyong nods with a smile, allowing his boss to now fill his flute. Heechul holds his own glass up, which Taeyong gratefully clinks, once again welcoming the burn of pinot as he lifts the heavy glass to his lips.

Ten stands outside one of Argent’s largest alteration rooms, anxiously peeking through the small crack of the door, watching the way you arrange an extravagant taffeta bow on a model wearing a grey runway dress.

He realises those dead-set features of yours haven’t changed a single bit in the years he’s known you; you’ve always worked with a certain passion in your eyes, a magician’s touch in those fingertips. And though you’ve always been quite the intimidating figure, even the world’s harshest critic would be a fool not to admire the dedication and loyalty you put into every one of your creations.

That is, if you had your main model to promote them all.

He feels himself gulping at the notion, eyeing the piece of paper resting all too serenely on the clipboard clutched in his hands. You had given him the task of finding a model to replace Jaehyun for NYFW, but it was proving to be more difficult than anticipated. Every competent name Ten had racked his brains for sits with a bright red line of ink running straight through it. Now he’s trying to come up with a way to break the news to you.

Without losing his job.

“Quit dallying, Ten, I know you’re outside.”

He quietly gasps at your impassive voice behind the door, gingerly nudging it open just enough to slip through. You can almost feel the tension radiating off your assistant as he steps inside, and it doesn’t take genius to know that something is wrong…well, more wrong than the events of the last week.

“Turn around,” you instruct the model in front of you, taking the fabric clamp resting between your teeth and clipping a pleat together. You glance up at Ten with a sigh. “What’s the issue.” He hasn’t uttered a word, but it’s a given for you to assume the worst by this point.

Jaehyun’s departure a week ago had the opposite effect than intended, only fuelling rumours further; bullshit claims such as ‘it’s all an act to hide the relationship’ and whatnot.

“All the listed models declined.” Ten stands meters away, a hesitant cloud of air floating about his being as he continues, “We don’t have a replacement for Jaehyun, Y/n.”

You feel the energy leaching from you before he even finishes his sentence, stepping back a few feet and dropping into your chair, hands dragging over your face with a groan.

Are you surprised? No, not particularly; at this point, it’s almost as if the universe is making a fortune from your tumbling misery.

Every cloud has a silver lining, every cloud has a silver lining, every cloud has a silver lining.

The phrase does little to alleviate the tension settling in your brows. You wave the model out of the room with a stressed flick of the wrist, waiting until the click of the door resounds before directing hopeless eyes to Ten. 

“No one?” 

He shakes his head with pursed lips. 

“Not even after offering them double salary?”

“No,” he shakes his head again. “They’re all under contract with other labels. No one’s ready to join Argent…especially not after the sca-” You raise a hand before he speaks the word that had all but tipped your perfect world upside-down in the span of a week. And, as you sit here, wrapped in the suffocating turmoil of this word, you feel yourself slipping into a pit of desperation.

You can’t do without a main model. You need a main model for the show.

“Honestly, Ten,” you chuckle dryly, thoroughly amused by your ever-growing list of shortcomings, “We might as well just pluck someone right off the streets at this point.”

III. Goodbye, World

“What the hell am I doing here?” Taeyong mutters to himself quietly, eyes anxiously flickering around the modern looking room he currently sits in. It’s at least four times the size of his office at Luxe; an immaculate interior space with high-rise ceilings and polished surfaces that reflect his wary expression in every which direction. 

If someone were to ask him why he’s currently sitting in this architectural masterpiece, staring ahead at the silver letters that spell Argent, he wouldn’t be able to come up with a logical answer. One thing he could tell them though, is that he’s scared for his ass.

His eyes flicker to the half-eaten slice of bread pinched between his buttery fingers.

Darn toast.

***

The rich aroma of ground coffee beans and burnt caramel wafts through the chilly city air, warming its way through Taeyong’s lungs as he breathes in the sweet atmosphere around him. He stands in the café’s queue outside, body naturally leaning towards the warmth that radiates from the steaming swirls of creamer beyond the counter, eager to grab his own cup to soothe the frost prickling at his fingertips.

“Excuse me, sir?”

A voice sounds from behind him, fingers lightly tapping at his shoulder as he turns to face a clean-cut man with honey-toned skin and feline features. Taeyong raises his eyebrows. 

“Yes?”

The man clears his throat, tugging his scarf looser. “I apologise if this seems abrupt, but I’m looking to scout a male model,” he extends a hand with a formal smile.

“Uhhh, okay.” Taeyong furrows his eyebrows, offering his own cautious hand out of courtesy, though still unsure why this stranger has decided to approach him during his precious lunch break. “But why are you telling me thi-”

“You satisfy our physical standards.” The man’s tone of voice seems almost rushed and frantic, but somehow maintains a baseline elegance to it as he pushes on. “My name is Ten Lee, my company is desperate, and you seem to look the part,” he sighs heavily, pretentious aura deflating with his hunching back. He stares at Taeyong, a pitifully desperate expression glazing over his features, hands pressing together in front of his face. “Please. It’ll just be for the next month or so…I promise this isn’t a scam.”

Taeyong can only frown in confusion, not a damn clue how to respond to this desperate stranger’s plea. It’s not everyday he gets approached by a strange man to model for a company, but everything about the offer seems to be floating in mid-air; no binding conditions, no mention of a contract, nothing.

And besides, what is this Ten guy even expecting of Taeyong? For him to just drop everything and-

“We’ll pay you double your current salary, I can guarantee it!”

Taeyong perks up at the words, tilting his head to the side in curiosity.

Being paid double his current salary sounds like a dream. He stands there, biting the inside of his cheek in thought, hypnotised like a snake to its charmer at the notion of all that extra cash. He thinks back to his job at Luxe; he’d have to take leave were he to accept the offer.

Taeyong sets aside the better part of his conscience that warns him of all the red flags, waffling over his inexperience in fashion magazine culture. He’s only ever written one article on the topic after all, and given that his job stands on the very basis of experience, he supposes the offer may also be a learning opportunity for his writing in the future.

In a way he’d still technically be doing his job.

“And this…isn’t a scam?” He folds his arms, reluctantly stepping out of queue with a raised eyebrow.

“Absolutely not!” Ten swipes his hands in front of his face to emphasise his point.

“Okay, keep talking,” Taeyong nods, a suspicious lilt in his voice. It’s almost as if his words electrocute Ten with the wide smile that breaks across his face and the extravagant gestures of his revived limbs. 

“Okay, so I’ll give you the address right now and we can-”

“Wait, now?” Taeyong interrupts. “Like, right now?”

Ten simply blinks. “Yes.”

Taeyong sighs to himself, looking longingly towards the café. The same smell of coffee and caramel tugs invitingly at the growing hunger in his stomach as he turns back to Ten. 

“You do realise you’re interrupting my lunch right now.”

Ten’s smile only widens. “No problem, uh…” he trails off, silently giving the blonde man an opening.

“Taeyong,” Taeyong chimes in.

“No problem, Mr Taeyong! we can get you anything you wish to eat at the company.”

Taeyong finds himself interested once again, a tilt to his head as a small grin twitching at his lips. 

“Even toast?”

“Even toast.”

***

So here he now sits, beloved toast in hand, the silver logo in front of him glinting like the devil as he ruminates what a damn fool he was for following Ten straight to the building of Argent Fashion Labels…the very company whose head designer falls victim to this year’s biggest celebrity scandal.

The scandal that Taeyong is equally responsible as he is liable for.

He’s all but convinced now, that Argent had somehow come to know about his writer’s identity. There was no plausible explanation other than someone from Luxe must have ratted his ass out in exchange for a handsome reward. After all, the people Taeyong worked with were exactly like him: money-minded and even more so, money-blinded.

He’s sure of it, that Ten’s previous offer must have been a planned façade to lure him in for interrogation and God knows what else.

Shit, I’m done for.

Taeyong regrets it; not writing the article – he somehow can’t bring himself to regret that one thing among this imminent doom. But he regrets not having thought about the consequences before and after the article’s publishing. Not to mention his inferior position against a world-class fashion company. Taeyong regrets not having realised how he might’ve ended up shooting himself in the foot while chasing the loot at the end of the rainbow. Now all he can see are the rain clouds growing darker and darker along the way, counting down the seconds until he’s homeless on the streets.

It’s only a matter of time, now.

The thought only draws Taeyong’s attention to the massive silver clock that ticks loudly on the left wall. He frustratedly tosses his toast back onto the plate on the coffee table in front of him, foot tapping anxiously against the shiny marble tiles.

Bloody hell, why is everything in this place silver?

He jumps in surprise as the door behind him opens, sending a cool wave of air fanning over the back of his neck. Immediately standing up, he turns around to be met with none other than you, Y/n Y/l/n, striding in his direction; an utterly unreadable expression on your face as Ten follows punctually behind. Everything about you excludes a certain power, from the way your heels click loudly against the tiles beneath you, to your blouse that flows with every intimidating step taken forward. You’re breathtaking. Literally; Taeyong almost forgets to breathe, gulping as you sit at the desk in front of him, Ten standing beside you. It doesn’t take him long to know his place in the room.

“Mr Lee Taeyong.”

 “Yes, ma’am,” he promptly replies.

This is it, goodbye, world

“I understand you’ve agreed to model under Argent for the next month.” You clasp your hands on the table, eyeing the man who sits in front of you. You’re almost compelled to scrunch your nose at the faint scent of butter that lingers around your office, noticing a small plate on the coffee table with a half-eaten piece of toast sitting in it.

It takes Taeyong a few seconds too long to process what you say, and he’s not sure whether it’s because of the nerves that bounce around inside his chest, or because he’s distracted by the way your voice wraps around his name so exquisitely.

He finally nods.

But as you look at him, you can’t help but feel that something isn’t right. He’s quite attractive if you’d say so yourself; wide eyes, pale skin, slim physique; he could very probably measure up to Jaehyun in visual regard. But despite this, everything else about the man has you questioning his competency for the job. Taeyong’s very appearance has you wondering exactly how experienced he is. For starters, all of his clothes are out-seasoned – not a single designer item in sight – and his dirty blonde hair appears as if he’d simply ran a hand through it and called it a day.

“May I ask which modelling agency you’ve come from?”

Taeyong furrows his eyebrows at the seemingly candid tone in your voice, wondering if it’s all just an act to catch him in his own trap. Your own eyebrows knit together upon seeing his puzzled state, growing suspicious as you clear your throat for him to answer. He looks up in a panic, the words spilling from his mouth before he’s able to control them.

“I-I didn’t come from a modelling agency.”

“Is that so?” You turn to look at Ten with narrowed eyes, tongue poking your cheek menacingly as you tilt your head in question. Said man only looks at you innocently.

You glance back at Taeyong. “I’m sorry, could you give us a moment?”

He nods as you drag Ten out of the office, making sure to close the doors on your way (without slamming them, as hard as the task fares). 

“Why do I have a clueless imbecile sitting in my office?” you hiss, voice stone-cold and harsh, accompanied by the tapping of your impatient foot as your arms cross over your chest.

“We were desperate, and he fits the standards,” Ten snaps back, jutting his head forcefully in the direction of the door. “What more do you want?”

You scoff, pointing a rigid finger toward him. 

“You said you’d hire an experienced model-”

“You said we should pick someone off the streets!”

“Oh my god, Ten!” You stand stupefied out of your skin, grip over your dwindling sanity loosening as your fists instead begin to clutch at the air in frustration. “I didn’t mean it literally!” you screech out as quietly as possible so Taeyong doesn’t hear from inside. You suck in sharp breath through your nose and release it with an exasperated sob, head hanging heavy with the exhaustion that piles on top of all your existing woes.

“I have half the mind to fire you right now.” You lean back against the cold wall, the words slip out quietly against your better judgement, though you know you don’t mean them, and you know Ten knows it too.

“We don’t have anyone else right now, Y/n,” he voices out defeatedly. “We’re lucky this guy even agreed on such short notice.”

You close your eyes, cursing the writer of that godforsaken article a thousand times more before sighing and speaking up, “Have you done a background check?”

“He’s all clear.”

“So that’s it, you’re just going to leave Luxe?” Heechul sits down in his chair, disbelief warping a tensed display over his conventionally relaxed features.

“Only until after New York Fashion Week,” Taeyong mutters half-heartedly, eyes sauntering around Heechul’s office for perhaps the thousandth time, distracted by the way the room suddenly seems inappreciable compared to your office at Argent.

Every corner of his desk is covered either with cover plans, or untidy notebooks filled with gaudy page markers that stick out in every which direction. The tall shelves behind hold an array of old, weathered books, untouched and probably collecting dust along their thick spines. The office is not a mess in its entirety per say, just highly unorganised; a factor that diminishes the modern touch the room had once possessed years ago. 

Your office, by contrast, was a lot cleaner and shinier and spacious than this.

“Taeyong, you’re our best writer. You can’t expect me to just let you go like this for a month,” Heechul sighs.

“Heechul,” Taeyong moves to the edge of his seat in hopes to convince his boss. “I’m just going for the journalist experience. Nothing more, nothing less.”

It’s partly the truth, he thinks to himself. Heechul didn’t need to know about the money side of the job; it’s not his business to. Besides, what’s a little white lie worth in the grand scheme of things?

Heechul eyes Taeyong sceptically. “And they don't know about the article?”

“Not as far as I know,” Taeyong smirks, leaning back in his seat once again, watching as Heechul’s conflicted expression morphs into one of defeat.

“Okay.”

Taeyong nods enthusiastically, thrusting himself out of his seat with a widening grin

“But on one condition.”

Heechul’s words stop him in his tracks, earning a questioning look from him.

Conditions are never good news.

He watches as a sly smile stretches on Heechul’s face. “You go undercover into Argent building and write a debunking article by the end of the month.”

Undercover?

Taeyong narrows his eyes at the man, almost swearing he sees a sinister glint swirling somewhere around the black of his pupils. Writing is Taeyong’s forte; the condition just seems all too convenient given he’s single-handedly resigning from his job for a month. He wonders if he’s reading too much into the situation, something which Heechul seems to take notice of. “Oh, come on, I bet there’s a lot of scum behind those silver doors. We already got a glimpse of it...” he trails of suggestively.

He’s got a point, Taeyong ponders. It’ll be easy money.

“Will I get paid for it?” he asks.

“Sure will,” Heechul links his hands across his scattered papers, the same devious expression on his face. Something about him in this moment feels unnerving to Taeyong, but he just can’t tell what, so instead he decides to cut his losses and bite the bullet.

“Consider it done.”

IV. Depraved Little Devil

“You’re late.”

“It’s six thirty-eight in the morning!” Taeyong chokes out in disbelief. He was all but expecting to be greeted with a lovely ‘good morning, thank you for your time’, but this is what he gets?

“Yes,” you finally tear your gaze away from the papers, straightening in your seat with a dazzlingly professional smile to mask the annoyance in your voice. “And that makes you eight minutes off mark.”

Taeyong scoffs internally. Debunk point number one: mistreatment of employees.

He slumps down into the black couch opposite you, eyeing the way you sit there, hair in a tight bun, twirling a pen between your fingers as if you’ve just attended three back-to-back meetings and opened a new fashion line in the process.

“I didn’t even have breakfast,” he mumbles aloud, an obnoxious yawn leaving his lips. Frustrated fingers scoop through his dishevelled hair, tugging lightly at the roots while he regrettably hopes this isn’t the life he’s obliged himself to for the next month.

“That’s not my problem, Mr Lee.” You pick up the schedule Ten had made from the corner of your desk, eyeing over the long list of jobs with a deep sigh.

The whole scouting process was usually fairly simple. You’ve rarely needed to worry about training your models as most have been hired from prestigious agencies with plenty of experience. But given Taeyong’s complete lack thereof, you’ve taken it upon yourself to be his mentor – at least for the first week or so. And though it’s a huge inconvenience to say the least, it’s something you’ve long decided must be done if Argent is to keep its name in the fashion industry.

“Well,” you stand, schedule clutched tightly. “We’ve a long day ahead of us, so please follow me.” You walk to your office door, holding it open for the man who doesn’t even have the decency to budge from his seat. “Promptly, Mr Lee,” you articulate the words loudly, piquing with irritation and forcing your eyes shut to prevent burning holes in the back of his head. There are only so many hours in a day, and it’s last thing you need for him to be uncooperative given the constraints.

“Please, it’s Taeyong.”

There's a certain lilt in his voice that compels you to open your eyes, somehow warning you of your ‘do-or-die’ predicament. He turns around, still sitting all too comfortably on the sofa, meeting your eyes with his own raised eyebrows.

“And Miss Y/l/n, are you really going to make me work on an empty stomach?”

─── ⪧ ⪦ ───

“Yeah, this one will need a lot of work.”

You turn to your Models Manager, Johnny, who stands beside you shaking his head at the scene before him.

“You think so?” you mumble anxiously, following Johnny’s gaze to Taeyong who humours himself with one of the stylists across the studio, happily munching away at the buttery piece of toast he’d coaxed earlier.

“Oh, honey, I know so,” Johnny clicks his tongue, crossing his arms while examining the man in front of him.

“Yeah, me too I guess,” you sigh in vanquish, the gravity of the situation weighing down heavily on your shoulders. Taeyong is proving to be more of an intricate piece of work by the minute, and it’s going to take an unconventional amount of effort to make a worthy prototype of him.

“Height is going to be an issue too.” Johnny taps at his chin, eyes slitted as he turns to you. “Jaehyun’s a real asshole for leaving you on the edge like this.”

You sigh, eyes fixating on a silver spool of satin resting in the far corner of the room. 

“He had reason to.”

“Well, that’s a load of crap,” Johnny snorts. “He can’t just leave and expect everything to be normal again. That’s not how showbiz works, Y/n, I mean see for yourself, the rumours have only grown since then.”

I know, goddamnit!

You want to scream the words out loud, let them grab at Johnny’s throat and shut him up. But of course, they remain at the back of your own throat, stuck alongside the anxious lump that manifested a week ago. The words are there, but only for you and your racing mind to hear each time you swallow them down.

“But,” Johnny drawls out, nudging your side before suddenly retracting in fear as you send an icy gaze to him. It seems not just him, but even your other employees have been getting a little too comfortable around you in the past week. Suffice to say, you’re not the least bit impressed by the informality.

“Out of turn,” you voice sternly.

“Yes, ma’am,” Johnny nods immediately.

“Continue.” You turn back to Taeyong who now sifts through a rack of clothing with another stylist, grimacing at the thought of his greasy fingers staining the fabric. Just as you’re preparing to march straight ahead and grab Taeyong by the ears, Johnny speaks up.

“I was saying,” He stops you in your tracks. “Every cloud has a silver lining. Right?”

And just like clockwork, the words don’t allow you to take another step forward, clearing away the hot steam pelting up inside you with a fresh, cool air. You feel your fingers uncurl from their place in your palms – not having realised they were fisted so tight in the first place – and sigh once more, nodding to Johnny.

“You’re right.” The phrase sits bitter on your tongue. It’s not something you’re accustomed to voicing aloud, but it seems just about everyone except you is right these days – either that, or you’re just always a couple steps behind, and it’s something you’re not all that thrilled about.

“This guy’s a tough one, but don’t you worry.” Johnny sends you a sympathetic smile. “We’ll make a star out of him yet.” He side-steps past you with three loud claps echoing around the high white ceilings of the room, walking toward Taeyong. “Alright mister, hands off the racks, we’re not at that stage yet.”

You watch the comical way Taeyong jumps at Johnny’s sudden intrusion, almost amused by the way he blinks up like a deer in the headlights, wide-eyed with cheeks slightly puffed out with the last few chews of bread. He tilts his head past Johnny’s figure, sending you a questioning look.

“We’re affiliated with SM Agency, but our models are all trained here at Argent as we have specific requirements.” You step forward, gesturing to the tall man beside you. “This is Johnny. He’ll be your personal manager, trainer and agent for the coming weeks.”

“My personal manager?” Taeyong raises his eyebrows in surprise, not remotely used to the prospect of having his own personal manager. A columnist assistant is the best he’s ever gotten with his job at Luxe – and that too on the luckiest of days.

“You betcha,” Johnny clicks his tongue with a bright smile.

Neat and gaudy; these are the first two words that come to mind as Taeyong scans Johnny from head to toe. The man is neat in the way his neck-length hair is pushed back with just enough gel to keep it looking fluffy but still elegant. His outfit is what makes him look so gaudy; a fitted white suit with a red silk shirt. Both items of clothing are far too bright, blinding even, as Taeyong blinks away to save his poor eyes.

“Shall we?” You turn to Johnny who nods.

“Let’s.”

“Let’s what?” Taeyong shifts his eyes between you and Johnny and back again, watching as you hail the two stylists from earlier.

“We’re going to take some measurements,” the words barely leave Johnny’s freakishly heart-shaped lips as the stylists step forward.

Taeyong’s personal bubble is all but reduced to a vanquished nothingness as the ladies pull the measuring tapes from their necks and slide them around either one of his wrists. The strips of silver glint and sparkle under the scintillate lighting from above, catching Taeyong’s startled gaze as the stylists make quick work of wrapping them around every inch of his arms. Stunned as he may be, he can’t help the small laughs that leave his lips at the tickle of the plastic on his skin. A ghost of the sensation lingers as the frantic scene stands still every few seconds, filled with scratches of lead on small notepads that record the numbers, before continuing until the tingles vibrate all the way to the top of his arms – wrists to forearms to elbows to biceps. The ladies then abruptly step back, much to Taeyong’s confusion.

“Sir, we need to measure the torso,” one of them speaks, a sort of pinkness washing over her cheeks.

“Okay,” he nonchalantly raises his arms out to his sides, shivering slightly at the cool air that wafts into his shirt. But the stylists don’t step forward, planted still in their spots, causing Taeyong eyebrows to knit tighter together.

“Take your shirt off, Taeyong, we don’t have all day,” Johnny’s voice echoes from a couple metres away.

“Huh?” Taeyong’s eyes blow wide in shock.

“Damn, he really doesn’t know what he’s doing,” Johnny mutters through his smile, and you have to purse your lips to repress your own smile before it denounces your self-possession.

Taeyong almost humbles himself at Johnny’s gesture to get on with it. He feels a confliction gripping at his wrists as his fingers toy with the hem of his shirt. He’s not typically the self-conscious type, but he doesn’t know how else to describe the feeling that creeps up his spine as all the eyes fixed on him in this moment become a little too apparent.

Paycheque, whispers the depraved little devil in Taeyong’s mind, and it’s almost appalling to him how quickly his fingers proceed to tug off the flimsy fabric. He leaves himself to his own devices, exposed on an ephemeral whim that forces him to stomach a small pit of regret in its wake. However, time and task leave no room for awkward silences as the measuring tape passes around the tender of Taeyong’s waist. He stiffens at the cold sensation, trying his best not to retract with every tickle, thanking the third entity that once again revives the bustling conversation around him. He allows the stylists to have their way, opting to distract himself along the clean lines and edges of the studio.

You, on another hand, stand meters away observing Taeyong with equal amounts of confusion and curiosity lacing through your features, realising that Ten’s judgement had indeed hit the bullseye days ago when he’d first brought Taeyong to Argent. Taeyong’s proportions are almost idyllic for a man who apparently survives off butter and bread; just enough muscle in his arms and stomach to show off beneath a lace top, just the perfect amount of slender appeal to fashion a suit and tie. It puzzles you to no end. Most rookies have to be given strict diet and exercise plans to meet Argent’s requirements.

Perhaps this is the silver lining Johnny was talking about earlier; not having to issue health monitoring for the next few weeks.

“His body makes up for expertise, I guess,” Johnny mutters in surprise.

You wonder if he’d read your mind, but your arrogance doesn’t allow the silence to drag on too long, replying with a complacent, “Like you said, height is an issue.”

He shrugs. “Nothing a good old pair of insoles can’t fix.”

“He’s on the skinnier side.”

“And yet you’re still staring.”

Johnny’s words catch you off-guard, and it’s when your eyes stop at Taeyong’s elbow that you realise the statement lingers blatantly true in the air; you are, indeed, staring at him. But it’s too late to deny the fact, so you rather turn to Johnny, concealing any shock with a stubbornly unamused expression. 

“It’s my job to stare.”

“It’s your job to stare at clothes,” Johnny counters with a quirked eyebrow, “which he’s not wearing any of.”

“He’s wearing pants-”

“You’re staring at his pants?” Johnny raises an eyebrow, an insolent smirk finding his face.

Your lips part slightly before you’re able to help it, an unsolicited warmness filling your cheeks as your eyebrows furrow in a mix of anger and embarrassment. 

“No,” you avert your gaze to the whiteness of the walls, “I’m not.”

You have every right to fire Johnny for implying something so absurd, but the notion that only he can help transform the shirtless nobody in front of you into a piece of art, stops you. It’s your duty to make sure Taeyong is well-trained for NYWF, and you’re going to make a star of him even if it’s the last thing you do.

There’s only a handful of things Taeyong gravely lacks in, and fashion – and anything remotely related to the word – is one of them. It has always been an otherworldly concept to him, a foreign language he couldn’t even begin to make sense of, let alone articulate for himself. 

Four days into the new job have shown him the sleek work ethic of Argent and its employees. Everything about the place has been far beyond his means; all much too different to the usual job he’d grown passionately accustomed to over the years. He’s seen enough vibrant mood boards and fabric spools to last him through his next lifetime, peeked through and scattered a few too many fingerprints on the many polished windows of miscellaneous rooms.

Today, the job brings Taeyong to his first fashion shoot.

He blinks at the fool of a man that stares back at him in the full-length mirror, wearing a velvet turquoise suit with silvered cuffs, a grey vest of some unnamed exotic fabric inside of the suit, and a pair of yellow-tinted…ski goggles?

The entire look is offbeat; eccentric in colour and much too flashy with the strips of silver running down each leg of the pants. It’s a drastic change from the plain black jeans and shirt Taeyong had picked from his closet that same morning. He eyes himself, vision slightly obscured by the yellow filter of the goggles. It makes everything appear a couple decades older as if it were part of a picture snapped in the 80’s. 

When his eyes flick to your reflection in the mirror, he pauses. Even you look a few decades back-dated with your pencil skirt and tucked-in sweater. In Taeyong’s eyes, you could almost pass for a timeless fashion icon; famed and fawned over in an era far behind you. All you needed now were a pair of satin gloves, sunglasses and a round-brimmed hat. He’s surprised to see that your expression appears moderately impressed as you eye his outfit – a stark contrast from the louring grimace he’d expected to find. In the time he’s known you, he can’t recall having seen you smile even once.

Not that you’re smiling right now, just not frowning.

“Okay, not bad,” you nod, eyebrows raised in pleasant surprise. You’d originally designed the suit with Jaehyun in mind; as unconventional as it is, Jaehyun was the only model that was certain to wear it well. But of course, you haven’t had the chance to see him wear it given the circumstances, so there’s a certain comfort in know Taeyong is able to fashion it nicely in his stead.

“How do people even pay money for this?” The words roll off Taeyong’s tongue with a genuine incredulity that doesn’t quite sit well with your temperament. Any hint of appreciation on your face is torn away by the scowl that settles in place, annoyed as ever at his remark.

“Clearly, you’re lacking knowledge to throw about thoughtless questions like that,” you announce, walking forward and turning him around to face you. Your fingers automatically pinch at the lapels, folding them the right way and flattening the fabric around Taeyong’s neck and shoulders. Nothing bugs you more than an unfixed collar.

“Well, I won’t deny it,” he replies nonchalantly.

There’s something about him that is so infuriating, and you’re not sure whether it’s the assured way he speaks that irks a certain displeasure in you, or the fact that he’s your last resort for the biggest show of the year. It’s still unfathomable how you’re going to survive the next month with him, and that too in the name of saving not only your company but also your backside.

However, as hard as the task stands, today is about finding Taeyong’s flattering angles, not his trying faults.

When you both make your way into the shooting room, you push your frustrations aside, deciding wasting energy is futile in any case; blissful ignorance would the best way to go from here on out.

You watch with intent as the photographers guide Taeyong to a stool in front of the grey backdrop set up in the middle of the back wall. All it takes is a few instructions from them before softboxes begin their blinding light shows, flashing with every click of the cameras. Amidst it all, you stand surprised at how well Taeyong poses for the camera; chin up, eyes sharp and lips parted. You eye the way he repositions himself on the stool, can’t help but take note of a certain poise that exudes in his movements as he shifts a foot to the ground; a suave flow that over the years you’ve ascertained only ever came naturally to a person, or never at all.

“Did you practice your expressions?” you ask, referring to the list of facial expressions Johnny had given Taeyong to rehearse a couple days prior. However, your question is left suspended in the air as Taeyong turns to you. His eyes meet your own with the same intensity he’d shown to the camera, lips curling up into a devious smirk that pulls you back from the indifference you’d sworn on yourself minutes prior.

“Why? Are they good?” The words pull one corners of his lips slightly higher.

You’re not given the chance to reply with a “surprisingly so,” as a loud ringing from behind interrupts you. You turn to the refreshments table and pick up the phone, eyebrows furrowing at the caller ID.

Kim Heechul

The name sits familiar in your mind somewhere, though you’re not able to place an exact finger on where you’ve seen it before.

“Who is it?” Taeyong calls.

“Kim…Heechul?” The words leave your mouth in a question.

You watch the way Taeyong’s eyes widen and abruptly drop, as if to hide the obvious tension that fills him from head to toe. His once-soft features harden in a split second, shoes echoing loudly against the tiles as he steps off the stool, almost knocking it over while hastily making his way to you. He snatches the phone from your grasp, sending nothing but a hesitant glance your way, leaving you to stare in bewilderment at the double doors that swing with the phantom of his hard shove through them.

“Y/n?”

You turn to the photographers who stand with equally puzzled faces. 

“Give him a minute, he’ll be back.”

And when he does walk in minutes later, the tension seems to hang even heavier from his limbs as he stiffly places the phone back on the refreshments table, lips pursed, hands fidgeting and ears tinted slightly red.

Stringent as you may be, you feel a genuine worry somewhere inside you at his suddenly bothered state, feeling an intrinsic need to ask him:

“Is everything okay?”

When he turns around, you decide he must either be a really good actor, or a master at hiding his emotions, as all ounce of malaise seems to have evaporated from his face, replaced with his signature smile that voices the words:

“More than okay.”

Taeyong leans back in his chair, groaning into the heel of his palms. His laptop glares back at him in the darkness of his home office, a full page of words typed skilfully on the white document taunting him in the brimming silence of what most people would call a mind blank.

“Shit, what was it?” His eyes squeeze shut, fingers pressing into his temple in attempt to recall the idea his memory had lost while trying to note down his previous points.

It has been a week since the day Ten had snatched Taeyong from his lunch break and thrust him into the curious world of Argent Fashion Labels. Everything in between then and now has been a hectic whirlwind of ridiculous outfits, blinding cameras and boundless strips of spangly silver; each passing day bringing with it a multitude of new experiences, and each new experience bringing tasks and trials galore…oh, and some fabulous points for his debunking article.

As it turns out, modelling for a world-class fashion label is a lot harder than Taeyong had originally anticipated. He can’t recall a time his solace has ebbed and flowed as much as it has in the past week.

Unsurprisingly, his problems all seem to stem from a single entity within Argent’s walls.

You.

You, with your ridiculously hefty standards. You, with your unbearable personality. You, with those sharp eyes; the same pair Taeyong would call beautiful, were it not for the scrutiny they hold every time they meet his own from across the room.

That certainly isn’t to say there haven’t been some decent experiences. For starters, he’s had the chance to wear clothes worth more than his entire wardrobe, and as ridiculous as they look, they are invaluable in every sense of the word. He’s also been able to acquire some basic knowledge of the fashion industry in general, which could prove to help him in his future writing endeavours. He is grateful for these things, of course, but the only thing that really keeps him around is the dough that awaits at the end of the month.

Money always takes precedence, and if his next article becomes a hit…

***

The doors swing heavily behind, sending a surge of cool air fanning Taeyong’s back as his feet carry him a safe distance away from the shooting room.

Man, that was close.

He thumbs at the answer button on his phone, pressing his ear to the speaker as the ringer dies down. “Hello?”

“Ahh, Taeyong, how are things going so far at Argent?”

The voice over the line only draws a sigh from Taeyong as he murmurs back an apathetic, “Heechul, now’s not a good time.”

The man chuckles. “No problem. I Just wanted to make sure you haven’t forgotten our deal.”

“Yeah, the article, I know,” he hurriedly answers, cautiously eyeing his surroundings for potential listeners.

“The debunking article,” Heechul emphasises.

Taeyong doesn’t reply, rather biting at the inside of his cheek, anticipation finding his tensed features as he distractedly scans every corner of the ceiling for security cameras.

“You’re getting paid for this, remember. Don’t make me regret sending you to Argent.”

***

The article must be an immaculate work of art, this much Taeyong is certain of.

He sits in pensive silence for minutes on end, willing for the fog to clear his mind. But it doesn’t take long to realise the futility in trying to overcome writer’s block at half twelve in the morning, so with a heavy-lidded gaze, he shuts his laptop, rolling his neck and shoulders with a small wince. If there’s one thing all these years in journalism have taught Taeyong, it’s that writing and back pain are an uncompromising package deal.

He eyes the magazine that rests beside his laptop, reaching over to scan over the glossed paper with a deep grimace.

HANDSOME IN CHEEK, ANONYMOUS IN THE STREET Meet the new mystery stunner of Argent Fashion Labe-

Taeyong closes his eyes with a snort, saving himself the effort of further reading. He can’t help but shake a bang at those ridiculous words, even more so, at the picture of himself seated on the same stool from days ago, wearing the same turquoise suit with the same grey turtleneck, and those godforsaken yellow goggles.

Absolutely ridiculous.

The Vogue issue resting idly in his hands is one of the many that were released earlier in the week. Taeyong has garnered an unprecedented amount of attention since then; despite merely being an unnamed face on the cover of a magazine the number of young women noticing him on the street has been growing by day.

A sly smile tugs at the corner of his lips, a finger tapping rhythmically at his chin.

“Perhaps I could get used to this.”

Crazy.

She must be crazy.

“I’m walking the final runway at New York Fashion Week?” The words sputter haphazardly from Taeyong’s mouth, finger jabbing painfully into his sternum as he stares dumbfoundedly at your seated figure across the room. “What about Jaehyun? Doesn’t he usually do it?”

Taeyong watches the way you tentatively sip at the steaming cup of green tea in your hands. Your appearance is no different than usual, prim and proper in your black work dress, hair tied high in a tight, formal bun, and eyes still filled with that same stunning contempt.

What he doesn’t see, however, is the panic that lies hidden behind the deep creases of your demeanour; the way your pulse quickens in apprehension of having to fully explain your situation to him. You can only attempt to gather the scattered traces of solace from deep within you, sighing in defeat. 

“Look, I’m sure you’re aware of the article that was released just over a week ago.”

Taeyong makes a genuine display of himself, nodding in faux conviction as your voice grazes his hears.

If only she knew.

“Well, to put it lightly, whoever wrote it was gravely misinformed.” You avert your gaze to your office windows, a deep sigh pushing past your lips.

“Wait you’re…” Taeyong’s eyebrows knitting together in confusion, a small sinking feeling whirling in the depths of his chest, “you’re not dating Jaehyun?”

“No,” you reply.

Taeyong watches the way a sorrowful smile pulls your lips up, your eyes trained somewhere along the bustling city streets outside. “Jaehyun is taking a break from Argent, and…” Your words weigh heavily in your own mind, though you can no longer bring yourself to show any more anger for them. You’ve long decided that it is what it is, and the situation can’t be helped; that the punches are either to be copped in the gut or rolled with, and that the latter option fared best in the grand scheme of things.

Your eyes find themselves to Taeyong’s.

“…you’re really our only hope for the show, Taeyong.”

Taeyong sits opposite you in a state of confused conflict, wrapped up in a harsh turmoil as he realises his horrible mistake.

You and Jung Jaehyun are not a couple.

He hadn’t thought about the very possible fact when he’d written the article. It hadn’t even once crossed his mind when he’d sent it in for publishing. But at the same time, it wasn’t right for you to have withheld the information that his only business at Argent was to be Jaehyun’s makeshift replacement...

“Please.”

Now, there’s something new swirling in your eyes, something Taeyong has never seen or heard before in your voice. He’s not sure how to respond, brows furrowing from not hearing the usual malice along your words, guilt sinking through his skin as they hang unadulterated in the air. It’s his fault you’re sitting here pleading him to help you out, his own carelessness that has now labelled him ‘Argent’s new handsome model’, his own greed that has every magazine plastered with his face on the front cover.

But regardless of the fact, Taeyong has gotten himself into this mess and there’s no way he can back out of it now.

Three small nods come from the man in front of you, and you’re not sure you’ve ever felt such a relief ripple through your being before this very moment.

V. Teach Me How to Walk

“Have a good night, Joy, I’ll call you back for a final fitting. A week or so, tops,” you bid your model goodbye with a smile, turning to hang a green houndstooth two-piece on the clothing rack beside a box of assorted fabrics.

“Thank you, Y/n, have a good night yourself,” she smiles before stepping out, the click of the door the only static company left in the large alteration room. You flop down into the swivel chair behind the sewing table, eyes crossing to the loose strand of hair that tickles across your cheeks. You blow at it once, twice, three times, eventually thumbing it away to save it from landing in your eye again.

“All in a day’s work,” the words whisper past your chapped lips in a deep sigh as you toy with a loose strip of silver satin, wrist rising to face view.

9:18 PM

You’ve gone overtime by an hour and eighteen minutes, but you can’t bring yourself to care as you relish in the first solitary silence of the day, absentmindedly weaving the satin through your fingers, gaze trained on the clothing racks. Your eyes flick from hanger to hanger, inspecting the numerous outfits that brush up against each other – some with their silver linings peeking out, other with them concealed between laces and fine cottons.

It’s now that you realise your smile is still bright and prevalent on your face, feeling a little light and airy in your seat. 

There’s only two weeks to go until the show and things are finally beginning to look up. As it turns out, recruiting Taeyong might have been your best decision yet – a silver lining to the cloud, if you will. Since his Vogue debut the week before the scandal rumours have narrowed down tenfold, and the paparazzi, shallow as they ever be, now distractedly hover over ‘Argent’s new mystery model’. As per some genius advice from Doyoung, you’d purposely kept things discreet by only revealing Taeyong’s face to the public eye; no name, no personality, just a few head and body shots. It’ll save the audience a heart attack on show day, Doyoung had said. Discretion had also proven to be an excellent marketing strategy as bidding offers once again pile high and heavy. To top it all off, your clothing lines are on their final inspection rounds, and today has been a highly productive day for you, all much to your delight.

You hum contentedly, pushing up from your seat to grab your coat and handbag. You take the satin that still rests limp and gorgeous in your hand, tying it loosely around a handle of your bag and walking to the door. You turn back to the room with a final grin. On a normal day, you’d have frowned at the scattered fabrics on the tables, but right now, the mess seems brilliant to you, painting the room vibrantly with potential of becoming something remarkable given a few clean stitches.

With a hand reaching out to flick the lights off, you step out, only to immediately pause at the sound of muffled music from the other end of the dimmed hallway.

Strange, you wonder, everyone should have gone home by now.

The music grows less and less obscure with every step you take forward, eventually bringing you outside a room you like the call ‘The Walkway’. With a hand pressing gently against the door, you peer inside, surprised to find Taeyong’s blonde mop of hair strutting up and down the long platform with exaggerated effort. It’s only your duty to note he’s not doing the finest job at it, but the determined pout on his concentrated features strikes down all your criticisms like a bowling ball. Somewhere in their stead blooms an unforeseen fondness for his efforts, shining bright as the narrow beam of light glowing upon on your smile through the crack of the door.

You watch as Taeyong groans in frustration, a small giggle leaving your lips only to be immediately covered by the slap of your hands, eyes wide in shock at yourself.

What is this? Why were you giggling like twelve-year-old at a grown-ass man struggling to walk?

The answer to your question lies in another unsuppressed laugh from your own lips, flowing freely with the music that surrounds Taeyong tripping over himself on the other side. You realise you’re giggling because it’s actually funny – endearing even, though you’re not able to conjure the thought as your feet push forward on their own accord, carefully leading you inside until the light of the room bathes you with its glow.

“Hey,” you voice out, trying to catch Taeyong’s attention amidst the music. Though, it’s apparently a futile effort given his lack of reaction.

“Taeyong.”

Still no response.

With a huff, you grab the speaker remote secured to the wall, silence resounding in a tumultuous wave as you the hit pause button. Taeyong whips his head around, frustration ever-evident in his face, only to melt away in the second he catches you standing to the side.

“Oh, don’t let me interrupt you, I was just on my way to grab some popcorn,” you jab a thumb behind your shoulder, amusement strung high in your eyebrows and in the curl of your lips.

Taeyong rolls his eyes, traces of sweat glistening on his neck as he takes a swing of the bottle resting on a chair at the edge of the platform. 

“And she smiles, folks.”

You set your things down and take a seat, grin somehow widening though without the slightest effort of restraint. 

“Mm, and you should consider yourself lucky to see it,”

“Mmmm, I do,” Taeyong hums back, imitating you with a fascination strewn to his brows. He’d like to think that among other things, your reins had loosened a little since the day you clarified the scandal to him. Formal talk has all but reduced to trivial bantering and back-and-forths between the two of you, which, according to Taeyong’s books, is progress at the very least. It was almost as if each passing day was peeling away the layers of stubborn temperament that made you, and beneath each unearthed layer was a beautiful set of lips that seemed to tug close and closer to your eyes every time, emerging a little brighter in the mornings and lasting vibrantly well into the evenings. It was contagious, your smile; something Taeyong was only just realising with the witty lilt and small mischief that often quirked around its soft creases.

“What are you doing here so late?” you ask, though the answer is plastered blatantly in every corner of the room and in the sweat that lines Taeyong’s forehead. He huffs as he sits in the seat beside you, expression falling at the drop of a hat. His last few days had consisted of making efforts to channel his guilt into honing his modelling skills, and much to his surprise, things had been fairly simple once he’d set his mind to them. But there’s just one thing he still can’t seem to get.

“The walk,” Taeyong combs a hand through his hair frustratedly, “I just can’t get it down.”

“I’d honestly be surprised if you did,” you hum, the soft haze to your voice catching Taeyong miles off guard, plainly evident in his dumbstruck features. It draws a chuckle from you, watching his otherwise round eyes expand further before softening at the genuine melody that comes from your throat. “You’ve only had, like – what – two weeks? It can take the average model months to perfect.”

“This must be your first non-attack on my ego,” he mutters, ruffling another hand through his hair.

You really can’t seem to figure out how your mouth manoeuvres itself into yet another upturned stretch, but it seems you’re not in any rush to as your voice too leaves you at its own grant.

“Would you like a hand?”

Taeyong raises his eyebrows, very clearly surprised at your offer. 

“In walking? Aren’t you a fashion designer?”

“No,” you simply state, earning a quizzical look from him as you stand and walk to the large platform in the middle, turning around to with a sly expression painting your features, “I’m a jack of all trades. Fashion design is just my royal flush.”

“So you’ve modelled before?”

“I’ve had my fair share of walking time.” 

And it isn’t a lie. It was almost a piety for all the best fashion designers to take modelling classes as part of their early training to understand the scope of their clients.

Your nonchalant shrug renders Taeyong thoroughly impressed as he follows your path to the empty catwalk, nodding in approval. “For once I feel like listening to you,” he crosses his arms with a small tilt to his head, “Funny.”

“Very,” you deadpan.

“Fine, then. Teach me how to walk.”

It still sounds absolutely ridiculous to Taeyong; having to have someone to teach him how to walk of all things. He’s never had to think about the way he walks before. It was just another absent-minded task in the daily turnover of his life; writing didn’t require walking as a trained qualification, the only walking he needed to do was from his own office to the bathroom and back.

He makes his way to the back end of the platform. You follow his path, a warm tightness igniting in your chest at the therapeutic click of your heels with every step as you count along the rows of chairs neatly lined on either side. They’re black; unfilled by bustling guests, soundless amid the white walls that edge them. You turn back around to the empty room, nostalgia blanketing the forefront of your mind. You suppose to the third person, it would simply look like any other empty catwalk, the plainest of scenes with a pretentious prospect. But to you, the ceilings echo high with years of vibrant memories, from Argent’s first fashion show within these very walls, to the numerous others you’d hosted in between. You can almost hear the clacking of cameras, see their flashes clear in the crisp silence as it warmly embraces you. That is, of course, until Taeyong cuts through it all.

“Any time now would be great, thanks,” he mithers, tapping on your shoulder.

Suffice to say, the idiot is lucky you’re having a good day.

You ignore him with an exaggerated roll of the eyes, instead standing tall and dignified, announcing, “Cat walking is simple. Half of it is in the mindset, and the other half is in the posture. Here.” You reach out to his arm and drag him closer a little too quickly for your mind to keep up, leaving you no choice but to ignore the split-second warmth of his skin under your palm before your hands retract back again. “Don’t overthink anything too much. Just keep your shoulders back, but still relaxed.” You follow the direction of your own words, shoulders rolling to a neutral position. “Head straight.” You raise your head up. “Gaze focused.” You point a finger forward, focusing your eyes on the clock hanging on the far wall. “Don’t sway your hips, and most importantly, try to make it look natural.” You turn to Taeyong. “Watch me.”

And he does exactly that as you walk forward, every mentioned benchmark maintained flawlessly in the poise of your ankles as they carry you through his gaze. Your arms flow naturally with the fabric of your blouse, a new sort of purpose in the smooth strides of your legs as you turn around with ease, daring to look Taeyong in the eye while approaching back.

“Now you try.”

He nods firmly, the same concentrated expression sewn through his pursed lips and sharp eyes, striding forward with intent.

Your bottom lip immediately finds a home between your teeth as you struggle to hold in your laugh at Taeyong’s stiff steps, accidentally snorting out loud as a hand flies to your mouth in attempt to cover it up. If he was an awkward mess before, he’s all but the complete opposite of that now; way too rigid for anyone’s good, chest pushed animatedly forward, and a little (a lot) too much swing in his arms.

“Oh, you think this is funny, do you?” Taeyong snaps frustratedly, turning around, looking just about ready to stomp a heavy foot down and throw a temper tantrum right there on the glossy platform.

“I…” you trail off, trying to find the right words so as to not hurt the precious little pride he apparently thrives from, “…appreciate the effort.” It comes out with a nod and little snicker at the end, pursed lips doing their best to sequester the giggle at the back of your throat. All jokes aside, you really do appreciate his initiative of staying back late just to practice his walk, finding a newfound respect for his willingness to improve. It had been a massive shift from the dynamic of the past week and you’re not going to let it slip if it’s the last thing you do.

“But seriously, what has Johnny been teaching you this whole time?” you ask, genuinely curious how all those extra hours of practice with Johnny hadn’t seemed to avail Taeyong’s technique in the way you’d expected it to.

“The best angle to take a selfie?” he offers, walking back with a pitiful sulk on his face.

“You don’t say,” you grumble under your breath.

“I mean, he’s been doing a pretty good job at that, at least.” Taeyong chimes in, shrugging with an impressed pout.

“Well, soon he might not have a job at all,” you muse, eyes narrowing in scrutiny of the thought, before shaking your head briefly at turning back to Taeyong. “Anyway, from what I gather, it looks like you’re trying too hard.”

He snorts, “Look who’s talking–”

“Would you just listen for a second?” you snap, dwindling patience echoing with your voice in the ensuing silence, Taeyong staring half-surprised at the outburst.

“Yes ma’am,” he concedes, a playful raise to his eyebrows.

“Thank you,” you sigh deeply. “Remember how I said half of the walk is in the mind?”

Taeyong nods.

“Well, your mind is on overdrive. You need to relax.”

“Okay, and how do you propose I do that? Do you have some kind of–”

“Just...” you interrupt him, stepping forward, hands finding their way to the tense planes of his shoulders “...relax.”

Your touch must have come with something of a magic as Taeyong feels the tension in his muscles evaporate with the ticklish sensation of your fingertips. The snarky comment he’d prepared moments before dies on the tip of his tongue as he eyes you from the shortened distance between your bodies, your hands emanating something warm and wonderful that pricks the hairs up on his arms. He’s quiet, swears he hears your breaths fall slightly laboured as your hands smooth over the angle of his shoulders down to his arms. It’s not something you’re unaccustomed to, having assisted a plethora of other models with this exact motion of your hands. But with Taeyong, it feels like a foolish act of impulse, something that was perhaps best not to have done in the first instance. You can’t seem to evade the gulp that gathers in your throat as your fingers delicately brush over the hard muscle that lies under the soft fabric of his shirt, and it dawns on you that beyond the lanky body and the wide shimmer of his pupils, this man is much sturdier than you could have ever foreseen. Warm too; his skin tingling pleasantly under the cool air conditioning that frosts at your own fingertips.

You glance up at him, and oh, the fool you are for getting caught up in his gaze and the little scar that you notice sits right beside it, something you’ve only just taken note of from seeing him up so close.

“Why so quiet?”

Your question quietly lingers between the two of you for Taeyong to answer, but it’s almost as if you are asking yourself the same thing, searching for an immediate explanation to the sudden cascade of…whatever this is.  Why are you being so quiet? Why is your pulse growing higher by the second, and why – just why – can’t you take your eyes off this man all of a sudden?

“I’m relaxed,” Taeyong murmurs, gaze suddenly preoccupied with tracing the curvature of your lips, every little crease beneath the layer of long-faded lipstick, a little dry but still somehow enchanting.

You simply blink up at him, wondering if his words parallel the answer you’re also searching for. You’re not bothered by the wisp of hair that falls into his half-lidded eyes, and you can’t even bring yourself to be surprised about your apathy. Not when you’re distracted by the way his eyelashes shift each strand ever so slightly with every blink. Perhaps even an unfixed collar would look perfect on him in this moment-

No.

Your hands drop from his arms as you take a quick step back, quiet breaths the only tell-tale sign of your faltering front as you avert your eyes elsewhere.

“Okay then,” you clear your throat, attempting with much effort to set aside whatever twisted emotion that whirls in the pit of your stomach, gesturing haphazardly to the platform ahead. “Try walking now.”

“Yeah,” Taeyong shakes the bangs out of his face, much to your concealed disappointment.  “Yeah, okay.”

You feel a certain shift in the cool air that brushes your skin as he strides ahead, all warmth clinging tightly onto him as single minutes bleed into dozens, ebbing and flowing to and fro as you watch Taeyong’s figure from your place. You keep a safe distance from him, but the trance from earlier seems to weave itself in a taut string between the two of you, growing all the more prominent as the night progresses in a stretched-out silence filled only by the echo of his shoes and your small purls of praise. His walk turns out to be a lot better, still imperfect in many ways, but better, nonetheless; shoulders liberated from the rigidity of before, a more natural essence to the placement of his feet. And it leaves you mussed and tangled in your thoughts, unable to shake the new light under which he walks.

What had happened earlier, and just when did the silence become so deafening through all the blatant banter?

Neither you, nor Taeyong have an answer. Not now, and not among the quiet rustling of coats when you eventually decide to call it a night.  He steals a glance your way, catches sight of your wary expression, and turns back to the floor, a minuscule, little heat radiating on the smooth of face as if your hands now cup his cheeks as they previously did his arms.

What would that truly feel like? He wonders, holding the door open for you as the lights die down in a hushed flicker. You brush past him with a small thanks, the door clicking shut as he too steps out into the hallways. The windows in the corridors don’t glow with the natural light of the day, simply reflecting yours and Taeyong’s blurry figures as you walk side-by-side toward the elevator. You press the button and wait patiently, relieved that the spike of your heels stops the idiot inside you from rocking back and forth on her feet.

“Can I ask you something?”

You almost jump as Taeyong utters the words beside you, the elevator doors welcoming you into its small, shiny box as you nod.

“Why silver?”

He eyes the silver fabric tied loosely around your handbag, glancing up when you don’t speak, only to be met with a small tilt of your head and a confused frown that has his own lips pursing if only to keep his smile at bay. 

“I mean, why not gold? What’s the reason everything in Argent is silver.”

“Chaque nuage a une doublure d'argent.” The phrase slips past your lips without much thought, something natural and warm to accompany the flutter in your chest from the elevator’s descent.

“Italian?” Taeyong asks, charmed by the faraway look in your eyes and the wistful smile that stretches just underneath them.

“French.” You glance at him, a rush of goosebumps decorating your arms under the thick layer of your coat as one side of his mouth quirks into an endearing grin. “It means every cloud has a silver lining.” Your smile widens fondly, the memory of your mentor in Paris replaying clear as day in the canvas of your mind. “I named Argent after the phrase; it literally means ‘silver’ in French,” you chuckle with a small shake of your head. It all sounds a little too ridiculous now that you stand here in hindsight, so surreal that you almost feel like bursting out in a fit of uncontrolled laughter at your impulsive, juvenile decision all those years ago.

But to Taeyong, it only makes you a little more human to know you’d named the biggest fashion brand in the world after a cliché little phrase.

You walk out moments later into the nocturnal buzz of overfed zebra-crossings, moving billboards in the distance, and all else that comprises the faithful oath of New York City. There’s a chill in the air and perhaps that’s why Taeyong finds himself stepping a little closer beside you, studying your features bit by bit as the wind whips your hair from atop your head. The smell of New York gasoline tingles at his nose, but it seems to fade with the relaxed grin that adorns your lips.

Taeyong suddenly stops in his tracks, and you turn back, watching as he digs a hand into his satchel, pulling it out in a loose fist which he brings up to you. His fingers uncurl, revealing a small circular box sitting in his palm. 

“Here.”

“Lip balm?” you question, eyebrows furrowing as you glance up at his insisting gaze.

“You need it more than I do.” His smile seems genuine, not a sarcastic lilt to his voice, no intention to offend as he places the lip balm in your hand and closes your fingers around the cool plastic. Absentmindedly licking your lips, you feel a dryness on the skin – a likely result from nervous chewing and the dry chill of the season. Realising the truth in his words, you turn back to Taeyong, noticing a rosy hue beginning to bloom around his pale cheeks, his blonde hair once again fanning through his eyelashes to the waves of the cool wind.

For a set of very simple and obvious reasons, you wouldn’t normally accept lip balm from anyone other than…well, yourself. So, the soft “thank you,” that glides forth from the back of your throat takes you by surprise as you slip the small box into your handbag.

You bid Taeyong goodnight, and he acknowledges you with a two-fingered salute and a small smile. His eyes sparkle with something indiscernible, and as you make the slow, dazed walk to your car, you realise you’re in no rush to understand anything except the sureness of his smile, and the tingle in your chest that had somehow become a default response to it that evening.

Taeyong doesn’t move from his place on the concrete, hands warmed snugly by his pockets, watching your silhouette fade into the night with a strange sort of affection fledging somewhere inside him.

As he readies himself for the journey to his own car, something catches his eye on the sidewalk from metres away, glinting under the streetlights. He squints ahead at the object, walking forward and picking up a small piece of cloth before the wind carries it elsewhere. It sits cool in his palm, silver and shimmery and peculiarly delicate, its corners flapping incessantly with the wind and its middle warming up soothingly beneath the secure curl of his fingers.

He lifts his head, catching the last flail of your coat in the breeze as your silhouette turns the corner at the end of the street, and smiles, tucking the silver fabric into his coat pocket before turning around and strolling to his car.

The darkness of your ceiling greets you with its usual stolid silence as you sink deeper into the plush embrace of your duvet, reaching to pull it up over your shoulders. Your hair tickles the skin of your cheeks, now liberated from its tight up-do and splayed freely along the whiteness of your pillow. Sleep had long brushed its feathery touch along your eyelids, but they still somehow blink vacantly into your dark bedroom.

Never before had you been an insomniac. You should have been asleep by now – you would have been asleep by now, were it not for the bright smile behind your eyes that jerks you awake every time they flutter shut.

A deep crease forms between your brows as you turn frustratedly onto your side, huffing out a sigh of contemplation and confusion, trying to figure out why the thorn in your side now presents himself as a dream just waiting to happen. You know it’s not right for Taeyong to be running through your mind like this. The sole fact that he’s your model-in-training should have made it very, very wrong in the first instance. You should be ashamed, mortified even.

So, where the hell is the remorse?

It’s nowhere to be found. You’ve tried searching for it, hoping to find the slightest little remnant of guilt deep within you, but it seems you’ve emerged with something else instead. Something that came in the form of flushed cheeks and warm hands, awkward silences and, most surprisingly, a smile.

Contempt? Petty frustration? It’s all gone just like that, and goodness, is it jarring to suddenly feel emotion in such a peculiar way.

Perhaps calling Taeyong into your office days ago and practically begging on your knees for him to stay wasn’t your brightest move – hell, it had all but knocked your pride down a few pegs and you weren’t liking it at all. But at the same time, it seemed to have pulled a few improvements on Taeyong’s end…but then there’s this new side of him that has you fluttery and warm, mulling over the mental snapshot of his smile and the way his hair flows with the wind and-

“Ughhh,” you groan out loud, pulling your pillow over your head in attempt to halt your spiralling thoughts. “Go. To. Sleep.” You accentuate your muffled voice with three hard thumps of your fist on the mattress, before jerking up to the sound of a notification on your phone.

You wonder who in their right mind would be texting you at such a late hour as you reach to your nightstand and pick the device up. You squint down at the blue light that illuminates your face in the dark, eyes scanning over the slightly hazy typewrite on the screen that says:

Taeyong [12:47am]: Goodnight :)

You simply sit there, half-wrapped in your duvet with eyes wide, blinking over the nine letters and emoticon that sit so brazenly under Taeyong’s name. It’s outlandish from all the previous exchanges you’ve had – your last message being from a week ago, reprimanding him for being late to the job yet again. He hadn’t replied to that text, and it had once bothered you to all ends that he hadn’t. But right now you can’t find it in you to care as you stare down at this text, very much typed out by him, wishing you a ‘goodnight’ (never mind the fact that it really should have been two words instead of one).

You bring a hand to your cheek, massaging circles into the bone hoping to relive the ache of another smile that forms on your lips.

God, what is wrong me?

You feel your worries lifted by the darkness around you as you think back to everything from hours earlier. Taeyong’s flawed walk and the pout on his lips, the warmth of his skin and the firm muscle hidden beneath it. The bangs in his eyes and flicker of lashes in the wind, the little box he’d rolled into your palm and the odd comfort of his fingers as he did. It makes you become all too aware of the small, rounded silhouette sitting amongst the shadows on your nightstand. You’d accepted it less than two hours ago, and that too without a single fuss, but you still hadn’t taken the liberty of using it yet.

You find yourself tracing a finger along your still very dry lips, grimacing at the thought of what they must have looked like to Taeyong earlier, and decide that there really isn’t any other time like the present to reach over grab it. You unscrew the lid of the box and bring it to your nose, the fragrance of artificial strawberries wafting through your senses as you swirl a finger through it and dab at your lips. You catch the faintest taste of strawberry sweetness as you purse them, and it suddenly dawns on you that Taeyong must have used this exact lip balm numerous times before…on his own set of lips…

“What the fuck, Y/n,” you whisper aloud, halting all absurdities from taking over your thoughts, placing the box back on your nightstand and flopping back onto your pillow, sheets pulled all the way up to your chin.

Nothing good ever came from being awake at such an hour – not even on the pages of your design book – so, with a final sigh, you close your eyes once more.

Perhaps it was Taeyong’s message, perhaps it’s his lip balm, or it might even be his annoying little smile that still paints itself on the back of your eyelids. Whatever it may be, it lulls you easily into the sleep your eyes so crave, brushes you softly and leaves you with another smile to last through the night.

VI. The Loved and The Lost

The morning welcomes you with a slap to the face – or to the ears, rather – as the shrill ring of your phone jolts you from whatever petty dream you must have been having.

You groan into your pillow. This was far from the way you’d planned to start your first weekend off in months, but, alas, the world seems to care less and less of your plans with each passing day, so it doesn’t come as much of a surprise.

Rolling onto your side, you reach for your phone to see Ten’s name, thumbing at the answer button. 

“Ten,” you mumble with a groggy voice, fingers rubbing the light into your eyes, “you know it’s my day off work-”

“I’m sorry Y/n, but you need to check the news.” His voice is frantic on the other side of the line, almost as if he’s jogging as he speaks, but it doesn’t fully register as you stretch your limbs under the safety of your covers, yawning out a lazy, “Why?”

“Just do it! Now!”

The urgency in his raised voice has you sitting up abruptly, ear pressing in harshly to your phone screen as you scramble out of bed balancing it on your shoulder, almost tripping over the sheets as your ankles catch on them while rushing to the living room.

“Okay, okay, but what’s wrong? Is everything alri-” Your words die in your throat as you switch your television on, the news channel opening straight away to…

Jaehyun?

He’s at what looks like a press conference, sporting a relaxed smile while answering questions from reporters in the audience. Your eyebrows furrow at the headline on the bottom of the screen.

SM AGENCY SUPERMODEL JUNG JAEHYUN TO SIGN CONTRACT WITH QI FASHION LABELS

“What…” you whisper out confusedly to Ten on the other side, a frown settling deep on your features.

“Listen!” Ten urges, and you turn up the volume of the television, a horrible feeling settling in your chest as you lean forward and watch anxiously.

“Jaehyun, is it true that you are no longer contracted under Argent Fashion Labels?”

The voice speaks from the audience, accompanied by the occasional clicks and flashes of cameras that capture Jaehyun as he leans toward the microphone in front of him.

“Excluding all technicalities, yes, it’s true.”

Your jaw loosens in a shocked mix of confusion and anger, your chest rising and falling heavily as you try to figure out what the fuck was happening all of a sudden.

“And what does Y/n have to say about this?”

Nothing. You had absolutely nothing to say about anything that was happening at this moment, no say whatsoever. You weren’t given the chance to step into the picture at all, rather watching in shock from behind your television screen.

“Well, it’s always tough to let a loved one go.”

The grin that stretches widely across Jaehyun’s face pulls a nauseating ache into your chest, as if your stomach were being folded in on itself. What the hell was Jaehyun trying to imply?

“So, you don’t deny the dating rumours?” The question echoes from another reporter, followed by a silence that lasts a second too long.

“No.”

You glare at the flatness of the screen in front of you, fists curling into your palms as the rest of the conversation drowns out behind a red curtain that seems to draw itself around you.

“Y/n?” Ten’s voice asks worriedly through the speaker.

You stand, jaw locking as you switch the tv off, voice as stone-cold and emotionless as the deepening scowl on your face. “Contact public relations immediately and schedule an appraisal meeting for this afternoon. I’ll handle the rest.”

─── ⪧ ⪦ ───

The roots of your hair yank painfully at your scalp, tugged up in a bun so high and tight it’s almost the only thing that seems to hold your flaring temper together. 

Almost.

“Miss Y/l/n, what are you doin-”

“Give me a fucking break,” you seethe through clenched teeth, charging like a storm past a receptionist that calls out from the desk, sitting right beneath the audacious letters SMA.

It’s ironic really, to be voicing these very words on the day that was actually supposed to be your break. You’d initially hoped to spend it well – perhaps wake up at noon and lose yourself in one of your neglected paperbacks, or take a dip in a rose-infused bath with a soothing glass of wine-spice, or both. But it was all a story of lost hope now, buried beneath the heavy breathing and pounding of your chest as you skip the steps two-at-a-time all the way up to the sixth floor of this godforsaken building. You didn’t want to take the elevator, didn’t care if you snapped a heel and had to limp the rest of the way up. Etiquette is now a notion of the past as you stride past each pretentious pair of eyes, uncaring of their whispers as a single phrase repeats itself incessantly in your mind:

Jung Jaehyun is fucking dead.

It’s frustrating how the route to his office is ingrained so deeply into your memory as if it were the route to your own, all rhyme and reason relinquished as you launch yourself through its doors, blowing your blazing fuse the second it slams shut behind you.

“What is wrong with you?” you roar out into the white walls of his office, bristling with fury to see Jaehyun still dressed in the same outfit as press conference; the suit that isn’t one of your own designs, but one of QI Fashion Labels’ instead.

“Oh, you saw it.” It isn’t a question that apathetically slides from Jaehyun’s tongue, just an insolent flatness to his voice that tugs your eyebrows taut, so infuriating it has you slamming a hard hand on his desk.

“The whole damn world saw it, Jaehyun. What the hell happened to our agreement?”

“Qi offered me a better one. So, I took it.” He doesn’t spare you a glance, eyes focused on an editorial magazine he obnoxiously flicks between his thumbs. “I’m a top model, Y/n, but that means jack shit if I can’t do my job.”

“Nobody took your job away from you, Jaehyun, you brought this upon yourself!” You point a finger at him, maddened with his insinuation. “You were the one who pulled out of the show last minute. You were the one who left me to deal with all of this just to save your own backside-”

“I did it for you too!” He stands, leveling himself with you. 

“Did you?” Your voice lowers to a threatening murmur before erupting in the next moment. “THEN WHAT THE FUCK HAPPENED AT THAT CONFERENCE?"

“IT WAS A PUBLICITY STUNT, Y/N, WHAT DO YOU EXPECT ME TO SAY?” he yells over you, “‘I’m sorry? Will you forgive me?’ Is that what you want?”

You simply stand there, jaw falling unhinged, stunted to an unforeseen silence from the disdain that tumbles through his words. You feel a surge of blood rushing to your face in a twisted combination of anger and humiliation, trying to maintain the little composure that dwindles within you.

This feels so different.

Nobody has ever looked at you the way Jaehyun does now, with so much contempt and derision. You were supposed to be at the top. You were always the one to satisfy, to gain respect from. But now, it seems you’re the single mockery of everything around you, frailed and muted with your entire world bared as it crashes head-first into the ground.

“How dare you,” you spit. “You had no right.”

“This is showbiz, Y/n,” Jaehyun deadpans. “People come and people go, and the world still keeps turning.”

“Well, what about my world, Jaehyun?” You step forward, glaring right into his eyes. “What. About. Mine?”

“Oh, stop with the fucking act. You’re the worldwide fashion designer and founder of Argent, you’re Y/n Y/l/n! The world revolves around you!” He violently throws his hands up. “Okay, I walked out. But the second I did, you snatched some new guy right off the streets. What does it matter then? You’ve got everything you need-”

“He’s here for a month, Jaehyun. A month! And you were supposed to be back right after that.”

You pause. So does he. No words meet the air, just heavy breaths filled with clamorous intention. You try to gather your thoughts, every cogent piece of dialogue, anything that will change Jaehyun’s mind. But it all seems to slip from your grasp the second your mouth opens without your mind to wisely follow.

“I gave you everything.”

“Sure. You did.” Jaehyun nods, but you’re only left to kick yourself in the face as a sinister look sweeps across his features as naturally as the oxygen spills from your lungs. “But you wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for me. I was the first and only person willing to take you up on your offer all those years ago, when you had nothing except your sketchbook going for you. You only gave me everything because I gave it all to you first, Y/n.” Jaehyun leans in with a threatening tilt to his head, smirk only growing more scornful with the sharp breath that leaves him. “I made you.”

His words sting you somewhere deep inside, all your futile shields arming in an instant to protect yourself.

“You did not make me.” You feel dizzy with the harsh grind of teeth behind your chapped lips, breath growing deeper in attempt to control the tears threatening to terrorize your eyes. “I worked my ass off to get where I am now, and if I didn’t have you, you best believe, Jung Jaehyun, I would’ve had someone better.”

Jaehyun leans back, pride clearly stabbed and bleeding from the heart, though he does a much better job at hiding it than you with the twitch of his lips into yet another spiteful smirk. 

“You know why people don’t like you?”

Enlighten me. You want so badly for these words to tear through your throat. But they don’t, held back by your last wavering nerve.

“Because you’re a bitch. A stubborn, cold-hearted bitch.”

And that’s it. You back down with nothing more to say and nothing more to lose, eyes shifting around the floor, your shields defeated and conquered with that one word.

Bitch. 

It wasn’t anything new – perhaps occupying third place on the long list of bywords copped under your name over the years. But never before had it burned as much as it does now.

Your fingers tighten into their customary fists; not out of anger, but rather in search of a warmth somewhere in the gulf your palms. You gulp, lips pursed and dry with the caution of tears, not once looking Jaehyun in the eyes as you turn around and walk to the door. With shaky breaths and shaky fingers, you pull the door handle only to pause and turn back once more, daring yourself to meet Jaehyun’s eyes despite all your efforts not to.

His face still holds the same comely features as the day you’d first found him kicking rocks outside of Vogue building. It all flashes clear in your mind; him as a fresh-faced rookie with a freshly rejected application balled in his fist. You’d just made your move to the Big Apple back then and that boy had once been a Godsend. He was polite and charming. Heck, you’d even started out with a small crush on him, awed like anything that he was willing to throw all caution to the wind alongside you. Jaehyun had signed your self-made contract and had his shot at showbiz. He had been a huge contributor to Argent’s growth in the industry; that much stood true among his harsh words of the present and you couldn’t discredit him for his work in that regard. As Argent grew, luck had smiled upon him in the form of an SMA recruitment officer knocking at his door at the wee hours of one fine morning, whisking both him and his name fresh into the celebrity scene to gain the recognition that he had rightfully deserved.

That he had once deserved.

Not anymore.

“Go to hell, you bastard.”

He doesn’t say anything – he doesn’t need to, the tightening of his jaw confirming everything words couldn’t begin to explain. And there’s nothing more heart-shattering than the realisation that hits you in this moment:

You’ve lost Jaehyun. You’ve lost a partner. And worst of all, you’ve lost a friend.

You step out of Jaehyun’s office, slamming the door shut, tears burning furiously in your eyes as the distance between you and him grows wider and wider with every hasty step. 

You try to pick apart all the layers in your mind, try to separate all your rights from all of Jaehyun’s wrongs. But in the grand scheme of things, you realise there really isn’t much to separate at all. You’d both started out together, two parallels of the same temperament, chasing a fame and fortune that was destined to become yours someday. And here you both are now, a world-class bitch and a two-faced asshole, both sitting high and mighty in your thrones. The only visible difference now, is your preserved integrity and his tilted crown.

It was always so easy to be wronged in the cruellest way imaginable, especially when all started to seem perfect. Wasn’t it just yesterday you were floating in the clouds, and shimmering with a rose-tinted glow? 

But here you are today, refusing to shed violent tears and buried beneath the rubble of misplaced trust.

It must have been so easy for him to push you down. And it had all happened in the unsuspecting blink of an eye.

“-with a high of sixty-three, and an eighty percent chance of widespread thunderstorms all throughout New Yor-”

You groan out loud, thumbing the television off and tossing the remote to the side.

“No Karen, I don’t want to know about widespread thunderstorms,” you grumble, slumping into the leather of your sofa with a sulky pout. Since when had cable television soured up so much?

From what you can remember, it had always been something to look forward to in your younger years, an escape from reality. But now all that’s decent to watch is the news, and that has been completely off-limits as per the PR meeting that had happened a day ago (and you’d broken that rule, obviously).

The news about Jaehyun’s departure has understandably been a secret to no one, having been circulated in every magazine during the very hour of your last brawl with him. It had all taken its toll on you, even you conceded to that very sure fact. But what you absolutely did not concede, was the three days’ worth of exile the board had forced upon you thereafter. Three full days! It was absurd in all sense of the word. You still find it ridiculous that they, your employees, had taken the liberty to order you, their boss, to take a break a fortnight before the biggest fashion show of the year. 

You wouldn’t have listened to them, of course, not when with all the end-phase preparations and a multitude more fittings to cram in the short time left. But as it turns out, it isn’t exactly an easy task to escape being held at gunpoint by your own stellar employees.

A fashion designer always had a project to work on; always something to start, finish, improve or fix, no matter the quality of their predicament. You’d call yourself a refractory to the system as of recent, currently sunken halfway into your couch with more than your fill of malaise-induced boredom to accompany you, contemplating whether a Netflix subscription would be a sensible investment for the next few days. 

You look to the mannequin stand in the corner of the room, frowning. On it is Argent’s final runway item for New York Fashion Week; an item you’d taken the liberty to smuggle home in hopes of finishing. But you haven’t gathered the tenacity to do so, the workaholic itch in your fingers seeming to have tired itself out with the sole fact that the outfit was originally Jaehyun’s to wear.

Your thoughts are interrupted by the buzzing of your phone on the coffee table, lethargy weighing heavily on your limbs as you reach forward to pick it up.

Ten [3:18pm]: Wendy, Joy and Winter’s final fittings have been reviewed and completed

Ten [3:18pm]: how are you going?

You sigh in relief, happy to have not received any bad news from Ten yet. Receiving regular updates was the compromise for your agreement in being cooped up inside your apartment, but the very act of picking up your phone always feels like a gamble, given all the unpredicted mishaps of the last month.

Y/n [3:19pm]: that’s great, keep up the good work!

Y/n [3:19pm]: going as fine as I can without anything to do

Y/n [3:20pm]: oh, could you also make sure the white boot-coat set is finished and reviewed?

Ten [3:20pm]: already been done

The smile that pricks at your lips feels almost unnatural after days of consistent frowning. Though it’s not a typical trait of yours, you’ve always favoured the idea of realising the worth of your possessions – or rather, persons – before their eventual disappearance from your life. So, it comes as a quiet sort of surprise as you realise that Ten Lee is worth so much more to you than you could ever have expressed.

Now that you really think about it, he’s probably the person you’d entrusted the most personal information with through the entirety of your career, and if it wasn’t for your stiff-necked pride, you’d even call yourself lucky to be able to call him your executive assistant. In all honesty, you’re not quite sure what you would have done – where you would have been, how you would have survived – if you didn’t have Ten to help you through it all. Prompt in his actions, justified in his reasoning, astute in the mind; Ten really is the best of the best.

Another vibration of your phone draws you back to the screen, though it’s not the name you expect to find.

Taeyong [3:25pm]: hey, you busy?

You scoff at the message, muttering a blasé, “Am I busy. Of course, I’m not busy, what a stupid thing to-”

Taeyong [3:25pm]: that was a joke in case you didn’t get it

Taeyong [3:25pm]: I know you’re bored out of your mind right now

Your indifferent gaze drops to a scowl. You try to convince yourself it’s root cause is the infuriating man on the other side of your phone, but you know deep down it’s just your petty temperament; annoyed that you weren’t able to catch onto his little joke…if one could even call it that.

Y/n [2:25pm] yeah whatever, how’s your walk going mr happy feet

Taeyong [3:26pm]: happy feet 🤨

Taeyong [3:26pm]: is that my compliment for the day?

You can’t help but snicker at his reply, glad that you don’t have to suppress the atypical expression on your face while in the safety of your apartment walls. Perhaps there was some advantage to being stuck at home, after all.

Y/n [3:26pm]: take it or leave it, it’s up to you🤷‍♀️

That’s another thing you’ve learnt to use in the last day: emojis. It was stupid, really, something so out of the ordinary for you. The whole point of using a small picture in a texting app never really made sense to you; it’s called a text for a reason. But that was until Taeyong had dared you the day before to text only in emojis. It hadn’t been the easiest task, but you’d survived, and as a bonus, taken a liking to some of the mini yellow figures – just enough to use them around Taeyong at the very most.

Taeyong [3:26pm]: hmm I’ll take it

Taeyong [3:26pm]: only because it’s as rare as this 😊

There was that infuriating tingle in your chest, nestling inside you in some tucked away in a corner and seeming to only emerge at the thought of Taeyong. It’s something unexplainable and uncontrollable, never before felt in the way you’ve been feeling it lately.

Was he thinking about your smile? If so, how long had been thinking about it? Since when? And why?

You glance to your arm, noticing goosebumps arise on the smooth skin as the question comes to mind. Your thumbs hover over the screen, unsure how to respond to both Taeyong and the giddy, ticklish feeling inside you.

Taeyong [3:27pm]: anyway Charlie’s on his way for you

Taeyong [3:27pm]: I’ll see you soon

You hum in confusion, eyebrows knitting at his text, wondering if you’ve been granted an early exemption from your impending two days of exile.

Taeyong [3:27pm]: oh also don’t wear anything too expensive

VII. Tell Me

You had started from somewhere familiar, grounded by the undying rumble of city-goers and loud tumble of traffic in every which direction. You had started with the all the colours of the rainbow reflecting in your eyes from moving billboards, weathered yellow taxis and sun-lit windows; with your head angled high, glimpsing up towards the concrete jungle that made up your every dream and every struggle and everything else in between.

At least a couple dozen minutes later you sit in the same backseat, looking out of the same window, but the only vehicle that seems to be on the road is the one that Charlie drives you in. Gone now are those ever-known gaudy hues of the city, now replaced with the flaring expanse of green rolling hills, natural in height and pure in tone, and a divine sky peeking out to capture it all in its blooming embrace. Your ears ring with the nigh echo of road-rage-infested honks, almost as if searching for the sound somewhere in the low buzz of 90’s classics scratching on the radio. There isn’t an ounce of man-made construct to behold, no shine of metals under the clouds, nor a single slab of greyed concrete to dampen the vibrant blades of grass that seem to grow an inch or two taller with every quarter mile. Pleasant would be the word to describe it all; perhaps even beautiful, were it not for the very sure fact that this was definitely not the way to work as you’d originally thought it to be.

As the car rolls to a stop, you peek out once more to the same emerald scape, still no building or vehicle or even person in sight to bale your suspicion. 

“Charlie, what is this? Where are we?” You sit forward, resolute in searching for, at the very least, a barn house hidden somewhere amongst the grass and sparsely scattered trees.

“Mr Lee asked for you to be dropped here, miss. I can’t say anything more.”

“Oh, so you take orders from him now. I guess I just don’t get a say in anything anymore,” you mutter childishly, slumping back into the leather seat and fishing out your sunglasses from your purse. “Can you at least tell me where I can find Taeyong in all of this-” you glance out “-grass?”

“He told me,” Charlie raises his fingers in air-quotations, “‘she’ll find me once she gets out.’ I don’t have any further information, miss.”

“Well, that’s helpful,” you huff, opening the door handle and stepping a foot out before pausing and turning back to your driver. “Please don’t bypass me next time.”

“Yes, miss.”

You narrow your eyes at his jolly smile, fully stepping out and closing the door and grimacing at the scratchy grind of your boots in the dry dirt of the road. You take a step toward the field, but the revving of the car behind you doesn’t allow you to breathe in the fresh air as you turn around wide-eyed to see it leaving faded tracks in its wake.

“Hey!” you screech, arms flailing like a maniac. “Charlie, come back!”

It’s futile in any case as you watch the black Jaguar speed off into the distance, your last speck of familiarly becoming one with your memory of the city as you stand there, handbag falling from your shoulder to your elbow, body deflating with literal abandonment.

Note to self: must fire Charlie.

You look around at the place anxiously, spotting a single car parked metres ahead, before turning to the countryside and standing on the balls of your toes. You scan through the maze of tall, gangly grass and tiny yellow flowers, hoping to find a certain blonde-haired hooligan traipsing somewhere between it, praying that the car belongs to him and not some other hooligan waiting to kidnap you and God knows what else. But you don’t see Taeyong anywhere, instead deciding to try your luck by stepping into tall grass, squinting as the gradually waning sun glints warmly through the top of your sunglasses, catching your lashes as they continue to flicker across the field.

It’s almost ironic for a scene earthed so deeply within nature to feel so unnatural, as if you were the most fabricated facet to roam this quiet part of the world. Walking through a field, being carried further with a cool breeze stirring through your locks and a land of serenity to call your own; it was such a simple act. It feels effortless to just exist in such a place, for your lungs to expand to their fullest capacity and welcome the refreshing change of milieu. For your arms to sway with no particular intention except that of a freedom which you had no idea you’d craved so deeply at all.

It’s a rare sight to see your own shadow rippling beside you, cast by the gentle fall of the sun beyond the field in absence of all the city’s tall buildings and metropolitan smog. It felt almost otherworldly to feel the tingling sensation of grass pricking at your fingertips, welcoming you in sweet greeting with every soft crunch beneath your feet.

“Wasn’t it supposed to rain?” you wonder aloud, head tilting up and catching sight of white tufts of clouds scattered infrequently through the sky, no foresight of said stormy weather in the seemingly perfect view. It doesn’t seem to matter either way as you sigh in genuine content, embracing the soft tickle of stray hairs against your cheeks, the warmth gleam of the sun, and strokes of grass at the exposed skin of your ankles.

“Figured you needed the fresh air.”

You abruptly turn around to a faint voice that comes from behind you, puzzled to see a dark-haired man sitting metres away, his pale skin obscured by the grass. The wind carries his hair in the same way it does yours, soft looking antennas waving you ‘hello’ from atop his head. Squinting forward, your gaze scans through the tall green lines and yellow petals, finding a familiar pair of eyes staring right back at your own.

“Taeyong?”

You step towards him with the warm shine of the sun on your back, wondering how you had missed him in your previous surveillance of the area. The grass brushes past your calves with such ease, as if parting to create a pathway just for you to walk along. Taeyong pats the clear stump of earth beside him, lips tugging into an uneven little smile as you sit down on the long of your coat, placing your bag in your lap.

“Hey,” he offers.

“Shouldn’t you be at work?”

You furrow your eyebrows at your own question, surprised at your own unseemly dialogue for the current setting.

Gosh, I really do need this break.

Taeyong only chuckles quietly, more than accustomed to this little habit of yours. 

“Don’t worry, I’m done for the day.”

Your lips part, ready to question how on earth he could be ‘done for the day’ – since no one at Argent was ever done before sundown at the very least. But you stop yourself just as the words graze your tongue, rather opting to fall distracted with the hair that you only just realise now matches the tone of Taeyong’s eyebrows.

“What did you do to your hair?”

He looks up to the curtain of hair on his forehead, realisation striking his features as if he’d forgotten about the change of look altogether. “Oh yeah,” he scoops it back with a casual hand, the smooth complexion of his face glowing under the hue of the falling sun. “I dyed it yesterday; Johnny suggested a more natural colour.”

“It must be the best thing he’s done this month,” you mutter with a small snort, freezing on the spot as Taeyong turns to you in surprise, the meaning of your words settling down on you with the flushed heat that gathers at your neck. “I-I mean-”

“You like it?” he asks, voice falling soft and almost anxious as if hoping for your approval. Though it was all in your job to evaluate his appearance, you just can’t push aside the feeling that this – the goosebumps painting your arms in erratic waves, the hopeful eagerness sparkling in his eyes – was different to all the other times. 

He tilts his head with a small smile, and it somehow does wonders to muddle up your thoughts as you nod wordlessly in response to his question, unable to trust your own voice. Your eyes focus on the soft shadows of swaying grass that dance across his cheeks, overcome with a certain urge to reach out and catch one with the tip of your thumb.

Your gaze doesn’t go unnoticed by Taeyong as he turns back to the sun, his smile never once faltering as he watches it fall lower and lower in the sky with each passing second. His eyes flicker to his periphery every now and again, happy to see that his intention for bringing you to this place is running its course. In all honesty, he wasn’t sure whether it would work,  whether you would be able find the same contentment in this field as he always has. But as he watches it all once again – the grass, a little taller than the last time he’d visited, the sun and it’s softening hues – he supposes it must be impossible not to fall for the magical charms of such a green expanse.

***

Taeyong’s school shirt beats wildly with the wind against his stomach, the white fabric riddled with so many unkempt creases, he was sure to earn an earful from his dad once he returned home.

The school day couldn’t have gone by any faster, and while all of his friends were attending their extra-curriculars – Yuta at soccer training, Mark at basketball practice and Kun at his piano lessons – Taeyong finds himself all alone, riding his bike in solitude down an isolated country road with nothing but the rhythmic huffing and puffing of his chest to accompany his fast-peddling feet. His backpack hangs heavy with the weight of the many comic books stacked inside, its straps sliding down his shoulders before being shrugged back into place every dozen seconds or so.

Come on, come oooon, almost there! He ushers to himself. The thought manifests with an electric buzz of excitement, his wrist lifting from the handles to shield his face from the sun as it glints its orange rays in his periphery. Taeyong smiles, allowing himself to turn towards it and bask in its warmth, the greenery just below it swaying peacefully in the same way as the tousled hair against his forehead. 

He cranes his neck in search for the familiar patch of flattened grass, for the little raw pathway he’d paved from his frequent visits to the field. It wasn’t too far now, just a couple dozen metres and he’d be right-

“Aahhh.”

The front tyre of Taeyong’s bike catches a loose rock on the ground, sending him toppling to the ground as he loses his balance, landing on his side with the loud crash of his bike beside him.

He groans, sitting up, lungs expanding and deflating heavily, a juvenile shock leeching into his features as he takes a few moments to process the fall. He feels a sudden sting on side of his face, expression twisting into a pained frown as he reaches up and dabs at a wet spot at his temple, flinching with a quiet sob at the shooting pain.

“Ow,” Taeyong whimpers, tears pooling at his eyes, though he refuses to let them stain his cheeks. He holds onto his grazed arm, gathering all his strength to pick himself off the ground and dust off his shirt. He feels his heart shatter as he looks down to his bike, taking in its now-dented frame and punctured tyre. Reaching for a tissue from his backpack, he holds it to the wound, hissing at the sting while looking either side of the desolate road.

There isn’t a single car, nor a house in sight. The emptiness of the place wasn’t really something he had paid much attention to until this moment, an inkling of regret seeping into his conscience from not having listened to his parents’ warnings not to go riding outside by himself. Sighing in defeat, Taeyong shoves the blood-stained tissue into his pocket, picking up his bike, slinging on his backpack once again, and opting to continue his journey; he’d gotten this far, so he saw no reason to turn back now, not unless he wanted to fast-track his inevitable scolding…which he certainly doesn’t.

Relief washes over Taeyong as he no sooner finds the notched pathway among the thick mane of grass. He sets down his bike at the edge of the field and strolls along the beaten trail, tall sedges stroking either side of his legs and leading him toward the same little patch of stubbly grass he’d made routine of greeting day by day. He drops his backpack to the ground, planting himself criss-cross applesauce right beside it and eagerly hauling out his comic books with a small grunt. Balancing his fancied print on a single knee, he once again dabs the bloody tissue on his wound, trying his best to ignore its persistent sting.

A yellow flower sits flattened on the page, a withered replica of those that dance around his head, marking the page he’d left off the night before. He pulls it out and delicately sets it down in the grass, allowing the wind to carry its petals somewhere far, far away along with all his seven-year-old worries as he bows his head and loses himself between the pages in his fingers.

Just for a while.

While Yuta kicks a black-and-white ball across a field, Taeyong douses himself in the zestful war of good versus evil, heated air painting his forehead with tiny beads of water that trickle down to cool his neck. While Kun perfects his trills and tenutos on ivory keys, Taeyong revels in the crescendo of action and dooming plot twists. And while Mark practices his three-pointers on the court – though it’d take him years to actually shoot a clean hoop – Taeyong embraces the final defeat of the vengeful villain, triumphing alongside the hero just as the sun brandishes its last smile for the day.

 And at the end of it all, he plucks another flower from a tall stem somewhere nearby and presses it neatly between the last read pages of his nth comic, before returning home with a heart ever so heavy and saddened, bidding the field yet another inevitable goodbye.

***

A placebo. That’s what the field had been back then. And as Taeyong looks at you now, notices the relaxed lilt to your otherwise stiff posture and the small flicker of a smile on your now not-so-chapped lips, he realises that the placebo still holds strong and true.

And it indeed does, as you allow the knots in your face to relax for the first time in what feels like years. All of this was a rarity at best, with most of your evenings spent under the bright lights of your office, faced with vivacious reds and purples and silvers, all wrapped in the constant buzz of central air conditioning. And while you still haven’t a definite answer to why Taeyong had brought you to this field in the first place, you feel privileged enough that he did.  Privileged to be able to bathe in the seeping warmth of the sun and breathe the soothing rustle of grass against the wind. It serves to elicit a sort of epiphany in your mind; that amidst it all, the world of fashion and fame feels so absolutely worthless.

‘Natural beauty’ is a term you’ve always chosen to steer clear from in your very fabricated life. You’ve heard it used in various contexts, thrown around in offhand and meaningless ways that never really seemed natural or beautiful at all. But the phrase seems to take on an entirely new meaning here, somehow more tangible and definite than you have ever known. This – where you are now – is a beauty coined by nature itself. No fabrications, no impressionable colours, nothing to be stitched or sewn or cut or styled just to breach the bracket of perfection. Even the clouds that seemed to have accumulated up above only play their just part of looking beautiful, and for the first time in a long, long time, you understand exactly what you need.

This.

This is what you need.

Your smile drops to a frown in an instant, eyes flickering down to your lap as your mind spirals back to your last conversation with Jaehyun from days ago.

But this is exactly what I can’t have.

Your next words fall from your lips before you’re able to help yourself, voice quiet but still so loud in the silence.

“Taeyong, do you think I’m a bitch?”

Guilt tugs itself taught in your chest at the thought, and you suddenly feel like a fraud for so much as sitting here and allowing yourself to enjoy every small wonder of this field. None of it was ever yours to enjoy in the first place. You belong in the tumbling noise of the city, amid the streets of towering skyscrapers, wrapped in eternal sheets of expensive fabrics, under the blaring flashes of fame.

Taeyong turns to you with a questioning look, eyebrows riddling with confusion upon seeing the frown on the same pair of lips that were smiling so contentedly the last minute he’d seen them. It isn’t the same frown he’s grown so used to over the preceding weeks, but one that now bares a genuine sadness to it. 

He can only sigh, fingertips tingling with an unsolicited urge to reach out and tilt your chin his way as he mulls over his own thoughts. He can’t tell exactly which place your question had come from, but he’s sure he wouldn’t be too far off if he took a wild guess.

“You want my honest opinion?” Taeyong breathes out, and you can’t help but curl your knees to your chest at the thought of what’s to come.

You don’t want his honest opinion. You really don’t.

But perhaps it’s something you need.

So, you allow yourself to nod, giving him the okay to speak freely. He nods back, blinking a few times before sucking in a deep breath.

“Yeah, I think you are a bitch.”

Your head hangs low under the heavy weight of reality as it sinks deeper than you’d ever allowed it to before, and with a sorrowful nod, you allow yourself to crumble a little on the inside with Taeyong’s words. You’re not sure what you were really expecting from him with your question; you knew better than to bank on a free shower of compliments, but you certainly weren’t expecting his answer to bite and burn as much as it does now. But you suppose that in the end, he only recites the very insult you’ve been brushing off for years. But it’s only now that it truly feels justified, as if you can no longer brush it away without slipping further into its unforgiving throes, forced to accept it as it is with no sure-fire excuse to walk away.

“But I also think underneath it all – underneath the whole façade – that you’re a very likeable person.” 

Taeyong hasn’t even a clue what he’s saying, the words simply leaving his mouth as naturally as his own breath mingles with the wind.

You turn to him, a bout of hesitancy in the slow blink of your eyes as you search his gaze for even just the smallest shard of deceit. You don’t find any, though it doesn’t stop your attempts to convince yourself he’d only said the latter out of pity.

“I don’t know,” you release a shallow sigh, bitter with the new sensation of complete and utter defeat. “Everyone else begs to differ.”

Taeyong eyes you sceptically. 

“Everyone else, as in Jaehyun?”

“Especially him.”

“He’s an asshole, Y/n.” He shakes his head, almost annoyed at you for still allowing that cheap excuse of a man to mess with your head, even after he’d taken the liberty of opening Argent’s doors and showing his own way out.

You chuckle resentfully. 

“That asshole is one of my only friends…was…my only friend.”

“Well, last time I remember, friends don’t abandon you and clype you out on national tv.”

You pause upon hearing Taeyong’s words, realising the blatant truth in them. No friend would do such a thing if they truly were a friend, and the fact that Jaehyun had done exactly what a good friend shouldn’t have…

It couldn’t have felt any more scary than it does now. 

And it leaves you wondering if any of it – if any of the friendship you thought you and Jaehyun had harboured through the years – had been real in any essence. Perhaps it had been real, even just for a short while. Perhaps it had been lost in translation somewhere along the dividing paths of your careers. But it certainly doesn’t feel that way in hindsight, and friendship or not, it certainly doesn’t exist anymore.

Taeyong doesn’t avert his eyes from you, doesn’t care that the sun had finally kissed the green horizon up ahead, rather focusing on the turmoil brewing so evidently through your features.

“Tell me,” he voices out softly, not a second thought to the sureness of his words.

“What?” you ask.

“Whatever’s on your mind.” He resists the urge to reach forward and take your hand in his own, looking deeply into your eyes and finding a need somewhere deep down. A need to know the full story of you, to understand you. “Tell me whatever you want. About yourself, about Argent; everything. I’ll listen.”

You find yourself staring up at Taeyong in bewilderment, your hair batting against your cheeks, though never a bother, as you try to formulate a response to his offer, realising that this is the first time someone has asked you to share your thoughts freely. This is the first time someone truly seemed to care about something other than your fame or your fortune or every other profitable prospect in between.

This is the first time someone is willing to listen.

So, maybe it’s the soft prickle of grass at your ankles, or your vulnerability that’s now borne far beyond redemption; perhaps it’s the faint scent of flowers all around, or maybe even be the brown-haired man sitting right in the middle of them. Whatever it is – whether a combination of everything, or nothing all – it causes you to smile, yielding away your defences and bursting all your dams free for a short while.

Taeyong feels his heart swell as you begin to speak out every little thought that comes to mind. And just as he’d said, he listens. Not only to your words, but to every subtle inflection of your voice, to the rise and fall of new emotion that even you didn’t think you could express.

You’d planned to loosen the restraints just slightly, but wind up releasing the reins altogether, indulging in Taeyong’s attentive nods and hums as you paint him a vivid picture of the past he never could have imagined you to have lived.

He discovers a lot; of your father’s departure when you were merely eight years old, and the childhood you’d spent under ceaseless scrutiny thereafter. He finds out how everything from the friends you had to the clothes you wore, had been controlled under your mother’s dreadful custody. How you’d fled home at the young age of seventeen and found yourself in the city of love with not an ounce of love to give. Even less to keep.

“It was always just me, myself and I. And I hated it.” You blink ahead at the orange and pink hues among the gathered clouds, the sun now. “I guess I just wanted to break free from that trap, and I did it through fashion. And it did work. It worked wonders,” you sigh, pausing to gather your thoughts before continuing with a smile. “Opening Argent had been a fantasy come true. I’ve achieved…so much; things that were once merely a figment of my wildest dreams. I have a cupboard full of awards. Invites from Tokyo, London, Italy, Shanghai, you name it.” You find your words falling short on your tongue, replaced with a dry chuckle and a small shake of your head. “But isn’t it just so funny how years of control can spiral out in the span of a day? How everything can suddenly turn in on itself as if none of it really mattered?”

Your eyes are wistful and faraway, as is the prevailing smile on your lips, and while Taeyong wishes so badly to reciprocate the expression, he just can’t bring himself to do so. His spirits plummet ten feet underground as everything seems to click in his mind, now envisioning you in a new kind of light; something a little softer, subdued, not nearly as blinding as the spotlight you lived under.

“I don’t know, maybe I’m just being dramatic. This is showbiz after all,” you deadpan, recalling Jaehyun’s words with a sigh.

All the fame and wealth that you now have. All the esteem and praise and acclamation. You once seemed to have everything he could have only ever dreamt of; everything anyone could have ever dreamt of. A world-class fashion label and a famous title should have been enough. Designer clothing and expensive buyers, the spotlights and privilege of being ‘the world’s best and most renowned’; all of it should have been enough. But after listening to everything you had to say, Taeyong realises it never would be. That material possessions are worth nothing without the emotional sentiment that was supposed to come with them; that it’s all meaningless without someone to share and celebrate and enjoy them with. He wonders what exactly your motive had been when choosing to walk into this hectic world alone, unwilling to believe that you’d come with the intention of ending up where you are now.

Taeyong pictures a different version of you, someone written in the pages of your past, years younger than you are now. He sees a young girl with fiery passions and enough quirks to back every one of those passions with. She wasn’t perfect in the least, had many flaws to take in her stride, but she shone brighter than all the silvers in the world. She sought her dream through perseverance, never once allowing a frown to so much as grace the smile that had once sat so naturally on her face. She had so much to gain from life.

So how could she be sitting right here with a handful of losses and a shattered heart?

Taeyong wonders what exactly you had done to end up in this position but can’t seem to find an answer. You hadn’t done anything wrong. It strikes him that perhaps it was because of people like him, that people like you could never truly live the lives you’d originally planned for yourselves; perhaps it wouldn’t have been all that bad had he been more careful with his sources.

His pensive silence feels a little too tense and prolonged, causing you to grow conscious of every little confession you’d shared moments prior. You want to know what Taeyong is thinking, whether his respect for you falls any fickler in his mind now that your heart lies bared on your sleeve.

“Well, I’ve opened my gaping scars,” you announce quietly, watching him from the corner of your eye, “don’t think you’ll get away without opening yours.”

“I don’t know if I can compete with you, really,” he answers solemnly, realising the value of his own fulfilling childhood despite the downfalls.

“Well, what about that one?”

Taeyong flinches back in surprise, his thoughts interrupted by the finger you point right next to his eye.

“Sorry,” you mutter, retracting your hand back in embarrassment.

He accepts your apology with a small wave and shake of his head, amused by your sudden awkwardness as his own hand lifts to trace the scar beside his eye that you’d pointed at.

“This?” he asks, and you watch a small nostalgic smile grace his lips, nodding in response. Taeyong’s scar is something you’ve been curious about since your evening together in the Walkway Hall, and sitting so close to him once again has only served to remind you of its unique intricacy – almost as if it were there for a specific reason, carved into his skin in a sort of poetic way that only seemed fitting enough for him.

“I got this when I was really young, actually. Seven, I think?” He pouts in thought, and you don’t think he could have looked more endearing in this moment. “I was riding my bike and wasn’t looking where I was going and-”

“And you fell.”

“Yeah,” he laughs, hand lifting to sheepishly rub at the nape of his neck. “It was somewhere around this field, actually. Somewhere along the road.” He turns back briefly, pointing an aimless finger along the path of the road.

“Oh, you’ve been here before?” you ask, eyes lighting up with genuine curiosity as you sit straight, eager to know more about him.

“More times than I can count.” Taeyong’s his smile grows wider in fond recollection, and you feel another bout of goosebumps rise on your skin as if you too can somehow feel the strength of the memory that so clearly flashes through his mind. “Comic books were my religion,” he chuckles, “and this field was my second home. I used to come here almost every day and just read until sundown.”

How nice it must have been, you wonder to yourself, eyes sparkling with mental image of a seven-year-old boy sitting in solitude among the grass with a book in his hands. You almost wish you could have met him all those years ago, talked with him until the sun no longer smiled down upon you.

“In fact, it was when the sun was setting that…” his voice fades away as he turns his head to you, a soft pang flaring in his chest as he watches your eyes glint with little remaining arch of the sun, your skin aglow with a hue of warm orange. You turn to him with a bright smile, and it’s only now that he realises the erratic beating of his heart beneath his ribcage, taking a deep breath before continuing. “I was…distracted by the sunset. That’s how I fell that day.”

“I can understand why,” you mumble, turning back to the field and allowing yourself to breathe in the final golden glow before it settles below the grass. “It’s stunning.”

“Always has been,” Taeyong croons, gaze still trained on your soft eyes, trailing down to the natural curvature of your lips, wondering if they’d feel as soft as they now look.

He finds himself overcome with emotion, wanting to inch closer to you, to embrace you in his arms and slide the cool tips of his fingers between the warm gaps of yours. He wants so badly to be able to rest his chin on your shoulder, nuzzle his nose into your neck and listen to the perfect melody of your voice for hours, to read and make sense of all your thoughts like his very own fascinating comic from all those years ago. 

God, he wants to kiss you. 

Right here, among the soft whispering of the wind, Taeyong wants to hold you tight and stroke your cheek and let you know everything will be alright.

He sighs, wondering if you feel the same way, if you’ve ever felt an inkling of what he’s feeling in this moment, watching as you tilt your head up to the sky.

“Looks like it’s going to rain,” you sigh, blinking up and following the clouds as they glide swiftly into one another among the turquoise of the sky. They’re a lot larger now, darker too in combination of the lacking sun and a natural greyness. “We should go.”

“Wait,” Taeyong catches your wrist momentarily, preventing you from standing as he reaches another hand into his pocket.

He pulls out a familiar-looking strip of silver fabric, pinching it by the ends and holding it up to the sky. You eye him, confused, eyebrows furrowing at his bizarre gesture before squinting up at the fabric. You tilt your head watching it curiously as it stands out brightly among the dull clouds, trying to make sense of its significance up in the sky. But a faint rumble of thunder has your eyes widening in realisation, the meaning of his actions striking you as brashly as the following clap of thunder.

Chaque nuage a une doublure d'argent. Every cloud has a silver lining.

You turn to Taeyong with a look of shimmering wonder, beaming along with the warm sensation that flowers in your chest as he regards you with all the world’s sincerity in his eyes.

“Don’t ever forget it,” he murmurs softly, compelling you never to leave his eyes, hoping his words hug you as warmly as his body aches to do so in this moment, unknowing that you feel his overwhelming comfort with every heavy breath that leaves you. He uncurls your palm and places the fabric on your hand, smiling at your curious gaze. “It’s yours. You dropped it last week, so I kept it safe for you.”

You nod, suddenly jolting in place as the sky suddenly resounds with another roar of thunder, the wind angrily whisking through the grass and picking up your hair in its path.

“Okay, but we really should get going before it starts to pour.” Taeyong scrambles to his feet, offering you his hand which you gratefully take. Your mind spins astir as he doesn’t let go of your palm, leading you to the car you’d seen parked on the roadside earlier and opening the passenger door with a nod of his head for you to sit inside.

“Oh no, it’s okay, I’ll just wait for Charlie to come and take me home.” You step back with a polite shake of your head, digging around your bag for your phone to contact said man.

Taeyong clicks his tongue, hips leaning back into the cool metal of his car, an amused grin tugging at one side of his mouth as he watches your triumphant expression upon finding your phone.

“Charlie’s not coming,” he declares, hands crossing over his chest.

“What do you mean, he’s not coming?” you eye him suspiciously.

“I mean,” Taeyong leans forward, “that he’s not coming.”

“So, what? Do you plan on taking me home? In your own car?” you ask, puzzled by the cocky raise of his eyebrows.

“Ten only arranged a ride for you to get here, so yes, I do plan on taking you home. In my own car. You got a problem with that, miss fashion fabulous?” Taeyong tilts is head to the side and you huff in response, the nickname causing your eyes to once again find their customary place at the back of your skull.

“As a matter of fact, I do.”

“Well,” he pushes himself off the car, taking a step forward, “I’m your only way home right now, so either you get in my car, or…” he pauses and looks up, your gaze following his to find a growing realm of angry, ashen clouds rumbling with the profession of their next intentions, bouts of white electricity flashing between their overlapping shadows.

And with that, you don’t utter another word, helping yourself inside the passenger seat of Taeyong’s car and snatching the door from his grip to slam it shut. You have no intention of being left alone in the middle of nowhere to be soaked in the rain, that’s for sure.

Taeyong only chuckles to himself with a fond shake of his head, jogging around and finding his place in the driver’s seat just as the first drizzles of rain adorn themselves delicately through his hair.

Y/n [8:06pm]: thank you for today

Y/n [8:06pm]: the field was nice

Y/n [8:06pm]: the sunset too

Taeyong [8:07pm]: what’s your take on Ferris wheels?

Y/n [8:07pm]: ???

Y/n [8:07pm]: that’s not random at all

Taeyong [8:07pm]: for educational purposes :D

Y/n [8:07pm]: I don’t know

Y/n [8:07pm]: I’ve never been on a Ferris wheel before

Taeyong [8:07pm]: 😱😱😱

Taeyong [8:07pm]: the disrespect

Y/n [8:08pm]: I was trying to thank you for today but I guess I’ll take it back or something 🙄

Taeyong [8:08pm]: you’re welcome

Y/n [8:08pm]: too late, Sonic

Taeyong [8:08pm]: you underestimate my speed

Y/n [8:08pm]: is that so?

Taeyong [8:08pm]: tomorrow 7pm, be ready

Taeyong [8:08pm]: weren’t expecting that now were you 😏

Y/n [8:08pm]: you’re not slick :/

Y/n [8:09pm]: but why? What’s happening tomorrow?

Taeyong [8:09pm]: curious, are we?

Y/n [8:09pm]: I think I made that abundantly clear

Taeyong [8:09pm]: well…

Y/n [8:09pm]: well…?

Taeyong [8:09pm]: I guess you’ll have to wait and see~~

VIII. A *Bit* of Fun

You had tried with all your might, must have spent a good hour the previous night mulling and fussing over where exactly Taeyong was to take you this time. After having taken you to the field, you had decided that this man was as whimsical and unpredictable as they ever came. In the end, you were left clueless, tossing and turning through your muss of bedsheets with a little too much to lick your lips over (and use Taeyong’s lip balm to soothe the dryness thereafter). You had not a clue as to where you were expecting to end up the next day. All the of New York’s most prized attractions graced your mind, but none of those locations seemed to be remotely feasible for two of the industry’s most well-known faces to be seen together in.

So, it certainly came as a huge surprise when you’d found yourself standing in front of a dart-throwing stall in the middle of a fairground, with what feels like half the world’s population ambling around you in every which direction.

“Of all places,” you murmur, more to yourself than anything else, voice muffled by the mask that Taeyong had previously handed you in the car – your public incognito, as per his exact words. You adjust the scratchy material on your face, still absorbing the exorbitant glow of tube lights all around you and the indistinct conversation buzzing through the night air with the occasional rumble of roller coaster tracks in the distance.

“You do realise we have a fashion show to attend in eight days,” you turn to Taeyong, unable to gauge his expression save for the crinkle beside his eyes, absentmindedly following as he strides closer to the stall, “the biggest one of the season, may I add.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, did you have anything better to do locked indoors?” he deadpans, his scar glowing with the golden light as he glances up to the pricing board before turning to you.

“I could have for all you know,” you bite back, resisting the urge to cross your arms like a child, unwilling to admit your petty defeat in this argument.

“I don’t think a pity party for one counts, love. We’ll take ten, please.” Taeyong doesn’t spare you a glance, rather handing a five-dollar bill to the stall vendor in exchange for a handful of darts. You stare at him in disbelief, the nickname burning holes in your mind with the flush that burns your cheeks, and you couldn’t be more thankful for the mask to hide it away from the world.

“Taeyong, I swear if we get caught-”

“We won’t,” he interrupts, tapping a deliberate finger at his mask. “Besides, I think you deserve to have a little fun before the show,” he plucks a dart from the pile in his hand and holds it out to you with a tilt of his head, “Don’t you?”

You don’t reply, eyeing the pointed object with scepticism drawn between your brows. In plain honesty, you’ve never touched a dart in your life. The only sharps you’ve ever had to handle have come in the form of sewing needles, fabric clamps or garment pins; never darts.

“Don’t tell me you don’t know how to throw a dart?” Taeyong’s eyes widen with incredulity.

“Of course I know how to throw a dart,” you scoff, eyes mimicking his own while snatching the dart from his hand, refusing to back down in the face of yet another one-up from him. Of all the things you’ve accomplished thus far in life, this surely couldn’t be such a hard feat to strive for.

Taeyong grabs you by the shoulders, turning you to the rows of balloons beyond the counter. 

“If you pop more than eight balloons, you get a prize.”

You nod resolutely, eyes narrowing in on a red balloon in the middle of the board while lifting the dart in front of your eyes. Angling your wrist meticulously, you draw a mental beeline from the dart to the balloon, pulling your wrist back and launching it forward. Your keen expression falls as fast as the dart as you watch it plunge into the ground, turning grouchily to one very amused Taeyong who snickers all too blatantly at your expense.

“That was a practice run,” you shoot him a your most convincing scowl (which probably isn’t very convincing at all under the mask), holding a palm out for another dart which he gives you all too happily. You take a deep breath, lungs filling with the heady aroma of sweet and salty popcorn from the stall just across, lifting your hand once again and this time angling your wrist a little lower than before. Why exactly you feel the need to show your strongest mettle in such a measly little game is beyond you, but if there’s one thing you’d commend yourself on, it’s your determination, and you’re not lacking an ounce of it in this moment.

You throw the dart, huffing as it ricochets off board and lands once again on the ground with a flat thud. Taeyong’s laughter follows even louder this time, incredibly melodious yet so very extremely infuriating at the same time.

“Alright then, if you’re so good, why don’t you go ahead and try?”

“My pleasure,” he chuckles, crinkles still decorating the side of his eyes as he takes a dart, lifts his wrist and throws it forward, all while maintaining eye contact with you as if it were the easiest thing to do in the world.

You’re left to watch the way his cheeks rise under the mask as the damn balloon bursts, your own jaw pulled down in confused shock.

“How-”

“It’s called practice.”

You can’t see Taeyong’s face, but you’re positive if you reached forward and pulled down his mask, that smug grin would be stretched wide across it – in fact, there’s no need to pull it down when you’re practically able to imagine it there yourself.

“I can help you if you want…” he trails off, a suggestive lilt to his voice that rubs your stubborn temperament the wrong way, prompting an adamant shake of your head and as you once again hold out your hand. “Another one please.”

The next six turns are spent with a gradually diminishing morale accompanied by defensive utterances to excuse your clear ineptitude for the game. In the end, you manage to score three balloons, one of which had burst purely by some inexplicable coincidence. Taeyong on the other hand enjoys himself all too thoroughly, delighting so much in your concentrated stares and irked huffs, that when you turn to him wide-eyed with a hand emptied of darts, he can’t help but present you with another bundle of ten.

No wonder she made it this far, he thinks to himself, admiring the drive that came in the form of your cinched eyebrows and stolid posture, unwavering as you still somehow continue to miss your newly appointed blue target.

“You know, you always go on about how I’m so stiff, but have you ever realised how stiff you are?” he muses aloud, testing the waters while stepping slightly closer to you.

“I’m stiff because I have to be stiff, it’s my job,” you mutter back inattentively with one eye winking shut in focus, far too absorbed in reacquiring your target.

“We’re at a fair, Y/n.”

You gasp, unsure whether it’s from the fact that Taeyong had just spoken your name in public, or from the coolness of his fingers wrapping around the dorsal of your hand. You’re unable to control the goosebumps that flourish over your skin as his other hand cups your shoulder, your breath hitching as he lowers his head beside your own, so close that you can feel his stray hairs tickling your temple with every puff of the cool breeze.

“You don’t have to be stiff here.”

He’s so close that you can feel the steady rise and fall of his chest behind you, his hand sliding down to the exposed skin of your wrist, pressing softly into the bone.

“Loosen up.”

You can only pray that your mask doesn’t make your shaky breaths more noticeable as you gulp down the sudden urge to turn your head toward Taeyong, far too afraid of diving head-first into something far beyond your boundaries.

You suddenly blink as a loud pop resounds from ahead, eyes shifting to find the dart no longer secured between your thumb and forefinger, the balloon now nothing but a limp scatter of blue latex shards on the ground.

“See? Simple, right?” Perhaps it was the loud burst that makes Taeyong’s voice sound softer than before, or perhaps he really had lowered his voice. You can’t tell either way over your growing pulse under his still grip on your wrist. When he lets go and stands straight, your eyes fall shut for a second, a silent breath of relief leaving your lips and warming your cheeks.

You don’t allow your mind the liberty to drown in your growing whirlpool of thoughts, questions and emotions, hands rather working by themselves to grasp another dart and flippantly fling it forward with no particular drive. To your surprise, it strikes a yellow balloon square in the middle with the loud, refreshing pop.

You snap your neck to Taeyong, eyes growing wide with a newfound excitement as he claps loudly, a wide smile taking over his features.

“I didn’t even try!” you shriek out in joy, arms moving in animatedly haphazard gestures, and Taeyong swears this is the first time he’s heard a real giggle from you. You throw another dart, still paying no attention whatsoever to the angle of your wrist or the position of your feet, yelping loudly as another balloon pops. “Hah! Did you see that? Two in a row!”

Taeyong laughs at the little bounce in the balls of your feet as you continue with the rest of the darts, eyes dancing affectionately over the image that is you.

Truly you.

It feels so surreal to him, having the privilege of witnessing the unfolding of such guiltless excitement, finally unearthed from deep within the person he’d once sworn was far too stuck-up to feel any emotions at all. He finds it so peculiar and endearing all at once that such a small achievement could bring the light to your eyes like nothing else in the world; that it really doesn’t take much to make you happy, and all you really need is a little freedom from the image the world makes you out to be.

You wind up with a grand total of eight clean balloon strikes, a little too gratified when picking out the largest purple teddy bear – that isn’t really as large as it sounds. Far too high in the clouds, you waste no time in dragging Taeyong to almost every stall in the fairground as if you were the one who left him hanging by a thread the night before.

And if there’s one thing that Taeyong realises while watching you fish for rubber ducks in a makeshift pond, it’s that you look extremely pretty when you work, but you look even prettier when you’re having fun. He also realises that you’re among the lucky ones when it comes to rigged carnival games….and that you’d wholeheartedly fight the world just to get your hands on the last scoop of green tea ice cream (thankfully there was no bloodshed since the child standing in front of you decided to change her mind to rainbow fairy floss in the end).

Being able to walk around in public without a bodyguard to tag closely behind, or the constant buzz of paparazzi and their blinding cameras; it felt absolutely divine. Like a breath of fresh air that everyone deserves to experience at least once in their lives. But as the universe would have it, peacefully indulging in an ice cream is a code red situation that not even the shrewdest of celebrities could ploy their way around. So as per Taeyong’s admittedly genius idea, you find yourself standing in the queue of the Ferris wheel with napkins painted in sticky swirls of green and brown (he opted for chocolate; a very predictable choice, you think), distracted by the squeals of children sliding down the Helter Skelter on the far right.

“So, this is why you asked me about my take on Ferris wheels yesterday,” you hum, head tipped back to welcome the bright shimmer of the multicoloured carriage lights bringing life to the navy-tipped sky.

“A speedy observation indeed,” Taeyong teases, nodding for you to enter a newly emptied carriage before climbing in himself and thanking the operator who secures it shut.

You sigh contentedly as the carriage rises and stops for the next few passengers, allowing yourself to embrace the butterflies that flit beneath your ribcage with an exhilarated sort of nervousness. You pull the mask off your face, relieved to be concealed in a dark enough space from the rest of the world, left alone for a while with the soft strokes of evening air cupping your cheeks and a nice scoop of your favourite ice cream to melt on your tongue.

You’re unable to control the small smile that tugs at your lips as you catch Taeyong’s gaze from across you. The stupid grin slapped across his face causes yours to widen, followed by a small giggle, which Taeyong tops with his own frivolous laughter, and soon enough you’re both surrounded by the echoes of your own fit of hysterics, no rhyme or reason to the wide smiles and slitted eyes.

“Why are you laughing?” you ask between giggles.

“I don’t know, why are you laughing?” Taeyong titters back.

“I don’t know,” you shake your head, hunching over to compose yourself with a hand pressed to your chest, taking a deep breath and turning to the view from your newly heightened angle. You have never really understood why people would willingly come to such places. Why would one allow themselves to be enticed by futile prizes at the cost of an absurd amount of money and by-chance luck?

But as you look down now, you see a multitude of familial relationships gone right, illuminated by the golden glow of scattered lighting around the fairground. You see couples with entwined fingers, swaying together in queues and proudly pecking each other’s cheeks at game stalls. You see children, starstruck and ever-dazed by the very prospect of thrill rides, tugging at their parents’ sleeves and bestowed with peerless amounts of benign love. Everything seems to make a lot more sense as you realise all of this is done for the experience between people; friends, families, partners and lovers. For the emotion and the connections and all the combined energy to present itself in the form of love and laughter.

“So…” You almost miss Taeyong’s voice as it somehow blends in fluidly with the white noise beyond your little sky cubby. “This was…fun. You had fun, right?”

“Hmm,” you hum playfully, eyes trained upwards in ingenuine thought.

“Oh, don’t even lie to yourself,” Taeyong scoffs.

You smile, taking a pensive bite of your cone. “I guess I had a bit of fun.”

“Uh huh,” he murmurs, eyes fixated on the tote bag beside you overflowing with prized plushies and miscellaneous stuffed animals you’d both ruthlessly won.

“Okay, maybe I had quite a bit of fun,” you chuckle, taking another bite of your ice cream.

“Yeah, that sounds about right,” he smiles, eyes peering unwaveringly into your own, and it’s only now that you grow conscious to the sensation of his knees softly brushing your own, his head resting back against the glass, and a dazed expression that finds a muse somewhere deep within your being.

You mirror Taeyong with a contended sigh, relishing in the tickle of his knees while finishing off the remainder of your ice cream. You can’t bring yourself to look away from him, the lights beyond casting a shifting pageant of shadows over his velvety features, silvering the soft ends of his windswept hair. In this moment, you think Taeyong looks like a piece of art, some rare specimen that you’d only expect to find in a gallery; something you’d approach and have no choice but to fall hypnotised by, placated and inspired to the fine point of no return.

You realise it’s starting to become increasingly hard to evade the blithe air that engulfs you whenever in Taeyong’s presence. It would simply be an act of pettiness to deny something so apparent to both you and him. You can’t recall the last time you’d had even an ounce of the fun you’ve had collecting horrifyingly lurid plushies this very evening, or the last time your cheeks had ached from smiling so naturally in the span of a few hours.

You tilt your head in thought, eyes shifting once more to Taeyong’s hair, lips twitching up at the bright outline of it.

You’ve brought your silver linings to the world through Argent, always made sure that every stitch was perfect to a fault, that the sky was clear of clouds wherever you dared set foot.

In the one time when your world had taken a dark turn – the one moment you needed a silver lining to guide you through the rough – Taeyong had stepped in and shed a warm light to the other side. Perhaps he was that silver lining you needed all along, and all it had taken was you walking right under those dark clouds to realise it.

“Come to my place after this.” Your words slip under command of a momentary whim, your mind suddenly alight with a new kind of motivation.

“Come to your what?” Taeyong chokes out, surprised by your unexpected statement.

“My apartment,” you nod resolutely, moving to secure your mask back on your face as the carriage approaches the ground once again.

“For what?” he asks, securing his own mask too, the genuine perplexity in both his voice and expression rather amusing to you now as you simply smile back.

“I guess you’ll have to wait and see.”

IX. Give Yourself a Break

When you said you’d take Taeyong to your apartment, the last thing he’d expected was to be standing in the middle of your living room among a flurry of smooth jazz, wearing the very outfit he was to show off to the world in eight days. But to his pleasant surprise, the ensemble consists of the most comfortable set of fabrics he’d ever worn – and probably the most abundant too, he realises, as beads of sweat bloom at the roots of his hair.

On the very inside, Taeyong wears a thin dark blue turtleneck woven from the finest organic cotton money could buy. On top of it is a crisp, white oversized dress shirt held together by a matching navy tie. And on top of that is a navy jacket complete with a matching set of pants; greens, oranges and ceruleans seeping into the navy cloth, hand-painted so strategically that the third person would assume it to have been tie-dyed. Argent’s logo decorates every free space in a black paint that shimmers hypnotizingly under the scintillate lighting above. To top it all off, is the signature strip of silver running down the right sleeve of the jacket and the left leg of the pants.

“You’d think your shoulders would be smaller than Jaehyun’s,” you mutter, examining the two-and-a-half extra centimetres on the measuring tape held across Taeyong’s shoulders, before hanging it back around your neck, “I guess not.” You take the initiative to slip the jacket from his shoulders, clearly in your working element as you walk back to your dining table and remeasure the material, “thank goodness I started with a few extra centimetres of fabric.”

Taeyong doesn’t know whether to be offended or flattered by your offhand comments, but he quite frankly can’t bring himself to care, far too distracted by the sheer magnificence of your penthouse despite having spent the last hour inside of it. He’s still awed by the modern lighting that hangs high from ceilings, stunned by the roof-length windows that present a panorama of New York City at its prime hour, the fresh downpour beyond the glass bathing his ears in its soothing rumbles.

He takes a sip of the wine you’d poured for him, its sour tingle and sweet taste a perfect complement to the comforting ambience, eyes relaxed and travelling to the empty cardboard take-out boxes scattered across the dining table.

That was yet another unexpected turn of the evening; being wined by the world’s greatest fashion designer who apparently also likes to dine at the local Chinese take-away from across the street.

He then allows his eyes to fall on you, the most awestriking object in this room.

He watches you – every part of you – and doesn’t let himself look away, committing you into his memory like never before. He’s seen you work at Argent; steadfast in your movements, perfect posture, never a crease in your brow. But now, it feels as if a barrier has been torn down between that version of you and the person that sits before him now; your hands moving with a certain delicacy as you fold the material, not a single care in the world for the slight hunch in your back, and a very unfettered crease in your brow as you blow away stray hairs from your bun.

Yes, Taeyong had once wondered why you had chosen the life you currently live, but it’s no longer a question in his mind now; a statement rather, for which all evidence is presented in the very subject of his gaze.

“Great! I think we’re just about finished.”

Taeyong shifts his eyes as you walk back brightly, handing him the jacket for a final trial, which he slips on easily.

“Good?”

“Perfect,” he smiles back, relishing in the relieved expression that washes over you as you dust your hands in accomplishment. “But wasn’t this supposed to be your break period?” Taeyong pointedly raises an eyebrow.

“Listen, I’ve been breaking,” you lift your fingers in quotation marks, “for the last two days, and that’s more than enough time for me to slowly go insane.” You accentuate your point with a long, hard swing of your wine, gulping it down to its last drop and finishing with a hiss. “See? Who drinks wine like that? A madwoman, that’s who.” You cross your arms over your chest, your stubborn pout melting into a smile with the swarm of butterflies the erupt in your chest as you watch Taeyong hunch over in boisterous laughter, hypnotised by the dazzle of his smile along with the shimmer of the suit.

“You’re insane,” he snickers, sighing as his laughter dies down.

And you’re beautiful, you think back, not a single question to pose against the decided fact, though you try your best to conceal the epiphany with your nonchalant words. “Yeah, and the whole world knows it. Now go change before you crease the fabric.”

Taeyong snorts out loud, sauntering down the hallway with a small shake of his head and a hand ruffling through his hair – which you had previously tried your best to style to somewhat match the outfit (though it’s not your forte to put it lightly). Taeyong pushes his way into the bathroom, still not yet acquainted to its colossal size and the absolute shine of the marbled floor tiles. The view of city had seemed to follow him there, still twinkling in all its nocturnal glory through the tall glass window behind the jacuzzi tub upon which his clothes hang.

It’s all but a sight for sore eyes, but Taeyong doesn’t allow himself to admire it for a second longer, abruptly turning to the mirror, fingers clutching the edge of the counter as he properly examines himself, awestricken at the man that stares back at him. Never before had he thought an outfit could suit him so well, and you are the only person he can accredit for that. He softly smiles to himself, appreciating the sheer talent of a being that you are, so committed to anything and everything you set your mind you – even a game as small as darts would light the match within you ablaze with passion.

But his smile falls in an instant as his eyes drop to the dual sinks – one surrounded with various lotions, perfumes and a make-up accessories, while the other is completely empty; surrounded by nothing but unused space, all covered in a thin layer of dust. The contrast is simply far too existent to ignore, and it frustrates Taeyong to all uncontrollable ends, his frown deepening sorely as his eyes close with a shake of his head.

No wonder she’s so lonely, he thinks. Working all day on designer clothes, cooped up from twilight until dusk in her office, feared to the bone by her employees and framed for all the wrong reasons. And all of that, only to come home to this: a dual sink that only can’t serve its true purpose. A bottle of wine that only she can pop open and pour into a glass. And yet she somehow still keeps going. Even on her break.

Taeyong meets his own eyes in the mirror, jaw clenching with a certain overcoming power, not wasting a single moment before lurching himself toward the door. His eyebrows furrow as he steps out into the hallway, bathed in a newfound darkness that now blankets the entirety of the apartment. He steps forward, wondering if you’ve already gone to bed, though the jazz music that still floats gently by his ears testifies against the notion.

Taeyong turns into the living room, stopped in his tracks by the silhouette standing before the glass that separates her from the world beyond.

You stand at the edge of the glass, fingertip pressed to the top of the highest building, eyes alit with the glimmer of the infamous Big Apple showered in a dazzling patter of rain. The view had caught your eye moments before, compelling you to close the lights and awe before it.

It has truly been a while since you had admired it to its full extent, inhaled the breathtaking kaleidoscope of skyscrapers at their glorious heights and the sparkling lights of the streets. The last time you had properly smiled at this view was years ago, with your elbow slipping dazedly from the window ledge of your tiny studio apartment, if one could even call it that. You’d sat by that window, having just shaken hands with a crestfallen model outside of Vogue building, and an assistant who went by the curious name of a number. You’d watched this view every day from a distance that was much further away than now, when it all seemed like a mere prospect, as did your character.

Purchasing the penthouse you stand in now had brought you all too close to the city, you’ve realised. This view had somehow become a routine part of your daily life, lost somewhere between the absentminded glances and fatigued muscles after a long workday, brushed aside along the way and forgotten as easily as every bright flash of a camera on the street.

You’re happy to find the same previous contentment in this view from up so close. Perhaps it isn’t even remotely the same. But it is still contentment, nonetheless.

“Aren’t you tired?”

The glass fogs slightly as you release a breathy chuckle in response to the low murmur behind you.

“Do you usually go to bed this early?”

“No, Y/n,” there’s a quiet pause, filled only with a soothing piano and quiet footsteps approaching forward, “I mean…aren’t you exhausted with your life?”

Head turning to the side, you see Taeyong’s silhouette standing in your periphery, silent and expectant of your answer. You gulp involuntarily, all too heedful of the single affirmation that should have fallen from your mouth, though you don’t allow yourself to speak it.

“Excuse me?” you reply, voice hesitant and breathy. The music evaporates in an instant, leaving the air void with a jarring silence, still among the heavy sigh that leaves Taeyong. You stiffen as you feel his presence behind you, electricity shooting through your body as his warm fingers brush your own from behind. You attempt to turn around, but the squeeze of his hand around your palm stops you, thawing your frosted skin and holding you in place as if to say, “it’s okay, be still.”

Your breath leaves you in trembling exhales, chest rising and falling heavily with a boundless rush of goosebumps, butterflies thrashing violently in your chest as your heart rate rises.

“Locking yourself in your office morning to night. Always being the perfect one in the crowd. Building all these walls around yourself, confining your entire personality inside them. It must be so exhausting.” Taeyong’s voice just above a whisper, your eyes training on the brightest window you can find among the galaxy of them twinkling in the city, if only to drown his voice out with the soft murmur of the rain.

“I’ve worked too hard to be tired now,” you reply, voice just as silent as his.

“You need to give yourself a break.”

“I’m already on a break.”

“And yet, here I am wearing one of your hand stitched coats.”

You don’t respond to him. You’re not sure how to respond, when all that that leaves Taeyong’s lips is an irrefutable fact, causing you to gulp once more as you realise that he’s right.

And you’re very wrong.

“Here you are,” he breathes, “still worrying about that godforsaken fashion show.”

You lips part, all but ready to deny Taeyong’s words, though you don’t have the chance to as his voice falls to a whisper.

“With this godforsaken bun.”

You feel the tightness at your scalp loosen suddenly, chest rising shakily as your hair cascades down the flushed skin of your cheeks. You’re left light-headed and faint with the sharp exhale that leaves you as you turn around to face Taeyong only to stumble back, startled by the sheer proximity between you and him. His fingers only tighten around your own, your other hand pressing behind you into the cool glass, sending a throttling shiver through you that feels all but electrifying as you meet Taeyong’s eyes.

They sparkle so beautifully in the dark; a mesmerising mirror reflecting the bright lights behind your shoulders, so alluring you would foolishly relinquish every part of yourself if only to stare into them for an eternity longer. Allow yourself to drown in them, along with the heady scent of pinot that heavily fans your cheeks.

“What are you…” you whisper, lost of your words while looking down to your hands as Taeyong’s fingers push through their gaps, his palm pressing firmly, warmly, against yours. “What are you doing, Taeyong?” You look back up, nose brushing softly against his.

“You look gorgeous like this,” he ignores you. “With your hair down.” His other hand lifts to your hair, knuckles softly stroking along your locks. “You look beautiful when you’re playing darts…and tossing bean bags…and eating ice cream. When you’re not constantly worrying.” You feel the warmth of his forehead against yours, his hair tickling your cheeks as they find comfort in the slide of his palm against your blooming skin.

“I-”

“Just stop,” he breathes, the phantom of his lips finding yours in a sweet tickle, “stop worrying.”

You want to process the moment, you want to understand why it’s becoming increasingly hard to stay level in the time and space of this moment. But your inhibitions fall away as you close your eyes, a whispered profession of “okay” falling short with the press of Taeyong’s lips to yours.

He exhales and you blossom under his soft touch, finally relinquishing every fibre of your being to the man you’d never thought would accept it. Taeyong’s lips are gentle, a perfect match for yours, reassuring and tantalising all at once. His hand slides to the curve of your back and yours to his cheek, his fingers burning through the fabric of your blouse and yours cool and refreshing on his skin, tracing the scar by his eye as he pulls you closer. Impossibly closer. So close that you feel it all once more; the sturdy plain of muscle in his arms, his chest, his shoulders. The protection of his embrace and the inebriating balm of his cologne, the blazing slip of his hand under your shirt; you allow yourself to feel it all at once.

All sensation of worry is lost in Taeyong’s lips, fading with every whispered profession that follows you to the pathway of your bedroom. He shows you how wonderful it can be to forget the world for a while, to lose yourself in the softness of his hair and in every newly discovered tattoo etched into smooth of his skin. He calls you beautiful more times than you’d ever heard before, admires every part of you with in all five senses until you both find yourself wrapped under the warm, white covers of your duvet, foreheads pressed together and eyes once again falling shy of each other’s gaze.

“It looks like a rose,” you murmur into the silence, the cotton of Taeyong’s shirt comforting against your skin, rain still beating soothingly against the windows as your fingers once more trace along Taeyong’s scar.

“Yeah?” he hums, eyes hooded and soft on your own, a corner of those pretty lips turning up in a small smile, “I never thought of it that way.”

Am I in love with him?

You furrow your eyebrows as the thought graces your mind unexpectedly, so sudden – almost as if it were natural – that your smile falls in an instant with the all-consuming, fluttery pang in your chest. Your cheeks feel warm and florid against pillow as you watch Taeyong frown in question toward you.

“You okay?” he asks worriedly, hand brushing the hair from your cheek, replaced with soft pad of his thumb that only strokes a fresh layer of heat into your skin.

“Yeah,” you shake your head, eyes blinking rapidly in a mix of nerves and giddiness, “yeah just…thirsty, I guess.”

“Well now that you mention it, so am I,” Taeyong muses, lifting the covers from himself and swinging his legs over the edge of the bed.

“It’s okay, I can get it-”

“I’m already halfway there, babe.” He looks back to you with a smirk, before turning and leaving you to watch him sauntering out the door, cheeks so hot you swear you might be coming down with a fever or something.

“Babe?” you whisper to yourself, an idiotic smile tugging your cheeks so uncontrollably high, you’re forced to pull the covers all the way up to your nose to suppress the small giggle that leaves you. “My god.” You lift your hands to cover your face, the giddy smile refusing to escape you at any cost, praying that Taeyong somehow gets lost along the way if only to buy you more time to calm yourself before he returns.

Embarrassingly enough, he had somehow found himself in the utility room before finding your kitchen, squinting as his hands finally reach for the very inconveniently located light switch. He’s beginning to realise that everything in your penthouse is either four times larger or four times more expensive than the average apartment. Unsurprisingly, your kitchen checks full-clear in both departments, and it leaves him scratching his head as to which drawer to begin scavenging for two pathetic little glasses.

Luck finds him with the sixth handle he pulls back. He plucks out two shiny, clear glasses and fills them at the sink, noticing two of the very same glasses sitting prettily in the dish rack beside it.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” he mutters, closing the tap and lifting the filled glasses. He perks up at the sound of a notification bell in the distance.

It must be important if they’re texting so late at night, he thinks to himself, setting down the glasses and walking to the living room where the sound had come from. He finds his phone on the sofa, the small device emitting its blue light into the darkness of the room as he picks it up, squinting down at the message.

Kim Heechul

6 Text Messages

Taeyong feels his heart sink upon seeing the man’s name, chest pulled taught with a foreboding tension as he reluctantly unlocks the phone. His pupils shrink further and further with every letter that meets them, Adam’s apple catching in his neck.

Heechul [12:02am]: I see you’ve earned yourself a fanbase

Heechul [12:02am]: Though I don’t recall fame ever being part of our deal

“Fuck,” Taeyong breathes out, collapsing onto the couch with a hand scooping back his unkempt locks, his mind beginning to cloud with a suffocating bout of anxiety.

Heechul [12:02am]: One week, Taeyong, that’s all you’ve got before the show

Heechul [12:03am]: I expect that article to be on my desk ready for publishing the day after

Heechul [12:03am]: The money is only yours if the job is done right

Heechul [12:03am]: Do not forget your place

Taeyong sighs heavily, another whispered curse leaving him as his eyes fall shut with the prickling throb taking over his chest. It seems he truly had forgotten his place.

He hasn’t laid a finger on the article in the last fortnight, his laptop all but a forgotten clunk of metal in the corner of his room after he’d plunged himself neck-deep in all the preparations and practice for Argent’s segment at New York Fashion Week. A page and a half of quarter-truths and impulsive spleens is all the article had made itself to be thus far; nowhere close to the usual quota of words, and even further away from the reality of all mentioned points.

“I thought you were getting water.”

Taeyong hurriedly clicks his phone off, turning to see you standing in the hallway, cruel guilt dousing through his entire being as he tries not to lose himself in the stunning image of you wearing his white button-up shirt.

“What are you doing here? The kitchen is that way,” you ask, an endearingly confused expression twisting through your features as you point a finger over your shoulder.

“I, uhhh,” he blinks, mind falling blank as he scans the room for an excuse, “the city,” he points to the windows, “I got distracted.”

It pains him to see the way your eyes momentarily fall shut with a light chuckle, how your feet patter lightly across the floor toward him along with the rain, the way your hand softens the frustrated tousle of his hair.

“That wine sure got to your head, didn’t it?” you giggle softly, sighing at the velvety tickle of his hair.

How can it be so soft, you wonder, cloud nine far surpassed, and for the time being you’re all but willing to let your head rest up high amongst the bliss of here and now, unbeknownst of the monsters that gnaw at Taeyong’s every thought.

She doesn’t deserve this. She doesn’t deserve this at all.

“Maybe you got to my head.” Taeyong lifts his head to gaze up at you, your hand slipping naturally to his cheek in slow, soothing circles as you lean down closer to him, his nose tickling your own.

“Oh, and what if I said you got to mine?”

Taeyong doesn’t answer you, instead allowing himself to drown in the halo of city stars glowing around the shimmering wisps of your messed hair. He feels the plunge of his heart growing faster, deeper, as your soft lips press forward onto his own, the familiar strawberry balm finding his tastebuds in a torturously aching dulce. 

And your smile. Your beautiful smile. 

It lifts perfectly against his mouth, lost in the feeling of him without a single worry to snatch it away, and it’s in this moment that Taeyong decides he cannot let that smile fall. He can’t bring himself to do such a thing to you. Not yet.

He wraps his arms around you, as strong and true as they can possibly be in a moment as false as this. Pushing the spiralling disquietude away from his mind, Taeyong pulls you closer to himself instead, relishing in your scent and the soft tickle of your hair on his temples. He allows his mind to fade away with every impartment of candour gifted from the tips of your fingers to his own, a final thought bleeding through the white of his conscience as it slowly slips from his grasp.

Not yet.

X. Who Am I Really Kidding?

Your three days of incarceration couldn’t have flown past you any quicker. Well, perhaps incarceration isn’t the word that immediately springs to mind now – perhaps a personal rejuvenation scheme would best describe it – as you once again immerse yourself in the lively chorus of frantic questions and invigorating scraping of hangers on and off clothing racks. It was well-deserved too, considering you haven’t felt more alive than you do in this very moment; empowered by the fresh click of your own heels against Argent’s floors, and the adrenaline flowing freely through every vessel in your body.

Preparations for the show are at an all-time high, fast, and furious and seemingly never-ending as the hours roll swiftly into gainful days. Your stresses now stem solely from Ten’s ghastly reports of seam slips and ill-fitting clothes on models (yes, sizes magically change at the last minute, and, no, you still haven’t cracked that case yet.). But it’s something you secretly couldn’t be more thankful for, having decided to cut ties with all your other worries from the past month.

And Jaehyun?

Ugh, fuck him and his two-faced ass.

Your only goal now is to keep everything on track for the next six days. There simply isn’t any time to waste. A smooth finale is the best finale, after all. And the best finale is the result of practice session after tireless practice session, ensuring not a single flaw in things as subtle as the very flow of a model’s outfit.

“Come on people, this is the sixth test run today and I haven’t felt a single ounce of pizzazz from any of you!” Johnny yells over the techno-EDM track playing overhead, gesturing animatedly beside the models who sashay along The Walkway. “Give me some more passion, some zest, some zeal, c’mon you gotta give me something!” He claps his hands rhythmically, eyes ferociously scanning the models as they pose and turn at the foot of the catwalk. 

Johnny’s work ethic has been all but ablaze as of late. If there’s one thing you’ve learnt about him through the years, it’s that the man is always up for fun and games until the last fortnight before any show. He somehow always manages to get the job done well and right by one hand or another, and it’s part of the reason why you keep him around despite the trillions of times you’ve been compelled to fire him on the spot.

“I think it’s going okay, actually,” you muse as Johnny approaches you at the very front of the catwalk with an irked huff.

“Yeah, sweet joke,” he scoffs sarcastically, eyes still trained on the models strutting froward. “In what universe does Y/n Y/l/n ever settle for okay?”

“Hmm.” Your eyebrows furrow together as you ponder over his question, unable to formulate a definitive answer yourself. “I have no idea.” 

“Well on the plus si-” Johnny interrupts himself with a sharp sigh, shaking his head at the model who turns the bend, before directing his attention to you. “On the plus side, Argent received a few extra bidders while you were gone. A certain Mr Butter Fingers to thank for that; got a little more famous over the last week.”

“Is that so?” You nod to yourself, the hint of a grin seeping onto your features, though you’re unsure whether it’s from the pleasure of regaining success, or the ravishing man behind Johnny’s stingy pet name. 

But who are you really kidding, anyway?

“Speaking of the devil,” Johnny mutters, arms folding over his chest, his gaze morphing swiftly into one of pride as Taeyong turns the corner from behind the back wall. 

You look up all too eagerly, eyes readily falling on the man who wears Argent’s most prized set of the season. Tracing a slow, invisible path from the heel of his boots all the way to the very fine tips of his hair, you allow yourself to indulge in the very being of Taeyong; in the stoic expression that you know would melt into that gorgeous smile as soon as he steps back inside; in the long, lithe strides of his legs, and in the airy sway of his arms beside them. 

“Not entirely perfect yet, but I told you we’d make a star out of him,” Johnny smiles proudly beside you and, for what seems like the first time in your life, you’re wholly unable to argue back with the man.

Taeyong’s overall improvement on the catwalk is remarkable to describe in simple terms, complete with a certain poise so subtle you could only ever associate it with him. A month ago, you would have laughed in the face of they who told you Taeyong would make it this far with the minimal experience he had. But now, watching it all come together from afar, there’s not a doubt in your mind that Lee Taeyong has indeed become a star. 

In this moment, you can’t imagine any other person in such a position; you don’t want to. The outfit is simply too perfect like this, draped over and around every part Taeyong; so exquisite as if it were a poem made specifically in the shape of him, accentuating his glow with every step he takes forward.

His eyes fall on you, faltering not once in his movements while you fall besottedly into his gaze for the hundredth time like the lovesick little girl you’ve somehow allowed yourself to become since your…intimate engagements from a couple nights ago. 

Taeyong pauses at the foot of the platform, feet planted with a split-second of assured glamour, his lips quirking almost imperceptibly as he sends a playful wink your way before turning back around. You have no choice but to bow your head, bashful and unable to contain the shy smile that embellishes the pinkening blooms on your cheeks.

Johnny watches the whole ordeal dumbfoundedly, eyes flickering between the receding man and the demure subject of a woman standing right beside him. “What is going o-” He pauses as a hand catches his shoulder from behind. He turns to see Ten standing there, his emblematic black clipboard cradled in the crook of his arm, spectacles cast low over his nose. Ten shakes his head subtly, a small beam gracing his features as Johnny raises his brows and turns back around, catching the hint not to continue with his question. 

Ten regards you in his periphery, a fond expression twinkling in warmth of his gaze at your tucked chin and down-set gaze. His smile begins to replicate your own as it grows wider with every passing second. 

Despite all your tussles, he has always regarded you as his own family. You were like a sister to him, and your happiness was a great source of his own; always a refreshing sight to behold and never failing to foster with it an oddly comforting sentiment. The whole world smiled when you smiled, and Ten couldn’t be more thankful that Taeyong was the idiot to bring that smile back to you when you needed it the most.

─── ⪧ ⪦ ───

You step inside your office before Taeyong, both your shoes echoing alongside the soft click of the door as you head straight for the papers strewn in haphazard piles on your desk.

Being ‘messy’ has never quite sat right with you in any case, but in your every defence, keeping a tidy workspace in the formative days of any fashion show – let alone New York Fashion Week – is always a feat close to impossible. There are far too many things to preoccupy yourself with: the guest and rsvp lists, the show schedule, making sure Argent receives a suitable time slot (preferably around dusk hours for peak outdoor lighting and publicity).

You pick up a cream-coloured card that you assume Ten must have placed on your desk while you were gone, realising that it’s the revised schedule for the entirety of New York Fashion Week.

FRI | 02 | 06 … 7PM: Tom Ford 8PM: Argent 9PM: Michael Kors …

You grin at the line-up, satisfied with both Argent’s time slot as well as the two other world-class labels flanking it. Both male designers are well-known acquaintances of yours, and the very fact of being sandwiched between them at the world’s biggest fashion event is gratifying beyond all means. It serves to remind you just how far you’ve come; that you’ve really made your living worthwhile despite every defected sideshow.

“So…” Taeyong’s voice echoes through the room, and you think there couldn’t have been a better melody to accompany the moment.

“So,” you echo back, a dazed smile growing on your features as you turn to him, hips leaning back against your desk.

“How was I this time?” Taeyong looks at you with a sort of anticipation swirling about his eyes and hope saturating his every spoken word. You watch as his thumbs fidget with the ringer of his phone, his teeth sunken anxiously into his bottom lip while awaiting your answer. You’ve never seen him quite so nervous until now, and it only serves to ignite a ticklish flutter in your chest and a warm smile on your face. Of course, it may just be the fact that he’s featuring in NYFW in less than a week, but the very thought of your opinion being so valued by him brings so much unsolicited joy to you.

“You did well,” you answer, the flutter increasing tenfold with the bright smile that adorns Taeyong’s face in response, his eyes shimmering like diamonds as he brings a hand to his heart dramatically.

“I thought this day would never come,” he sighs heavily, earning a small laugh from you.

“I’m glad you can finally walk now,” you snort, “can’t have my frontline model tripping up on stage.”

“What was that?” Taeyong brings a hand to his ear, taking a step closer to you. “Sorry, I can’t hear you over my raging ego right now.”

You shake your head at the cocky smirk that overcomes his freakishly handsome features, though immediately freezing as he steps even closer and plants both palms on your desk either side of you, his eyes finding your own as he leans forward with a quirk to his eyebrow.

“Your fault, baby, not mine.”

You’ve decided that Taeyong is beyond irresistible at this point, and it bothers you to no end how affected you are, a tell-tale red growing warm on your cheeks as you rebuke yourself for being so unabashedly pliant in his presence. 

And, bloody hell, all these nicknames.

A refutation is far from palpable in the hazy fog of your mind, so you resort to the next best response, leaning forward without a single forethought, unable to hold back the outrageously long kiss you press to his lips. Taeyong hums in satisfaction, a hand finding your waist all too swiftly that you’d be compelled to roll your eyes if they were open. This is exactly the reaction he had wanted out of you, and here you are, more than willing to give him exactly that. 

Oh, how the tables have turned.

A split-second awareness of the steady clock ticking behind you is all it takes for you to pull away from Taeyong, though not quite far enough to evade the tickle of his perfectly styled hair. 

“How unprofessional of you, Miss Y/l/n,” he gasps quietly, faux shock rippling through his face, only to be tugged away with that infuriating smirk and those lazy, hooded eyes.

“Remind me why you followed me here again,” you murmur, eyes glued to the creases of his lips – though not for much longer.

“Oh, so I guess you need another demonstration.” Taeyong doesn’t allow you a second to process his words, his other hand sliding to your jaw and pulling your mouth to his once again in a searing kiss. “This is why,” he mumbles against your lips, and you can’t help but blaze under the soft sensation of him, every inch of you melting naturally as ice under a heated summer sky…that is, until reality dawns on you once again, and you take it upon yourself to stomp a hard heel to Taeyong’s foot.

He pulls away placidly, head tilting in amusement. “You really think that hurt?” He raises an eyebrow, watching your own furrow on your forehead as you look down to his shoes, face falling in realisation. Goddamn you and your perfectly robust shoe designs.

“That’s cute,” Taeyong mumbles ardently, resisting the urge to kiss away the small pout on your face.

“Thank you, now get back to work,” you huff out in embarrassment, unsure how to handle the heat radiating from your surely pinkening cheeks as Taeyong chuckles and takes a step away to walk toward the door. Despite your words, you merely find yourself wishing he’d stay by your side for a little longer, close enough to hold your hands and kindle their warmth even further, unafraid to burn under the very whisper of his presence. But he only turns to blow a kiss your away, exchanging it with a smile of yours to etch in the back of his mind as he exits your office. 

You’re left airy and still in the echo of the room, resisting the urge to sway this way and that with every warm wave of joy coating your mind.

“Right, the documents,” you shake your head, eyes flickering before scurrying to your chair. “Focus, Y/n,” you tap your cheek twice, collecting the strewn-out papers into a neat pile before fingering through each one, signing your name wherever required and eyeing through the RSVP list, just to make sure Ten hadn’t approved of any unwanted guests – namely anyone whose credentials align with Qi Fashion Labels.

You jump in surprise at the loud ringing of a phone at the far end of your desk, humming in a second of confusion at the unfamiliar ringtone – though you’re only left to assume the device belongs to Taeyong given his track record of forgetting his belongings in his every wake. With a roll of your eyes, you decide upon ignoring it, allowing the caller to exhaust all futile hope for an answer, continuing to your papers. The ringing ceases after a while, but silence only lasts so long, as it’s shrill cries once again echo through the glass of the room, rattling through your final nerves. With a groan, you reach out to the phone, eyes scanning over the caller ID to find a familiar name once again displayed on the screen.

Kim Heechul

“A friend, perhaps?” you wonder aloud, teeth gnawing at the inside of your cheek as you internally tussle with the thought of whether or not to answer the call. 

What if it’s something serious, you reason with yourself, considering that the average caller would merely ring and hang up unless there was an urgent matter at hand. If a few weeks ago was any indication, this Heechul person seemed to have some kind of pull with Taeyong. And though you’re never one to trespass on the private matters of others, you think it would only be right to put the caller’s mind to ease by letting him know that Taeyong would be sure to ring him back sometime later. So, without another second to spare, your thumb finds the green button and the phone finds itself at the cusp of your ear.

“Hel-”

The Walkway’s tube lights flickering to a silent darkness has grown onto Taeyong as something of a delicate sound; as if in the next second, he could expect fireflies to appear with the beckoning tinkle of the bulbs. It’s almost embarrassing to admit that time and again, Taeyong has actually spent that extra second waiting for small glowing specs to appear, but every time, he has left only with his own shadow to greet him a final farewell for the evening.

The same routine emulates today. Taeyong steps out of the room, but this time his silhouette stands a mere sidepiece of the night, his eyes rather much too eagerly finding the screen of his phone, hoping to finally see your name in his notifications.

No Older Notifications

He frowns in confusion, unlocking his phone to find the blue bubble he’d sent that morning still unaccompanied by a reply from you. His frown only deepens, as he turns his head in the direction of your office at the far end of the hallway, a streak of worry convening in the growing creases of his brows at blackness emulating through the glass. 

It was a strange and rare occurrence for you to have left work at such an early hour of the evening; so much so, that if you did, one could only conclude that something was gravely wrong.

Taeyong thinks back to the nature of the last two days; all the times you were in the same room but never so much as spared him a glance, the numerous photoshoots you weren’t present for despite having scheduled them in yourself, not to mention your complete absence in all the mock-runways.  It really wouldn’t be an understatement to say that things have been rather odd on your end – tense, now that Taeyong really thinks about it. You always seemed to be in all the places he wasn’t and he’s unable to formulate a logical reason why.

It then occurs to Taeyong that neither you, nor him had taken the time to label the relationship you’ve harboured in the past week; there simply was none in the first place. But all of it – the secret handholding, the trivial gestures and texts – he’s positive it’s all come from some romantic facet within you.

Taeyong’s mind sifts through a million thoughts a minute. He can’t help wondering if he’d made you uncomfortable in any way, or if you were just stressed and felt the need to withdraw for a while or maybe you just-

“Done for the day?”

There was that voice that, among the tumble and wave of the last month, had remained solitary and constant. A voice that remained dutiful and obliging, belonging to an equally hospitable man who now steps out of his office with his black clipboard and silver spectacles.

“Yeah, I finished early,” Taeyong replies with a small smile, though Ten only raises an eyebrow as Taeyong’s eyes stray once more to your office behind his shoulder.

“So did Y/n,” Ten states, the metallic scrape of his keys resounding harshly as he twists one in the lock. “She left perhaps an hour or so ago.”

“Oh, do you know if she’s unwell or…”

“She didn’t mention anything specific, but I’d assume so, considering she’s not usually one to leave without some life-altering reason,” Ten chuckles, shrugging on his trench coat and slinging a satchel over his shoulder. 

“She’s probably just tired from all the work that’s been going on lately. Burnout isn’t exactly unheard of during this time of year.” Taeyong only nods, earning a pat on the back from Ten. “Well, I’m also heading off early to review the venue with our performance artist. Good work today, Taeyong. Take some rest yourself. You’ll need it.”

“Thank you, have a good evening,” Taeyong answers, exchanging a small bow with Ten and watching as his perfectly styled hair enters the elevator on the other side of the hall. A small vibration casts Taeyong’s eyes once again to the palm of his hand, his phone briefly aglow with the name he’d longed to see for hours now.

Y/n [5:48pm]: Come out to the field

Y/n [5:48pm]: I’ll be waiting

Taeyong exclaims in surprise, a small grin forming at his lips as his worries thaw slightly at the thought of you inviting him to his own favourite place; the thought of you waiting there in the grass for him as if it were something of fate taken straight from a poet’s diary.

Perhaps nothing was really wrong at all.

Perhaps all you needed was a clean breath of air.

XI. Once, Betrayed. Twice, A Damned Fool

It was one thing to watch the sky fade from blue to orange through the mirrored windows of a skyscraper, but it was something else entirely to view it from this position in the field. The sky was not simply blue when you’d set yourself down once again among the bed of itchy grass and ticklish flowers. There’s no one way to describe the colour you had seen, but it somehow felt…deep.

Deeper in colour, deeper in meaning, deeper in intent and in sorrow.

That deepness only grew as evening began its mingling commute with daylight, silently reaching forth its palm and convening a colour far intangibly ardent than orange, all of it accented quite perfectly by the large ball of fire in its routine fall.

You can’t recall another time when the sun had ever felt so blistering among the bittered February air. And, it was rather amusing to you, really, that of all possible days, today is when the clouds had chosen not to shade you.  There hadn’t been even a speck of white or grey to dampen the sizzle on your face.

Or in your heart.

You tug your coat tighter around yourself, head tilting as you watch the head of a yellow flower being tugged this way and that by harsh gale. It too doesn’t simply feel yellow – well, not in this moment, at least. Its bud looks wilted, slightly browned as if to preserve what little charming dignity it had once possessed. Such a naïve thing it was. Handing itself over to the forces of nature, blossoming, thriving, living in artless denial, and never once stopping to think it would one day end up bowing down in regret for ever committing such a profitless sin.

There really is more than meets the eye in all conceivable forms of life, you’ve come to realise. But only those cunning enough to blind their abetter are able see right through each facade.

The harsh crunching of grass behind you almost beckons you to turn, but you stop yourself if only to prevent your hair from covering your eyes.

Taeyong simply smiles to himself, your free locks a perfect accessory to the panorama in front of him. He sits down beside you and you dare to glimpse at him in your periphery.

“Hey,” he speaks so delicately. So quietly and softly as if to blend in with the wind and its every hidden sentiment.

“Hi,” you reply, eyes still trained on the yellow flower, and it’s when you refuse to smile or even look at Taeyong that he begins to frown, the worry of earlier finding its place within him.

“Y/n, is something wrong-”

“Did I ever tell you,” you interrupt him, pausing to take a shaky breath as the wind bites at the burning skin of your neck, “about when I was nineteen?” 

Confusion settles at Taeyong’s brows, though curiosity swirls through his eyes as they peer at you. The last time you were here with him, you’d given something of general overview of your life as a child and progressions as a designer, but never specifically anything about when you were nineteen. Taeyong shakes his head.

“I lived in a box apartment – at tiny little thing at the edge of the city, just trying to make ends meet. Ten and Jaehyun were the only people I had at the time. Nobody else.” If your voice holds a single mite of sentiment, it’s all but imperceptible to Taeyong, as is any emotion in your distant eyes which still refuse to meet his own.

“Nothing was working out for us in that year; all we really had was a handsome rookie, a jobless assistant and my notebook of drawings. Every company we approached had shunned us in less than a day. We were left broke, desperate, hopeless. I, for one, was ready to give up everything.” The memory plays in your mind as a series of blurred motions, your jaw clenching and chin raising slightly to keep a composed front. “But they both kept me going. They told me to never give up, no matter what. That-”

“Every cloud has a silver lining.”

It’s almost funny to hear those words falling from Taeyong’s mouth so naturally, but you nod, nonetheless.

“I had no choice but to keep moving forward; I couldn’t let them down so horribly. So, every night, by routine, I would sit by my window in my little box, and look out to Manhattan City, just hoping – praying – I’d make it there some day. Somehow.” You pause for a moment, taking another deep breath and gulping down the growing tightness in your throat.

“Look where I am now. It seems like I truly have made it…especially considering my own models are writing fake news behind my back.”

***

“Hel-”

“We just keep hitting those milestones, my friend. Luxe just received a retail offer we can’t deny! The biggest department store in the country wants to show your work off to the world!” 

The voice that echoes from the speaker sounds awfully cheerful; an inflection belonging to a middle-aged man, though that’s all you’re able to gather as you mind draws question marks at his peculiar words. You’re quick to remind yourself that Taeyong must have, in fact, had a job prior to the one you’d given him, and assume that this Heechul guy must be one of his colleagues or associates of some kind.

You open your mouth to speak, but the man beats you to it.

“Taeyong, I’m gonna need you to make sure this article is as snappy as your Y/l/n-Jung scandal – no, even better than that.”

Your face contorts in bewilderment, eyebrows cinching tightly together and jaw falling ajar as a wave of anxious goosebumps shroud the skin of your arms. “What,” you whisper, just quiet enough for it pass as a breath of air as a tight pain begins to flare up like a wildfire in your chest.

Y/l/n-Jung scandal?

Taeyong’s…Y/l/n-Jung scandal?

“Boy, is Argent going to be in for a treat. And right before New York Fashion Week, too!”

Your heart plummets with a trembling exhale as the man guffaws heartily, your eyes growing wide and haphazard, flickering to every shiny surface of your office as if to search for some form of an honest, untainted truth.

“Remember, I want it finished by-”

You cut the call and the phone slips through your fingers, clattering loudly – threateningly – against the documents on your desk. 

*** 

“It was you, wasn’t it?” You finally turn to face Taeyong, almost turning back straight away. “You wrote that article last month.”

The brown-haired man shifts sharply beside you in the grass, the sound akin to the harsh tearing of a paper while the sun burns its last blister into sky. You do nothing but view it through the blurring, wet sheen of your eyes, waiting and watching as it falls down and down and down, until all that testifies its existence are the furious scabs of pinks and oranges twisting among the deep azure.

“Y/n, I-” he starts, though his mouth falls dry of any placating words, unable to formulate a single coherent thought from underneath the growing thickness of his breath as you refuse to let a single emotion permeate through those clouded eyes.

“It makes me wonder just how foolish I’ve been all along,” you turn back to the field and force a hard, focused gaze back to the flower, unable to keep a seconds’ longer gaze on Taeyong without an impetuous tear slipping from your eye. “All that time, and all that energy…” And all that vulnerability. And all that trust. And all that love. “…wasted on a shameless man like you.”

It wasn’t supposed to rain today, but your cheeks begin to ache and burn with the salty streaks of water. You can’t seem to care for them being so openly on display. Taeyong has taken everything from you. What more are a few tears?

Taeyong follows the trail of water down your cheek. All he can do is turn away as that harrowing guilt sequestered deep within himself over the last few weeks, finally emerges at the surface, violent and strong and more forceful than ever. It peels at every nerve inside, eats away at all the confusion and the worry and every other emotion in between. It leaves nothing. Nothing but a dark, empty, shameful feeling in its wake. 

This is the first time he has seen you this way. And it’s all his fault.

“How dare you defame me. How dare you take Jaehyun away from me, and how dare you have the nerve to show your face in my building and take advantage of my company. How dare you, Lee Taeyong.” Your words fall lifeless and heavy between the growing bile in your throat and endless glisten of water against your skin.

Two days of processing couldn’t possibly have prepared you for this moment. 

You’d spent the first day mulling over what you’d heard from the call; there must surely have been some error on your part to hear such a shockingly absurd thing from Heechul. The second day was spent in worry; it was simply unfathomable that Taeyong – the very toast addict you’d hired all those weeks ago – could possibly have written such a false scandal. But it wasn’t until this very morning you’d found yourself as the fool who hadn’t bothered to check his employment history.

 Journalist at Luxe Magazine LTD

And since then, you had only been hoping for a miracle. That Taeyong would show up to this field with his comforting presence, hold your hand in earnest, look you in the eye and fully deny your accusation because it’s simply too hasty and completely absurd. 

But you realise now that it simply isn’t. That miracles are not an asset to be acquired so easily. Taeyong doesn’t hold your hand, and he doesn’t look you in the eye, and worst of all, he doesn’t make even the weakest, most deficient attempt to deny any one of your words.

So, you decide against speaking any more, allowing your hair to cling to the tear streaks along your neck and cheeks as you rise above the grass into a shifting halo of wind. 

“Y/n-”

“Your money will be transacted after the show.” 

You turn and the grass waves you farewell, clinging to your ankles in its ticklish murmur until you step out to the road where Charlie stands, his gloved hand clutching the open car door as you hide yourself inside. Regret eats away at you more and more ravenously as you silently view the brown head among the grass, watching with every choked gulp as it bows down into the green horizon.

You didn’t say everything you wanted to say. 

You didn’t even say half of it. 

Taeyong’s business at Argent was merely the tip of the iceberg. You should have yelled and screamed like your chest was aching you to. You should have told Taeyong exactly what he did, and exactly how he’d hurt you, regardless of anything else. How much pain you’re in to know that while you would have trusted him with every fibre in your being, he had slashed a gaping scar right where it would bleed the most, as if it were child’s play to him.

How you had loved him and how he had thrown it all away. 

Betrayal is a fickle thing; a notion always just as deceiving as the betrayer themselves – or perhaps even more. Because in its very essence, betrayal is always supposed to feel like the worst wrong of a lifetime; the worst possible pain one can experience for years to come.

A week ago, Jaehyun was your betrayer, and that betrayal had felt so excruciating, you couldn’t have imagined anything worse than it.  

Today, Taeyong stands in that betrayer’s place. Today, Jaehyun’s betrayal feels like nothing. Because today…

Today you had experienced the worst wrong of your lifetime.

The small stain on your coat grows larger by the second as your eyes blink in the shifting scenery, body welcoming the transition of rough road to smooth in the low buzz of 90’s classics scratching on the radio. 

And you finally make your leave back to where you had started. 

Toward loud tumble of city traffic and all the same vivid colours of moving billboards and weathered yellow taxies. Back to the place where you angle your head high and glimpse once more at the concrete jungle that once made up your every dream, every struggle and everything else in between.

XII. Omniscient Point of View

One fractured soul stands outside Argent building the next morning.

She arrives during the dark of the day, before the city rouses and catches its first glimpse of dawn, before the first light beyond the glass door has been lit. She tilts her head back and allows the wind to beat down against her skin, gaze trying to find the very tip of the building, but alas, the colossal structure seems to fade into the morning sable beyond the ninth storey or so.

This fractured soul plays her role in unlocking the polished doors – for, it must have been weeks since she’d last done so – and switching on the first light of the day to the empty silence of the lobby, her heels click once again for her own ears and nobody else’s. There isn’t a single hair to stray from her tight, unrelenting bun, its roots burning her scalp as if to deserve such a punishment for her lunacy.

She sits at her desk and buries her mind with yet another hoard of preparatory paperwork, an eye flickering to the clothing racks of assorted hues and silver every once in a while, as the first sun finds itself a halo on her cheeks. She watches it rise upon skyscrapers from the sweet haven of those four office walls, her stone-cold nature once again making its home in her heart, numbing her face and every other foolishly torn down wall.

Ten knocks at her door around midmorning for a clothing assessment. He knows of the day before’s happenings; she’d told him as soon as her bare feet met the cold tiles of her apartment floor. But he offers no words of solace, for he himself is at a loss, with a few too many unanswered questions roaming the inches of his mind.  Ten doesn’t prod, rather watches her as she works. 

Her hands hold the same magic, her voice is loud and clear as ever before, but she has seemed to have lost her spark – the very element that had set her aside from all others, the very reason he’d pushed her to never give up all those years ago. Today, she works a dull day in a robotic cadence, her eyes are blurred with the world’s darkest clouds, refusing to let the thunder clap, refusing to let any semblance of water fall. 

Weakness is not her strength, Ten has long understood, and her strength might just as well be her biggest weakness. Feelings weren’t a feasible option if the next four days were to be a successful feat, and that is all she can remind herself of. 

Perhaps a couple hours later, another soul finds himself standing outside Argent building the same morning, ashamed and afraid to step foot inside at all, for, crossing the glass threshold would only aggravate within him the blaring flame of all-consuming guilt and regret and shame. 

He hadn’t expected to be standing here at all after the happenings of the day before, yet here he is, carrying his frame with an hours’ worth of stew-infested sleep. For, when Ten had called him this morning with a voice full of vacancy telling him to find his way back to Argent, this shameful soul knew it would only be another cruel and selfish act for him to walk away with only four days remaining before the show. Ousting was no feasible option.

He steps inside and readies himself for every constrained stare, every secretive whisper, all the tuts and silent taunts to mar the silvered walls. But he receives none; nothing except warm smiles and welcome eyes, amiable manner, and polite conversation. 

She hadn’t told a single other person.

He catches but a glimpse of her in the corner of his eye, but doesn’t find the courage to do anything else. He regards her in the same way as Ten and finds her all too the same; rigid, lifeless, focused and unemotive in all senses. And it’s just like that – among the cheer of small accomplishments and Johnny’s at-last nods of approval – this shameful soul finds himself in a bout of repent, a slippery groove even the most agile-minded may never leave as soon as the hole was dug.

The distance between him and her is growing wider and wider with each minute; he can feel it. He feels it in her touch as she forces herself, one day, to adjust the cuff of his suit after another classical seam-slip; in the way her fingertips feel so foreign as they meet the skin of his wrist in detached brushes. He sees it in her averted gaze while fixing his collar once again. He feels it in her very absence of all other rooms he stands within.

But in the end of it all, he knows much too well that this – all of this; everything – is his own doing. He departs with this very notion at the cusp of sun fall, while she remains within the building, watching the growing darkness through her window, later turning off the final few lights and stepping out into the late hours of night.

Early morning, afternoon, evening, late night, the cycle continues as so for both of these souls; repeating, and repeating, and repeating, as if they knew no better than to let it continue in such a way. 

They return to their dwellings each night only to find themselves stuck in the dark. With breaths heavy and eyes tired, their fluffed pillows encase their heads as they search for some way – any way – to find a single merciful speck of clarity among the blinding black. Left with themselves and a mere thought of the other, their minds prickle and prod with each one of their mistakes and each one of their utter regrets.

XIII. Nothing. Nothing At All.

“Y/n!”

Straight posture.

“Miss Y/l/n, look over here!”

Head down.

“Did Jaehyun really leave Argent for Qi Fashion Labels?”

Ignore the questions.

“Just one picture for us!”

Smile for every sixth camera.

“Tell us the name of your new model.”

And don’t. Stop. No matter. What.

Suits and ties – crisp and clean in nature – lavish gowns, cross-dressing trailblazers, scarves and sequins and diamonds and lipsticks of every size, make, shape and colour; here, was one of eight splendid evenings that confounded all the worlds’ fashion partisans to their very cores. Every new trend, whether vogue or wholly obsolete, every essence of haute cotoure and high-style, it was all birthed under and could be traced back to the single most grand title: New York Fashion Week. A beautifully elaborate and gaudy scene to breathe in among the ever-putrefying air of this city; to bear the hollers of shutterbugs alongside the rageful honking of cabs behind one’s shoulder.

Your feet fall heavy beneath the cool satin of your floor-length dress. One in front of the next, they step forward like clockwork along the red carpet that daubs the concrete pavement of the New Yorker Hotel, the very destination of tonight’s mystique. Your head rests level upon your shoulders, a kind of reserved smile adorning the gloss of your mouth. Violent flashes of camera lenses burn your skin aglow as you walk the familiar pathway between paparazzi who spill over the barricades on either side; blustering, clawing, and pushing each other in brutal competition, their hefty hunks of metal held ablaze if only to catch a mere glance of the spectacle that you are…or the spectacle that you appear to be in this very moment.

The epitome of talent, the very pinnacle of grace and beauty; compliments are thrown your way, left, right and centre, suspended around your frame that exudes its confident and assured glow to everyone except you. 

Three steps, pose. Two steps, wave. One step, smile.

Oh, little do they know how deceiving such a smile could be. A time of such high regard merely jars you with the harsh anxieties and fretful sentiments of ‘what if?’.

Nervous. You feel terrifyingly nervous, and never had you felt such a thing since at least four full seasons ago, and it’s embittering to realise how shallowed your vigour has become over something as everchanging and facile as the media – even worse that you’d once sworn never to let such a thing happen.

Ten waits for you at the end of the red pathway, his hair sleeked, his body suited to a fault for the occasion, and his very being the only form of consolation among the anxious glamour enrapturing the venue. He smiles warmly as you approach him, cameras finally bygone in exchange for his assuring hand that guides you inside the hotel.

“Some crowd tonight,” he mutters, patting down the lapels of his blazer.

“Thank God.” A hefty breath escapes your lungs, relieved to find yourself under the roof of fresh lobby air that you now share with many other high-end designers – some well-known and some on the rise to their pedestals.

“We should probably make some rounds before heading inside to the catwalk. You know, chat it up with some other designers. Maybe Tom since he’s right before Argent.” Ten suggests, strolling mindlessly with you around the moderate bustle of celebrities, nodding politely to those who smile your way. “It might just make you feel better to have some company within your element. 

“Who said I’m not already feeling better?” is your sharp riposte, followed by a momentary glance to Ten’s dubious glare.

“Really?” He raises an eyebrow, holding a grand set of double doors open for you both to enter.

“Yes.” You raise your chin high, eyes sparkling in the shadowed lighting of the room and shimmering torches decorating the walls. “I am absolutely fine, and as my assistant, it’s in your very best interest to keep it that way. End of discussion.”

You glance around at the seating; half-filled with chattering patrons of neutral-toned clothing. Some hold small notebooks clasped between their hands that rest firmly on their crossed legs.

Critics.

“Okay, then,” Ten replies nonchalantly, tugging you toward a circle of A-list celebutantes surrounding a man in a sleek, black suit who holds a glass of bubbling champagne, “I suppose you wouldn’t mind if I just-hello, Mr Ford! It is an utmost pleasure to meet you again.” Ten reaches a respectful hand out to the man, sparking a welcoming dialogue which you’re left to watch with a fake smile plastered to your face. “Now, I just need to head backstage for show prep; same old routine, you know how it goes. You wouldn’t mind entertaining this gorgeous handful for a minute, would you?” 

You’re unsure whether an irked scowl or grateful thanks would be a suitable response to Ten pulling you forward, instead opting for a few clueless blinks and a slack jaw as he no sooner disappears behind a large black curtain at the far end of the large room.

Conversation nonetheless ensues smoothly with Tom, starting off with a congratulations and praise for each other’s work. It really turns out to be no surprise why this man is so successful and admired. Everything from his gesturing, his conduct and his fashion intellect falls nothing short of laudable. A few other designers join and leave the loop, and like Ten said, you do indeed find yourself significantly more relaxed to be in their like-minded company. 

As the lights later dim for the Tom Ford segment, you bid farewell to the designers, deciding to break away backstage through the same black curtain, behind which the atmosphere takes a drastic turn. It’s nothing all that unexpected, really; simply the normal pandemonium of various models with perfected figures and faces – and a shoe too less, or some form of missing accessory – scurrying around with backstage assistants in tow. You walk down a hallway, dodging as much chaos as possible before finding a door pasted with Argent’s logo and pushing inside. 

The chaos remains perhaps even to a higher degree as you watch the bustle of your models, subordinate designers, and make-up artists racing around the room. The clothing racks are almost empty, and it’s something that makes your heart swell with pride as the gravity of the moment begins to fully sink in.

“Oh, good, you’re here. I need a final assessment on some of these outfits, now hurry!” Johnny – quite the image with his hair a fluttered mess and his suit slightly rumpled – rushes over to you, grabbing your shoulders and leading you to a row of your models wearing their finalised ensemble of silvers, silks and cervelts. You remain surprisingly calm through it all, assisting wherever you’re needed and doing your best to settle nerves.

A loud knock no sooner echoes amidst the noise and a woman in a black uniform, donning an intercom headset and black clipboard appears at the dressing room doors. 

“Argent Fashion Labels? Ten minutes until your segment. Please navigate all runway walkers backstage for the catwalk.”

The commotion grows louder as you send her a nod from across the room, a new kind of buzz arousing excited jitters and whooping as the models begin to file toward her. You stand on your toes, neck craned upward, watching all the extravagant outfits – your extravagant outfits – exit the door one by one.  A small smile begins to form at your lips, only to be immediately torn away as a head turns back to meet your eyes from among the crowd. 

And just like that, it’s as if all the cheering and clapping around you is suddenly zipped away from the world, the rapid thrumming of your heart now the only sound ringing loud and clear in your eardrums. There’s something indiscernible in the look that passes through his features, a split-second of…something, though you’re unable to tell exactly what. It always seemed to have been that way, you’ve slowly come to realise.

You gulp thickly, daring to hold his gaze for a second longer before averting your eyes elsewhere. And still, you can’t help but look back once again, but this time, Taeyong is gone with the crowd, somewhere along the bend with the lasting image of your desolate face engraved into his mind.

“Come on.” 

You turn as a hand cups your shoulder from behind, met with Ten’s reassuring nod as he guides you out of the room and behind the wall of the catwalk.

“This is it,” you voice out quietly, eyes flickering to the first model, Karina, who stands just behind the runway entrance breathing in and out with closed eyes. She turns her head to you, smiling nervously, and you only smile back. But this time your smile finds you widely – hopingly, encouragingly. You whisper out a quiet, ‘you got this’, and in return her smile too, grows.

And then she’s off.

Freely and fleetingly, her feet land on the platform with self-assured glamour, the outfit from your sketchbook never having suited another person more than it does her in this very moment. She walks in time with the techno music; hips level, arms loose, expression poised, she stops, poses, turns, and finds her way back to the very head of the stage. As does the next model, and the next, and the next.

You watch it all tucked away behind the wall; every single one of your creations of the last year springing to a mirthful, beautiful life with every blink of the eye, click of a heel, drop of a beat. Some models walk with skilfully pocketed hands, some carry a bag on their shoulder, and some on their elbows. Every model has at least one form of nuance to them, but every single one of them wears a line of silver. One by one, they breeze out and in, past the devotees and the critics, through the feverish nerves and the anxious excitement. One by one, they make it through, there and back until only a final one remains to do them all their justice. 

Taeyong doesn’t meet your eyes as he stands at the edge. He knows he wouldn’t be able to step out onto that shiny platform if he so much as took another selfish glimpse. 

And he couldn’t do that to you.

It happens too fast; all too suddenly, much too overwhelmingly. So much so that it feels wrong that every one of your painstaking efforts – every sleepless night, every endured loss – amount so simply to the thirty seconds Taeyong spends on stage.

That was supposed to be Jaehyun. 

Jaehyun should have been wearing that outfit, with his hair styled in the same gelled coif, walking on that long platform with camera shutters lighting up on his smooth complexion. Jaehyun should have been the one to halt at the foot and clench his jaw if only to maintain what little of his composure he had left. Jaehyun should have been the one to walk back and finally look you in the eye with all the world’s anguish and remorse, hoping to see an ounce of emotion in those eyes of yours, only to find nothing.

Nothing at all.

And when you later walk out onto that long, star-studded stage for your lasting impression, you suddenly find yourself confused and unwilling to concede all at once. You link arms with the models on either side of you and take your well-deserved bow for the audience, knowing full well that this is where another season meets its close. 

You take in the standing ovation with a vacantly present smile, but you don’t breathe in any of it like you once remember doing. You look at the cameras and the reluctant simpering of critics, but you don’t truly see them in the way that you once you did. You walk off that stage and wish a congratulations to every person you couldn’t have done this all without. But every praise, every compliment; it all falls from an empty place within you.

In Ten’s suggestion of “keeping face,” you find yourself standing at the cusp of midnight at the venue of the after party. You’re in an entirely different place with a flute of sparkling champagne poured by none other than Alex Wang himself resting in the tips of your fingers. Only, the flute remains unkissed, no lipstick stain to fashion on the shiny glassware. 

In somewhat of a stupor, you watch the world as it revolves around you in a kaleidoscope of slow and fast motions, standing amidst the glitzed lights, lost in the place you’d once always called paradise. The place you were supposed to know like the back of your hand. Multitudes of bodies blur and manifest before your eyes, shifting like phantoms in disguise. Doused in glitter and endless waves of net, every celebrity stands anew in their dresses and suits - not nearly as casually unwearable as the pieces from the catwalk, but still extravagant nonetheless - all perfectly suited for a night of folly amid the pounding music and blaring lasers. 

Still as a robot, you smile at your conversationalists as if it were programmed into your muscles. You smile until it stops hurting, until you feel numb and until you just can’t take it anymore. 

And when you leave and you later lay yourself down on the soft mattress of your bed, ridden of any blinding lights or fabricated clothing; as you blink once again at the empty ceiling of your apartment, you can’t help but feel completely, and utterly alone. 

You’d sworn it would feel exhilarating. You’d sworn to make it exhilarating for yourself. But the truth finally surrenders in the form of all the uncontrolled tears that roll agonisingly down your cheeks, staining your neck and expanding the chill on your pillow.

This was not how anything was supposed to happen. Nothing was supposed to turn out this way.

But you were aching and there was nothing you could do about it except finally, finally, allow yourself to cry. To let every pent-up emotion out of your tired system. And nothing could have felt more natural than doing so while being stuck amid the motions of such a false and fabricated world. 

─── ⪧ ⪦ ───

Taeyong looks down to the little scruff of paper with a ten-digit number scrawled in haste and the words ‘call me’ sitting right beside them. He doesn’t know how or when the paper had found itself in the sweaty creases of his palm, but he has no intention of investigating further, ripping it up once, twice, three times, and watching it fall to the ground with the shiny confetti that flutters around his throbbing head. 

A glass bottle – perhaps his fourth of the late hour – sits loosely in his other hand, ready to drop and shatter as its contents sit bitterly in his mouth, burning his throat with each heavy gulp. Crowds of models brush suggestively at his sides, some subtle and others not as much, but their efforts fall futile as the dark-haired man of interest simply blinks out to some faraway place at the after-party venue. As if searching for the one he truly wished to find among the crowd. 

When he’s convinced that you’re not there hidden somewhere among the shadows, Taeyong simply turns around, back turned to the blinding disco lights, and exits the party. His business there and everywhere else in the damned industry was done; he’d walked the runway, finished his job, and there simply was nothing more left for him to do now.

He leaves with weighted limbs and a fogged mind, no knowledge of how he later ends up seated in the chair of his home office. He still wears the same suit he’d shown off to the world mere hours ago, but his make-up is now smudged, hair a dishevelled muss, breaths heavily intoxicated and eyes shallowed and heavy as he opens his laptop, glaring at the document that had sent everything crashing to the ground.

Taeyong doesn’t think twice – doesn’t care for the wall clock that reads an atrocious hour of the AM – as his fingers firmly clutch his phone, dialling a number he should have dialled much too long ago.

It takes no less than three rings for a groggy voice to emerge from the speaker, but he cuts it off immediately with a breathy whisper of:

“I can’t do it.” 

The words are as quiet as the dark room around him, as still as the cool air. 

“Heechul, I can’t submit the article.”

“What are you talking about, boy?” Heechul scoffs quietly – threateningly – though there seems to be some form of panic to his voice. “Do you even realise what this means for you? What this means for your money-”

“I DON’T CARE ABOUT THE FUCKING MONEY ANYMORE!” Taeyong roars into the speaker, every ounce of composure lost with the furious rise and fall of his chest, tears of anger beginning to blur his vision. “This is her career we’re putting on the line! Her entire life. Everything she’s worked for. And for what? Another godforsaken article to tear it all down?”

It’s almost as if Taeyong speaks to himself through the phone; finally voicing the truth as it so blatantly exists. 

“I don’t care-” His voice drops to a broken sob, “-about the money anymore. I just-I can’t do it.”

A heavy pause welcomes the hot trickle of water to his cheeks, a pathway glistening with the blue light in front of him.

“You really are your father’s son,” comes Heechul’s cold voice in the dark. “Always getting too caught up in your subjects. Too personal. Weak and cowardly.”

“What the hell are you saying?” Taeyong seethes, teeth and jaw clenching furiously.

“How do you think he ended up with your mother of all people?”

The venom in Heechul’s voice is clear and his words all too obviously spiteful. For what reason, Taeyong doesn’t know, nor does he have any desire to as his thumb cuts the call without another lasting word. 

His eyes, wet with dark streaks of flecked eyeliner, flicker back to his laptop; to the words he’d forced onto the white page that had breached and bled onto his dignity. His hands find his mouse, and he clicks down, dragging the cursor through the words, line by line, every letter drowning in a blue highlight only to disappear with a single press of the backspace button.

A blank document was where it all started, and a black document is where it all ends.

His eyes fall shut with this final thought, only opening to the bright halo of mid-afternoon sun the next day, head resting sideways on a stiff elbow. He hauls his body up, downs a pill for his headache and accepts the pelting water from the nozzle of his shower, all accompanied by the numbing nothingness of his mind. A coat, a scarf, a beanie, and a tinkling pair of keys are all that accompany Taeyong as he later steps outside his apartment, down the streets and among the noise of the city. He buries his face in the warm fabric around his neck and pulls his hat atop the tips of his ears, glancing out to the pedestrians and vehicles along the roads, the billboards and the buskers and everything else that he hadn’t before taken the time of day to notice and appreciate. It wasn’t often that he’d found himself walking on his own two feet among this tall wilderness of glass and concrete; it wasn’t particularly his of choice of scene. But now, with the icy wind flowing through his lashes, Taeyong feels a sort of silent beauty amid the stereotypical chaos. It’s something subdued, almost impalpable, present in the artwork hidden in the coolness of alleyways, the sky’s reflection upon the buildings, and in the simple workings of the city itself.  

Somewhere along his solitary way, he passes a newsagency flanked at its front with rows and rows of glossed booklets. Some display you, Y/n Y/l/n, Head of Argent Fashion Labels, bowing at the show from the previous night. 

Many others display him, but no longer just his face.

MEET LEE TAEYONG, THE FASHION FRAUD OF THE DECADE Argent Fashion Labels’ new model exposed as the anonymous writer behind the Y/l/n-Jung scandal

Taeyong picks up the magazine and inspects every inch of the paper, spotting Kim Heechul in a tiny font just beneath the bold typewrite. He doesn’t turn a single page, just eyes the man on the front cover with a longing so painful and deep, wishing that man hadn’t been so blind and foolish. If only not merely for his own sake, but for everything he had put you through since the day you’d first locked eyes.

Taeyong places the magazine back down, not bothering to pay for a copy, and decides to return home. As he once again seats himself at his desk, he feels a sort of enlightenment, as if he were now free of some form of a suffocation that he hadn’t realised had been there all along. 

He opens his laptop to be met with the same blank document from the night before, fingers brushing lightly over the keys.

XIV. Okay? 

It’s almost laughable how often the past repeats itself. Recycling old scenarios, emotions, and situations all for meticulous use in the present.

Ten finds himself the subject of such a phenomenon once again; standing outside your large office doors and peeking through the tiny crack, watching you in your current preoccupations of planning out Argent’s spring-summer line for the next season. A sudden wave of déjà vu reminds him that those dead-set features of yours really haven’t changed in the long time he’s known you. Still so passionate, and still so mystical. But there was now something different about you.

The weather had slowly begun to bleed into the supple hands of spring and with it, you too seemed to have thawed on the outside; now less austere in manner and more permissive to those around you. A month had come and gone since the success that was New York Fashion Week, and the tabloids – though ever-present in Argent’s business – were once again beginning to mute themselves for the time being. Now that the heavy preparations were over and the competition was down, you’d found a well-recommended model by the name of Lee Jeno, and he’d taken over the top model position with much fulfilling ease. He was almost too perfect for the job, things seemed to have settled back into a comforting routine, and much to everyone’s surprise, you often smiled.

But Ten could see past it, knowing all too well it was all just another façade of yours; that while each of your smiles came from a well-intended place, they did not resonate with you at all. He knew that from within, you only grew more fervently frigid and harsh with yourself, if only to never again commit the mistakes that you had in the early months of the year. Ten knows that all along you’ve been hurt by someone you’d invested far too much trust in. That along the way, you’d lost a certain part of yourself to a man that had made you feel alive in a way you’d never felt before.

He looks down nervously now to the clipboard held to his chest, jumping as your voice comes from behind the door.

“What is it, Ten?”

Sighing, he pushes forward into your office, gnawing at the inside of his cheek while eyeing you nervously. He can see just how much of an affect Taeyong has had on you, even now. How you’d picked up on those little habits of his and adopted them as your own, from the slight humour in your witty remarks, to the quirk that now seems to find your eyebrow. You weren’t even aware of it, but it seemed that Taeyong was now an unshakeable force in your life.

“What?” You narrow your eyes at him. “Oh, please don’t tell me there’s another delay in the fabric delivery. I spent three hours on the phone with them yesterday just to make sure that-”

“Y/n,” Ten interrupts you, taking a deep breath and stepping closer to you.

“What?” You snap, impatient and confused by his sudden anxiousness.

“This,” he unclips a magazine from his clipboard and places it on your desk, sliding it in front of you, “just got published today.”

You pick up the book with an apathetic expression and scan over the front cover, only for your brows to crease while reading over the bold text.

JOURNALIST LEE TAEYONG FINALLY EMERGES FROM THE DARK-

“No,” you hold the magazine out to Ten and look away, refusing to read any further. “I don’t want to see it.”

“Y/n-” 

“No, Ten.”

“Just read it, for God’s sake!” he yells, slamming the magazine down on your desk and opening it to a double page.

Your eyes widen at you look up at Ten, blinking in shock of his furrowed expression and angry tone. It was rare for him to raise his voice with you unless the matter was urgent, so you find yourself in a bout of hesitation.

“Why?” Comes your voice in the tense silence. “Why should I read this?”

“You just have to trust me when I say you’ll want to,” Ten replies, now soft again.

You take in a deep breath through your nose, unsure what to expect from the article given the sincerity in Ten’s voice, and hesitantly look down to the spread pages.

~

There is no short or easy way for me to say this, but it must be said.

I do not write this letter for the appeasement of anyone, nor for any sympathy, and I do not expect or wish for anybody to take my side. My side is unjustifiable. I write this letter in hopes of delivering the truth, and the truth only, regarding my recent involvement with Y/n Y/l/n and Argent Fashion Labels. 

My name is Lee Taeyong. Most of you now know me as the anonymous writer of the Y/l/n-Jung scandal, or the fraudulent model who entered Argent Fashion Labels as a gossip spy. Perhaps even both. These claims are not wrong, and I am here to address them in their utmost verity.  

The truth is, I am no model. I am a journalist who, in the past, worked under the editorial division of Luxe Magazines LTD in Manhattan city. In my job, I was well-approved, highly acclaimed and lucrative to the firm. These were unfortunately the materialistic qualities under which I thrived. In the event of being offered a celebrity scandal headline, I jumped without rational thought, and wrote a false and misleading article about a non-existent love affair between Y/n Y/l/n and Jung Jaehyun.

I must clarify that they were not, in any way, intimately involved with each other. I did not check the hard facts, and for this I am deeply sorry to them both. I must further clarify that Jung Jaehyun is innocent, and I take full responsibility for his departure from Argent Fashion Labels, as well as the losses suffered by both parties as a result of this.

Regarding my temporary employment under Argent; there are no words that can justify my actions. It has taken me a great deal of disillusionment and self-reflection to understand the gravity of my intentions when entering the position. It is not Argent’s fault in scouting me, but mine for accepting the offer and intruding on my rights and responsibilities. 

I will be transparent in saying I was to write another article; this time to ‘debunk’ Argent as a whole company. Initially, I thought it would be an easy task. And while I must concede that there were external forces at play, I was in no case, justified to continue with knowledge of the consequences. 

But in wake of all this, I cannot bring myself to regret the time I had spent at Argent. I had thrust myself into a new environment; it was a dizzying and expeditious experience at first. I was ready to quit the job as soon as I started. 

But dare I say, I’m glad I didn’t quit, because it was these experiences, the people, the friendly faces all working toward a common goal and the connections I had made through them. All of it changed who I am and what I stand for. Everything at Argent was a massive challenge. I would have expected no less from a world-class fashion label. But it changed me.

In the end, I had chosen not to publish the second article, because I no longer cared for all my previous qualities. It didn’t matter to me how well-approved or highly acclaimed or lucrative of a person I was. 

But I was too late in realising this. Consequently, I have wronged many people; in doing so, relinquished the trust they had in me, and for this, I will forever repent. I was a coward who chose to sacrifice not only his own honour, but the honour of Y/n Y/l/n.

I am at fault, and she is not. She is innocent in all regards.

I am so, so sorry for all the trouble I put her through. I am very deeply sorry for all the effort and the time, all the hours and all the energy she had spent in me. 

To the tabloids, the paparazzi and all celebrity gossip agencies out there: Y/n Y/l/n is not the person you think she is. She isn’t the fashion industry’s monster. She isn’t a hot-headed, unappeasable snob. And she is certainly not a bitch. 

Once again, I am not looking for approval or sympathy from the public eye. But please, if there is anybody to target for the matters discussed, it is only me.

With each of these words, I need nobody to believe me except one person.

I am sorry.

~

Your lips part as your eyes read over the last three words over and over again, gulping through the emerging mixture of emotions that gather in your mind.

“He didn’t accept the transaction,” Ten murmurs softly, now seated on one of the sofas.

You can’t seem to do anything else but blink, breaths growing shallow. “He…he…” you try to formulate words, though they don’t come out, “why didn’t he-”

“I think you know why,” Ten whispers, a solemn look in his eyes.

Why?

Was it because Taeyong had taken pity on you? Or was it because he decided to take the moral high road? Was it because he wanted to save his own face? Or was he truly, deeply sorry? 

“I-” You stand up abruptly, “I need to go see him, Ten.” 

You really hope he is truly, deeply sorry, and you have no choice but to find out.

Ten stands up with you, surprise evident on his features. “Wait, what-now?”

“Yes, now!” You look around frantically, before pausing. “Wait but…where would he be?”

“Are you really asking me that right now?” Ten raises his eyebrow.

“Ten, this is serious, tell me!”

“Well, I don’t know!” He throws his hands up in the air, starting to panic along with you. “Like, his house, or-or the field maybe, or-”

You gasp quietly.

“What?” Ten asks, oblivious.

“Ten,” you call to him softly, grabbing your purse and walking to the couches.

“What-oh.” He asks again, only for you to lean forward and plant a kiss on his cheek.

“Thank you,” you give him a small smile, “for everything.”

He blinks. “O-okay.”

With a single nod, you turn on your heel and scurry toward your door.

“Wait, woman, your coat!” Ten yells, jogging to your coat hanger and tossing your trench to you.

“Thank you!” you yell back, leaving Ten standing in your office among the silent echo of the doors that swing shut behind you, stunned with his hand still holding the cheek that you’d somehow kissed. 

“Uhhh, okay,” he speaks to himself, though it sounds more like a question than a statement. “Okay,” Ten chuckles once again, reaching back for his clipboard before clearing his throat with a curt nod.

“Okay,” he says once more, before exiting your office with a growing smile.

XV. Une Doublure D'argent

The world truly is a lonely, lonely place. You ought to have learnt exactly that, if nothing else in amongst the tumultuous waves that make you up. Now, it is not the barren, desolate land that you compare to the city, but the solitary nature of your surroundings that reminds you of it. In the end, you realise that everything stands for itself. Each blade of grass is merely its own blade of grass. Each skyscraper is, in itself, its own skyscraper.

The notion finds you as you once again make the journey from the city to the countryside, this time in your own car, with the wheel sliding under each palm of your hands. From where such an epiphany had suddenly manifested, you have absolutely no idea. You simply allow your mind to drift in whichever direction, feeling the enormous space all around you as the road cuts into broad, green plains beneath the cloudy sky.

It seems all the radios know how to play these days are renditions of the same smooth jazz, but you let the speakers echo as they please, too busy with looking around and trying to remember the exact place you’d sat in among this maze of greenery. 

Now that you really think about it, what you’re doing right now is absolutely ridiculous; something your past self never would have envisioned you doing in the future, because why would he be here of all places?

“A mess,” you mutter to yourself, “I’m just a big, fat me-”

Your foot slams down on the breaks as a dark head of hair emerges from the thick bed of grass on your left, yet another solitary figure hidden among the scene before you. Parking the car, you merely sit behind your window and watch him for a minute, noting the familiar way his locks shift in the breeze, some straying from the rest. And contrary to what you’d anticipated, such a view is oddly settling to take in. When the head disappears among the field again, you sigh, retrieving your bag and exiting the car to find a bicycle laying down outside the entrance of the same beaten down dirt path. You once again walk through it, welcomed ever so delicately by the pasture flanking its sides. 

You reach into your bag, pulling out the magazine spread and approach the man lying down on his coat.

“What is this?” You make no haste in voicing your words, holding the article over Taeyong’s face and forcing yourself to ignore the flutter of goosebumps that arise on your skin as his eyes flutter open...

And then flutter back shut again.

“Excuse me?” You tilt your head, scoffing in disbelief. This was anything but the reaction you had been expecting. 

“Hello?” 

Still no response. 

“Taeyon-” 

“I thought you were smart, Y/n.”

His words catch you off-guard, eyebrows scrunching. 

“Do you hear yourself right now?”

He simply hums in apathy, bringing a forearm to cover his still closed eyes to which you scowl in frustration, suddenly compelled to jab your boot into his side.

“Ow! What do you-”

“Taeyong, what is this?” you repeat yourself, shaking the magazine in your hand. “Tell me clearly what this is.”

He sighs, sitting up with a quiet rustle and combing a hand through his hair.

“Well, did you read the headline, or…”

You simply scoff once again, an irked smile finding your face as you turn around to leave.

“Wait.”

Taeyong catches your wrist from his spot on the ground, stopping you before you can take another step away from him, and you curse under your breath for the shiver that trickles through your body. His grip is so tight and unrelenting that you have no choice but to evade all thought of trying to shake it off. Reluctantly, you turn back to him, trying to level your breathing as his eyes meet your own.

“I didn’t know what else to do,” he speaks softly, the wind carrying his voice with its echo as he peers up at you. “I couldn’t just leave without telling the truth…even if it had to be after a month.”

You take in his words with a growing frown, and just like that, everything you had planned to tell him – every single rehearsed sentence from your monologue of emotions – fades from the tip of your tongue, forgotten in the dry of your throat as you gulp, and without another thought, step forward and lower yourself down to the ground beside him. Minutes are spent thereafter in the silence of the outside, looking out to the grey sky with empty eyes. But within your mind roam a tangled, blundering string of ineffable thoughts, none of which you can seem to comprehend yourself.

“What are you doing here, Y/n?” Taeyong asks defeatedly.

“I’m giving you two minutes to explain everything that happened – and I mean, everything,” you blurt out, refusing to look at him until everything had been laid out properly in the open. You need all the answers before you can make any drastic considerations.

Taeyong sighs and you catch a small nod from him in your periphery. He begins with the first scandal, repeating everything he had written in the article that rests in your hand; how he’d genuinely believed it to be true, and failed to check the truth behind the dating rumours. Next came his modelling proposal, how, back in January, he’d accepted Ten’s offer at his frequented coffee shop and later found out it was a job for Argent. Then he explained Heechul’s offer of going undercover.

“Heechul,” you interrupt Taeyong, now all too familiar with the name. “He’s your boss?”

“Not anymore,” Taeyong sighs.

“You left your job?”

“More like I was fired, but I guess you could put it that way.”

“So, Heechul is the one who asked you to write another article? To debunk Argent?” you continue, “and you agreed?”

“Yes,” Taeyong replies, a hesitancy in his voice, unsure of what to expect from your reaction.

“Okay,” you nod, spurning any emotion from seeping into your features, “continue.”

And he does. And his words exceed far longer than the two-minute time slot you’d initially granted him, but you don’t move from your spot, nor do you attempt to stop Taeyong as the whole truth finally spills from his lips with the blooming emergence of dusk. 

You gather that he’d written the majority of the debunking article in the first week or so of employment at Argent.

“…but when you told me the truth about the dating scandal, I was ready to drop everything and leave,” he pauses. “But then again, I couldn’t just do that to you. I was stuck between a rock and a hard place. If I left, you’d have no model and I’d feel guilty. If I stayed, I’d still feel guilty, but I figured that the least I could do in that situation was help you…as ironic as it sounds.”

You sigh in deep vanquish, unsure what to make of his words or how to feel about his overall intentions.

“I actually forgot about the article after that day because I genuinely took on the role,” Taeyong adds with a small voice, and it only serves to muddle your thoughts up even more. On one hand, he’d defamed you, driven Jaehyun to leave Argent and join another fashion label, and then proceeded to romance you all while writing another article behind your back. But on the other hand, instead of leaving, Taeyong had stayed with you for an entire month, kept up with his modelling duties, walked the runway at New York Fashion Week, and maybe – just maybe – given you a sense of enjoyment while doing so.

“I deleted the article on the night of the show and called Heechul to tell him I couldn’t submit it. Then he fired me and released an exposé article the next day.” 

“And you didn’t accept the money either,” you murmur from beside Taeyong and he shakes his head. “And then you released this article a month later,” you hold up the magazine, “just out of the blue.” 

And he nods.

And you nod back.

And then, looking out once again toward the silence of the field, your brows furrow with a lingering thought.

���Why did you do it in public?” you ask quietly, a spark of anger beginning to brew inside you. “Why did you have to release an article in the first place? Why couldn’t you have just come to me yourself?”

“I already told you, I had to tell the truth-”

“But why didn’t you come to me?” 

Trying your hardest to stabilise your breathing, you turn to Taeyong, immediately shivering with another unsolicited prickle of goosebumps at the mere sight of him. You’re adamant on knowing the reasoning behind his drastic actions, unwilling to believe that everything that you had built with him – everything he’d done with you – was simply just an act.

Taeyong has to pause at your question, expression tensing as he inhales deeply, searching for the answer which is surprisingly hard to pinpoint.

“I couldn’t-” he sighs sharply, “I couldn’t bear to face you after everything I did. I was ashamed.” 

“And you weren’t ashamed that night?” you dare to ask, facing forward again with a shaky breath.

Taeyong knows exactly which night you’re referring to. He’d gone through a month of deep rumination, but nothing – absolutely nothing – could have prepared him for the striking pain in his chest when he finally turns to your downcast figure staring toward the sky with a doleful look in your beautiful, but incredibly sorrowful features. The only other time he’d seen you in such a genuine sadness was the very first time he’d taken you out to this place; when you’d voiced every one of your worries and he’d listened to them all. When he’d let you believe that you had his trust. 

“I don’t think I’ve ever been more ashamed in my life,” he whispers, turning to face his lap, completely heartbroken to have brought this all upon you. 

“I just needed you to say something back then; anything…” you begin, voice breaking without any idea of where your mind is leading it, “…but you just disappeared without a word.”

You turn back to him, your own heart breaking at the genuine remorse present in every inch of his expression. In the drained depths of his eyes, and the shadowed bags just beneath them. In every crack on the pink of his lips and the very wilt of its frown.

“I’m sorry, Y/n,” he whispers, his helpless gaze focused right on your own, “I’m so, so sorry.”

You’re forced to close your eyes with a pained, shaky breath.

It truly is a lonely, lonely world. You haven’t always had someone to lean on in every moment of needful solitude, but you had just so happened to find Taeyong months ago, in one of your biggest moments of need yet.

It doesn’t seem to matter under which context he’d come; all that matters now is the fact that he’d been there for you. And it dawns on you just how much your life had been riding on this man after you’d met him. No matter your feelings toward the notion, because for once, you didn’t have control, and it didn’t matter whether you liked it or not. Your input had not a single ounce of weightage in the grand picture when you were around Taeyong.

In his presence, things had felt as natural as this field, and as effortless as merely existing here in the tall grass. You’d found yourself caring less and less for inhibitions, letting go, turning away from all the nasty what-ifs that make up everything the world hates about you. Slipping up here and there…it had started to feel okay. And it was all because of him.

He was your anchor in a time of great need.

The fact still remains that his initial motives were flawed and his silent departure equally as painful. And it still hurts that you’ve had to find him yourself even now, hidden in this field without any direction or prospect for his future.

But all of that pain dulls in comparison to the pain you feel while looking into his eyes right now.

This has all been painful for you. But it must have also been so painful for him. 

You’ve searched within the confines of your thawing heart and found something of a crackling hope amid the fire of betrayal, thinking that maybe Taeyong deserves the benefit of the doubt. That maybe somewhere along the way, his original motives had lost their significance. That it couldn’t have been easy for him to write that letter about himself. That he wouldn’t have put himself through the trouble of public scrutiny were he not a changed person.

Maybe you’re a fool for thinking that way, maybe you’re just selfish. But you can’t face the other way now, and there’s only one apparent reason why. 

“It’s not okay,” finally comes your reply, voice as airy and soft as the wind. “And I thought I needed more from you, because you really, really hurt me, Taeyong. And I wish so much that I could hate you for it but,” you pause, lifting a hand to cup his face, “but all I needed was an apology, because that’s all anyone ever needs from the person they love.” 

You really thought you needed more from him. 

But you love him. 

You love Lee Taeyong.

And all you really needed was a sincere apology.

You feel Taeyong’s cold hand find your own face, warming against your skin. He brings your forehead to gently meet his own, soft whispers of “I’m sorry” melting repeatedly against your cheeks, soothed by the feathered stroke of his thumb. “I love you too, Y/n, I’m so sorry,” 

You pull back just enough to find his eyes once again.

“I forgive you.”

And Taeyong pulls you back to him, your body now encased in the haven of his arms like never before as his face finds a home in the warmth of your neck, refusing to let you go when he hears the soft sniffles on his shoulder.

“Don’t cry,” he breathes, holding you tighter. “Please don’t cry, Y/n.” 

“You don’t think I’m a bitch,” you mumble into his coat.

“Of course you’re not.” Taeyong unwinds his arms from you, gently wiping your tears while looking you in the eye. “God, fuck no.” His words pull a small chuckle from you and Taeyong doesn’t think anything has ever sounded as sweet as your smile, nothing has ever felt as nice as your fingers in his own, or as comforting as the mere thought that you were here with him once again. That you loved him despite all his flaws and mistakes.

“I have something for you,” you untuck yourself from his arms and reach back into your handbag, lifting your hand back out in a fist and bringing it in front of Taeyong. He eyes you with something of a knowing smile and slowly uncurls your fingers, revealing the round box of strawberry lip balm he’d given you months ago.

“But it’s yours,” he mumbles as you slide the box into his hand.

“You need it more than I do,” you grin coyly, and Taeyong can only shake his head in adoration while unscrewing the lid to find it half empty since the last time he’d used it, applying the balm to his lips as you once again reach back into your bag.

He looks up as a loud rumble resounds throughout the sky, the grey clouds having grown darker with the evening, shifting and whispering among each other with a newfound purpose ready to be fulfilled.

You raise your hands up to the sky from beside him, and Taeyong turns to you curiously, his gaze following your arm to the silver strip of fabric pinched between your fingers, shimmering with infinite hope in front of the looming clouds. You turn to Taeyong, a soft smile forming at your lips as you regard him with all the world’s sincerity in your eyes; the one thing so certain in his greatest moment of uncertainty. 

A silver lining to his darkest clouds.

“Don’t forget it.”

Reaching out to him, you hold Taeyong’s hand tightly with the fabric clasped warmly between both of your palms. And as you bring his hand to your mouth and plant a gentle kiss to his skin, Taeyong finds a certain comfort in the softness of your lips; how they’re no longer chapped as they once were, and how they beam up at him so beautifully.

“Don’t ever forget it.” 

finis

© jaetaimjadore, 2022, all rights reserved

[greenbagjosh]

Sunday 9 August 1998 - prebreakfast TV - ride to Forch - Röstipizza for lunch - ride down the roller slide and the funny elk-light fixtures - train ride home and a ham focaccia for supper

Sunday 9 August 1998

Hi everyone, Hope your week is going well. It is supposed to be cooled down by today. Twenty years ago today I did a quick country train and bus ride around Zürich, after a long day in Zürich itself. Eventually I went back home to München.

Overview

watching Ottifanten and an Otto Waalkes sketch comedy show on TV

shower and breakfast in hotel

check out, walk to Rümlang S Bahn station, lock clothes bag in locker

take S Bahn to Stadelhofen, then S-18 to Esslingen via Forch

take bus from Forch to Uster, and S-Bahn from Uster to Zürich HB

lunch at the Brasserie Johanniter

S-10 train to Üetliberg, walk up to see the Uto Kulm observation area

train to Zürich Selnau, walk back to HB

take train with Sommer Spezial ticket to München Hbf

head home with U-5, U-4 and bus 37 home

arrive home and no one complains (thankfully)

make it to work for the final week And that was the summary of what I did on Sunday, 9th August 1998.

That was some noisy night last night, I am lucky to be back in my comfortable room with no roommates to have to listen to (loud music, snoring and so on), and I have my own TV set.

Breakfast was served until 10 AM at the hotel, so I watched a little TV before going. Since I am still such a big fan of Otto Waalkes since July 1991, I watched an episode of Ottifanten, which are anthropomorphic elephants, the main character voiced by Otto Waalkes himself. Then there was the live action sketch comedy show, with his "English for runaways" inexact English-to-German translations, plus the Kakao sketch.

After seeing Otto on TV, I took a shower, then had breakfast. The breakfast was better than at the hostel, the items were more delicious and the bread rolls were fresh. Well worth the extra 10 CHF I paid. After that I checked out with my clothes bag, and I took my day bag with the remaining sodas for the swig bottle. It was a twenty minute walk to the Rümlang S-Bahn station. My ticket was still valid for Zürich and Rümlang until 12:30 PM but I wanted to out of that zone for the day. In that case, what is the appropriate ticket to buy for all zones of the Zürcher Verkehrsverbund (Zürich regional rail district)? More likely than not, it would be the 9 AM ticket available daily and for about 18 CHF for all zones, valid only up to the last train of the day, likely just after midnight.

From Rümlang, I took the S-Bahn via Glattbrugg and Oerlikon to Zürich HB, where for 6 CHF I could store the clothes bag away for the day until it would be time to take the train home. I had until 5:15 PM that day to explore the Zürich region. So I thought, why not take the S-18 all the way to Esslingen ZH? To do that, I had to take the S-Bahn from platforms 21 to 24 to Stadelhofen, and change to the S-18 at its own stop near the theater (which on 24 July was playing The Truman Show). In 1998 I did not know about the Tram museum at Burgwies, close to Balgrist, which would be open at 11 AM. That would have been interesting. I made it a point later to visit, and between September 2011 and December 2016 I have since visited twice. Going further, the S-18 ran on the same tracks as the tram line 15 up to Rehalp, and after that, it went on a surface route up to Zumikon-Waltikon and went underground for Zumikon and Maiacher, before coming out of tunnel for Forch. After Forch and up to Esslingen, the train route was mainly single tracked. The day was nice, mid 70s and had interesting scenery, not too hilly. At the end was Esslingen and I had to take a bus, line 842, through Mönchaltorf ZH to Uster. I had been to Uster on 4th of July 1997 but only by accident. That incident was due to the fact that I did not alight the S-Bahn train at Stettbach as I should have. But this time Uster seemed familiar and I knew where I needed to go and where to alight.

The S-Bahn from Uster to Zürich, goes northwest past the Greifensee.and Dübendorf, before it goes into tunnel at Stettbach and emerges at Stadelhofen. Then there is another tunnel section from there to Zürich HB which is platforms 21 to 24. I alighted at Zürich HB and it was time for lunch. I wanted to go back to my favorite restaurant at the time, the Brasserie Johanniter, on Niederdorferstrasse 70. They were not so full as the previous night and they offered me a table outside. I had a Hürlimann 1 Liter, and on the seasonal menu, they were serving Rösti as a pizza. I could order a "quattro stagione" (four seasons) pizza on a bed of the hashbrowns. It was actually quite delicious, too bad I did not take a photo of it. With a full liter of beer, you have to take at least an hour to enjoy it. I think it was about 2 PM that I paid the bill and left for Üetliberg.

In 1998, the SZU, Sihltal-Zürich-Üetlibergbahn used the same platforms as today, but instead of platforms 21 and 22, the platforms were called just 1 and 2 back then. I took the S-10 the entire distance to Üetliberg via Triemli. It was a four-zone journey and my 9 AM ticket covered it with no problem. When I arrived at Üetliberg terminus, I left the train, walked up the steep pedestrian trail to Uto Kulm, and for the first time I saw the most bizarre light fixtures around, namely the Bruno Weber Hirschlampen. These were four lights on the antlers of giant elk. Also there is some planetary display on the trail. The Uto Kulm resort hotel is at the top, and costs around 200 CHF per night, which I could not afford then. The observation platform and tower are still open to the public. From there you can see from north Zürich into the Albisgütli where there is the late summer Knabenschiessen event, and further along Lake Zürich towards Rapperswil SG and Pfäffikon SZ. I had to take about twenty minutes to get a good view of everything and appreciate the many years I had known Zürich (my first visit was 1976 when I was about four).

It was getting close to 4 PM and I had to go back to the rail station. I thought I would have some time to walk from Selnau to the station, it was not a long journey, and being Sunday, the traffic would be light. I arrived about 4:45 PM and searched for some place to buy Victorinox knives but I could only find cheap store-brand replicas. They would have to suffice. I managed to collect my clothes bag, get to the train to München Hbf and board the right train car, as stated on my Sommer-Spezial ticket. My seat was in an open area of the first class compartment and with a window all to myself. At 5.15 PM the train left Zürich HB, I left seeing the Zürich insurance billboard just outside the station, and away it went. I took a few photos here and there, particularly getting close to St. Gallen. There was a bistro wagon going through the cars, and I could not pass up the ham and cheese sandwich on a focaccia-shaped bread roll. The train reached Bregenz about 7:45 PM. That was the only time the border guards were on the train, and the rest of the way it was uneventful. I think I took a nap between Lindau and Buchloe. As you might expect, the electrification did not start until the train passed Geltendorf, which is kind of the imaginary border of Oberbayern and the Ostallgäu. The sky was getting darker and about 9:50 PM the train pulled into München Hbf. There was no point remaining in the station so I headed home, first on the U-5 to Lehel, and caught the U-4 to Arabellapark, then the bus 37 to my apartment in the Freischützstraße. I entered quietly and no one told me off about my alarm clock.

And the next morning? It would be the final week of my Werkstudenttätigkeit, so all loose ends had to be tightened up, and paperwork had to be filled out for end-of-project, and I had to also take care of my apartment rental and last three nights in Paris for Summer 1998 before flying home. And buying this and that. So the next story may not be until Wednesday the 15th August. The 18th August is the "grand finale" of this saga.

Hope you enjoyed so far, Gute Nacht and bonne nuit!

PS Desirée is afraid of the dark, especially when she's in a park… (that was one song I heard repeatedly in Summer 1998, she had "You gotta be" in 1994)

[dollslayer]

Artistic Intention

Artist!Steve x Reader

Summary: Steve's doing well in his life drawing class, but a new muse throws him for a loop in the back supply room.

W/C: 2,374

Warnings: NO MINORS, p in v smut, unprotected sex, public sex, breeding kink if you squint, swearing

A/N: Hey! I wrote this for @buckyownsmylife 1st anniversary challenge! I love me a good AU so I chose Artist AU+ exhibitionism. Happy tumblr-versary! I made Steve a shy boi in this lol. If you liked this fic pls reblog/comment!! Check out my other fics too! Cheers!

Main Masterlist

It’s 1:45pm and Steve is desperately trying to weave his way through the crowd of people before him. His art folio hits everyone and thing as he makes feeble attempts to apologize to everyone for the bulkiness of the case. He can’t be too apologetic though, he’s running late for his 2pm life drawing class and if he doesn’t make it the professor will close the door in his face.

This is the longest 15 minutes in Steve’s life, he figures. He finally makes it up the steps and jogs up the stairs. His folio hits his leg, he winces but doesn’t stop, he’s only got a few minutes to make it up to the second floor and get himself situated behind an easel. He’s nearly out of breath when he makes it to the second floor and he’s trying to check his watch while running for the door. Two minutes.

Steve bursts through the doors and exhales loudly, he’s not sure he’s ever felt so relieved. His feeling of relief is short lived and quickly replaced with embarrassment as he realizes every pair of eyes in the room is on him. Every pair except for one. The new model for class this week, you slowly turn your head to reveal sharp eyes and a coy smile. He feels himself blush under your gaze and mutters an apology before getting settled in an easel directly in front of you.

He tries his best to focus on getting his paper and charcoals set out in an effort to shrug off the mixture of humiliation and lingering anxiety he had about being late. He feels his heartbeat begin to steady and he lets himself relax a little bit.

“Good afternoon, everyone. We have a new model in class this week, as I’m sure you’ve noticed. She’ll be keeping her current pose for one hour and repositioning for the second half of class. Mr. Rogers, since you had no problem running late I assume you’ll have no problem staying late as well. You’ll clean up after class.” The professor concludes with a short nod.

Steve sighs but nods his head in acknowledgement. He catches you smirking in amusement again at him and he can’t help but to blush all over again. He feels just like he did in high school, embarrassing himself in front of pretty girls. He sighs and picks up a piece of charcoal.

Steve decides to get a proper look at you and almost regrets it when he chokes on his own breath. You’re gorgeous, you’re coy and charming, you’re a muse. He’s still blushing because you’re naked, and beautiful and the feeling of humiliation hits him even more. He’s been in this class before, he knows the models will be naked but none of them had ever caught his attention as more than a subject, none of them were you.

He takes his time admiring your natural curves and appreciates your figure. You are so full of natural beauty, your bare face is perfectly flawed and the sun shining through the window highlights your skin tone. He can see why you were chosen to model for class, you’re perfect. He has to discreetly adjust himself and shuffles his jacket into his lap as he feels his pants tighten. He’s flustered all over again and realizes everyone else is already ahead of him. He puts charcoal to paper and gets to work.

____

As class goes on Steve’s sketch is coming along nicely. He can’t bring himself to look at you for more than a few seconds at a time for fear of getting hard again. When he sends furtive glances your way he catches you looking back at him with that smile of yours. He swears at one point you raise an eyebrow at him like you’re amused by him. He brushes it off and keeps drawing.

Class comes and goes much faster than he anticipated. He wants to pack up and get out as quickly as he can when he remembers that he has to clean up the room. He lets out a groan and waits for everyone else to leave. Now it’s only you, him, and the professor who are left in the room.

“Mr. Rogers I’ve got to get out of here, I trust you can put easels away without incident?” The professor asks. Steve nods and the professor turns to you. “Thank you for your work today, you can collect your pay from the front office. I look forward to having you as a model for this class.”

You smile and nod, waving goodbye to him. By now you’ve slipped on a robe and are reaching for your bag but it feels like you’re lingering. It’s just now that Steve realizes the two of you are alone. He swallows thickly, trying not to pay attention to you out of the corner of his eye. He begins to pack away his own drawing but not before giving it one final assessment. He can’t help himself from his own critical eye, analyzing mistakes and appreciating triumphs.

“Is that supposed to be me?”

Steve jumps in surprise, you’re peering right over his shoulder. He’s caught off guard by your presence and also by your voice, do you always sound this sultry?

He swallows and nods before taking a deep breath. Wiping his sweaty palms on his jeans he turns to face you.

“Uh, yeah. Yes it is. I don’t think it’s very good but I’m trying” He anxiously starts making excuses, assuming you hate it.

But you don’t. You just smile thoughtfully at him and nod.

“It’s good. At least, I think it is.”

“Th-thanks, thank you.”

“Do you always cut it that close or were you just hoping to stay late with me?”

Steve sputters at your boldness. He has to remind himself that he’s not that scrawny, measly kid he used to be. But he can’t help but feel like he is with his sweaty palms and short breaths.

“I, I um, I didn’t realize there’d be a new model. Was kind of expecting the old one. Not- not that there’s anything wrong with you, of course! I, sorry I didn’t mean to imply that, you’re- you’re beautiful too, you’re perfect really, I just. Oh jesus.” He spews the words out faster than his brain can keep up and he’s making a complete fool of himself.

He can’t bear to look at you, so he starts closing up easels and stacking stools. He doesn’t notice you ogling his muscles through his tight t-shirt.

“You think I’m beautiful?” You ask innocently.

“I-, um, yes. I think you’re very beautiful, if you don’t mind me saying so.” Steve answers honestly.

He moves some stools to the large supply room in the back of the classroom and you follow him.

“I think you’re beautiful too. And cute. You’re practically falling all over yourself, it’s sweet”

Are you talking to him? He still sees himself as he was back then, having a hard time thinking that anyone would look at him and find him attractive. It’s why he’s so beside himself now. You’re so completely beautiful and self-assured, there’s no way you’re talking to him. He sets down the stack he’s carrying and realizes you’re much closer than he thought. You’re inches away.

“What do you like the most about me? Is it my body? Don’t think I didn’t notice you readjusting your pants at the beginning of class.” You move even closer and Steve thinks you must be able to hear his heart beat because it’s about to come right out of his chest.

Your hands are on his chest and you have to lean up on your tip-toes for your lips to meet his ear.

“What do you say? You and me in this supply room? There’s hardly anyone here. Come on”

Steve feels like he’s dreaming, he has to check if he is. But then your hand reaches for his dick through his pants and he nearly doubles over from the sensation. He’s never been with anyone so brash and confident, your touch leaves a burning trail on his body.

“But- but what if someone comes in and sees?” He says, using every last bit of coherent reasoning he has.

“Isn’t that what makes it so fun?”

Oh, God. You. You. Smiling that devilish smile at him. He was weak in the knees and you took the opportunity to push him backwards onto a spare desk. You pulled him by the shirt collar to meet your lips and he let out a noise of surprise. Steve pushes his tongue into your mouth and lets out an obscene moan. You feel so good. He knew you’d feel good but not this good.

Steve’s large hands come to your waist and venture lower until he has a handful of your ass and grabs. You let out a little moan and nudge your knee between his legs and he grinds against it. You pull back to catch your breath when your hands go to the ties of your robes.

“We’re a little overdressed, don’t you think?”

Steve doesn’t need to be asked twice as he pulls his shirt over his head. Jeans have never felt so uncomfortable and he’s frantically trying to get himself down to his boxers. He swears he goes slack jawed when he looks back up at you. He’s already seen you naked, he just stared at you naked for hours, but you’re just as gorgeous as before but it’s the way you’re looking at him. Like he’s desirable, almost like he’s a piece of meat. It makes him feel wanted and reassured and he feels himself grow harder.

Your hands slip beneath the elastic of his boxers and slowly slide them down his legs. He can’t help but flush when you let out a small gasp at the size of him. He doesn’t want to get too big of an ego with it but he’s always known he was… gifted.

Before he can let anything go to his head he lets out his own soft gasp as you stroke him languidly. He can’t control his hips as they cant up into your hand. You grab his hand and quickly lead his fingers to your dripping pussy. Steve nearly melts when he feels how wet you are and slides two fingers in easily. He’s pumping them in and out and you let out tiny mewls as you kiss his neck.

There’s no more time for preamble though, you two need to be quick if you don’t want to be caught by some unfortunate custodian. You remove your hand from his cock and he takes his fingers out of your pussy and swears you whine a little. Feeling brazen himself, he makes direct eye contact with you and sucks his fingers clean. You bite your lip and squirm while he revels in the taste.

Reluctantly he takes his fingers out of his mouth and gets up to situate you so you’re sitting on the desk. You spread your legs wide for him and he takes in the sight, committing to memory. Maybe he can draw you like this some time. For now he takes a step closer but falters, remembering one fatal flaw in this whole plan.

“I… don’t have a condom”

You don’t look let down at all, you look excited in fact. Shaking your head, you explain to him.

“Doesn’t matter, ‘m on the pill. I wanna feel you cum inside me”

Steve might pass out before he gets the chance, the way you keep talking with that mouth of yours. He wastes no more time and positions himself at your entrance. He has one hand on his dick and the other on the back of your neck when he looks you deep in the eye and impales you fully in one go.

The moan you let out is pornographic and Steve uses his newly freed hand to cover your mouth.

“We have to stay quiet. Can you do that?”

You nod silently and he removes his hand, opting to grab your hip instead.

He pulls back and begins to start pumping into you. He’s steady at first, trying to keep himself from cumming too quickly. Slowly he starts increasing his speed and the force that he uses is causing the legs of the old desk to scrape against the floor.

Your hand reaches and grabs his ass, pushing him deeper into your pussy. You feel so tight wrapped around him with no barrier and he doesn’t know how much longer he can hold out. You’re trying to keep your moans quiet when he kisses you to silence them all together. He’s trying with all his might not to cum before you do.

His fingers find your clit and he starts rubbing it in tight circles. You have a harder time keeping quiet and you’re squeezing him like a vice. The friction on your clit and his dick hitting your G-spot perfectly is causing your eyes to roll in the back of your head.

“‘M gonna cum, please. Please don’t stop” You beg. Steve feels a wave of power surge over him now that you’re the needy one.

“Go on then, I’m not far behind ya. Wanna feel your pussy cum on my cock.”

With a few moments more he has you seeing stars and you claw at his back and pull him close to you. He continues on in his movements and starts pounding into you in earnest chasing his own release. All you can do is hold on for dear life.

Steve makes one final thrust before he’s cumming deep inside you. The rush of warmth is welcome to you and you kiss his jaw as he tries to catch his breath. The only sound being both of your heavy breathing. Hopefully no one heard you.

Steve can’t believe what just happened. He met a gorgeous girl and she propositioned him in a public place all in the span of two hours. He realizes just how far he’s come from who he used to be. He looks down at you, your noses touching.

“So, what’s your name?”

[lunar-wandering]

Lanterns and Lies

surprise!! here we go, the sequel to Glamours and Gauze!

Word Count: 7k

Read on Ao3

-

Macaque had lied, when he said the shadow lantern was gone.

When the Lady Bone Demon had caught him, she had made a specific note of needing the lantern.

And, well, Macaque wouldn't let that happen.

So he'd shattered it, again, and during the Lady Bone Demon's momentary shock, he'd taken the opportunity to gather the broken pieces and run.

One of her minions had cut him with the cursed knife while he was running away.

That didn't matter now though, his injuries had been healed, and the Lady Bone Demon had yet to make another move. For now, sitting on the roof of the noodle shop, he was safe.

He starred down at the shattered pieces of the lantern in his hands.

With a sigh, he carefully extended his magic, putting the pieces back together again, reforming the lantern. He held it gently in his hands as he looked around the roof.

Now where was he gonna hide this-

"Macaque, I brought plums!"

Macaque startled upon hearing MK's voice, he'd been so distracted focusing on putting the lantern back together, he hadn't even heard the other climb up the ladder to the roof.

The.....lantern....

Which he told MK was gone....

In a rush to avoid MK seeing the lantern, Macaque did the first thing he thought of.

He shoved the lantern into himself, letting it mix into his own magic. Not the smartest way of storing it, it was a highly magical item, who knows how it would act while in direct contact with his magic, but it was the first thing he could think of, and this was only a temporary measure, so it should be fine.

....Probably.

"Hey bud, what's up?" Macaque asked, turning around to face MK, who was setting a small bowl of plums on the ground. "...What are the plums for?"

"You said that if I brought you some plums, you'd tell me about the time Monkey King walked into a tree." MK said, "And I fully expect you to keep your end of the bargain."

"Yeah, yeah, okay." Macaque said, grabbing the bowl of plums. "Well you see, what happened was-"

-

"That had to be the stupidest shit you've ever pulled, Wukong." Macaque said, breathing heavily as he leaned against a tree. Wukong for his part, just smirked.

"I didn't see you try to stop me." He said, laughing as Macaque glared at him.

"I did try to stop you. Multiple times. But you didn't listen." He said, "You really need to stop picking a fight with every random person you meet."

"You're no fun at all." Wukong said, yawning as he stretched. Macaque rolled his eyes.

"Whatever." He said, "Anyways, we should probably head back to the cave, get some rest-"

"I'm not tired." Wukong said.

"You literally yawned a few seconds ago."

"Doesn't mean I'm tired. Besides, there's still more stuff to do." Wukong said, turning and walking off further into the mountain's forest, Macaque trailing behind him. As they walked, Macaque noticed Wukong start slouching, little by little. He didn't say anything though, knowing that Wukong would only deny it if asked.

It would be better just to watch and deal with the consequences when they came.

And oh boy, did the consequences come: in the form of Wukong turning a corner and immediately walking directly into a tree. The tree snapped in half, falling to the ground, with Wukong tumbling down after it. There was a loud thump, as dust and leaves were sent flying into the air. A few nearby birds called out in concern.

"Timber." Macaque said, a smirk on his face, walking over and crouching down beside where Wukong now lay on his back with a dazed expression on his face. "So. Not tired, huh?"

"Shut up." Wukong hissed, sitting up, pulling dirt and leaves out of his fur as he did so. "The tree just. Got in my way, that's all-"

"You're expecting me to believe that a tree got up and put itself in your path?" Macaque asked, "Wukong. I'm not stupid. Let's just hurry up and go back to the cave to rest already."

"I'm fine." Wukong said, moving to stand up, but wobbling a little, tipping backwards again-

Macaque caught him, keeping him from having another close encounter with the ground.

-

"I ended up having to carry him all the way back up the mountain." Macaque said, making little images with his shadows in order to give MK a better visual of what happened. "He ended up sleeping for like, 3 days. Took him still being tired when he woke up again for me to realize he'd gotten cursed. Wasn't hard to break it afterwards, but boy did Wukong protest the whole time. Practically had to tie him to his bed."

MK scribbled in his sketch book, and Macaque, out of curiosity, moved closer, looking over MK's shoulder to see a sketch of what Macaque had just described.

"....You're drawing this?" He asked. MK nodded.

"Yeah! I've got a lifetime goal of illustrating all of Monkey King's adventures!" MK said, pausing his sketching to show Macaque a quick flip through of the rest of the book. "...You got any other stories?"

"Lots." Macaque said, leaning back. "But you're gonna have to bring more plums if you want more stories. I'm not just gonna hand this info out for free."

"Of course, of course." MK said, standing up and walking back over to the ladder, mumbling to himself as he climbed back down. "I'm going to have to permanently add plums to my shopping list...."

Macaque stayed where he was, waiting patiently until he couldn't hear MK anymore, before letting out a relieved sigh.

That had been close.... No matter what, he couldn't let the others know that he still had the lantern. Revealing that would probably cause the others to push him away, they wouldn't trust him anymore, and he really couldn't have that. Hanging around them was the most advantageous position for him to be in right now, and he wasn't about to give it up any time soon.

...He still needed a place to hide it permanently, keeping it inside of himself probably wouldn't be a good idea in the long term. With that thought in mind, he mentally reached inwards with his magic, shadows starting to surround him as he prepared to take the lantern out-

"Hey, Macaque!"

Macaque startled again, the shadows that had condensed around him vanishing as though they'd been popped like party balloons as he whirled around to see-

Mei, who giggled at his shocked expression, holding up her phone and taking a quick picture of him before pocketing it.

"Would you two stop doing that?" Macaque asked, sighing as Mei circled around him.

"Hey, it's not my fault you didn't hear me coming." Mei said, giggling at the expression on Macaque's face. "Seriously, with all those ears you have it's a wonder you didn't-"

"What do you want." Macaque growled, "You wouldn't be here if you didn't want something."

"Wouldn't I?"

That. Wasn't a question Macaque felt that he could answer. He honestly couldn't think of a reason why any of MK's friends would want to be around him, but they hadn't really been pushing him away either....

Mei seemed a little concerned with how he'd suddenly gone silent though, so it was probably best to quickly change the subject.

"Ah, anyways, I have some stuff to do, so I don't really have time for you." Macaque said, walking past Mei and over to the edge of the rooftop. Distantly, he noted a weird tingling sensation come over him, but he ignored it, figuring it wasn't important.

"Oh, now that's a lie." Mei said, a smirk on her face. "You never do anything other than lounge around up here."

"Do not." Macaque said, crossing his arms. "I do plenty, you just haven't noticed."

"Oh yeah? Like what?"

Macaque pondered for a moment on how best to answer-

And that was when his foot started sinking into the shadow underneath of him.

Outwardly, Macaque remained perfectly calm, not letting Mei in on the fact that anything was amiss.

Inwardly, he panicked.

That was definitely not supposed to be happening, why was it happening it shouldn't be happening why was he l o s i n g  c o n t r o l-

He was snapped out of his panic when he heard the sound of an engine starting up behind him. Subtly looking over his shoulder, he could see MK, ready to drive off, probably to deliver some noodles.

Macaque made his decision in a split second.

Turning and pulling his foot out of the shadow it'd been sinking into, Macaque jumped off the roof. Ignoring Mei's shout of "Hey, wait!", he slipped into the shadow of the tuk tuk, just before MK started to drive away.

-

Macaque hung out in the shadow of the tuk tuk for about 15 minutes before he actually bothered to wonder where exactly MK was going.

MK slowed down a bit as he turned a corner, and Macaque figured it was as good a time as any to ask.

Carefully, he materialized on the back of the tuk tuk, then, after making sure there wasn't anything around for MK to accidentally hit should he swerve, asked;

"Where are you going?"

MK's foot slammed on the brakes, the tires screeching and Macaque almost falling off from the sudden inertia. As soon as they were still, MK whirled around, staring at Macaque, shocked.

"How long have you been there?" He asked, and the expression on his face genuinely made Macaque laugh.

"Oh, not very long." Macaque said, "I was riding along in the shadow for the most part."

"...You can do that?" MK asked, "You probably save like, so much money when traveling then-"

"Bold of you to assume that I have any money at all." Macaque said, "Anyways, you didn't answer the question. Where are you going?"

"Why do you want to know?" MK asked, crossing his arms. "And why are you here anyways? Usually you just stay on the roof, what changed?"

"Nothing! What, can't I just want to go for a ride once in a while?" Macaque said-

And his hand started sinking into the shadow beside him. Swiftly, he pulled it out, rubbing it to get rid of the remaining tingles. MK watched this happen with a look of suspicion.

"...Uh-huh, sure, like I believe that." He said, tone as dry as the desert. "And anyways, I don't think you'd want to-"

And then he paused, looking as though he'd just been hit with some kind of realization.

"Actually-" MK started, "I think it would be good if you came with me."

He turned back around, taking his foot off the break and turning back onto the road, speeding up a little.

"You still haven't told me where we're going." Macaque said.

"Oh, you'll soon find out."

Macaque had a feeling he wasn't going to like this.

-

He was right. He hated this.

Staring up at a temple that quite obviously belonged to Sun Wukong, Macaque regretted every decision he had made in his life that had led up to this moment.

He regretted it even more when the monkey himself opened the front gate.

"Ah, there you are kid!" Wukong said, "I was beginning to think you'd never show up!"

"I'm only 2 minutes late..." MK muttered, and Macaque couldn't help but laugh a bit at that.

Sun Wukong was not, exactly, known for being very patient after all.

"Oh, I see you brought... an audience." Wukong said, finally noticing that Macaque was, in fact, also there.

"Audience? Please, if anything I'm the lead actor." Macaque said.

"Yeah, sure, keep telling yourself that." MK said, and Macaque would've hit him where it not for the warning glance Wukong gave him.

-

Macaque ended up being dragged to MK's training sessions with Wukong, again and again. Some days it was because MK himself forcibly brought him along, and on other days it was because Macaque was simply avoiding Mei. (He denied the accusation that he was avoiding her when asked...and then almost tripped as his foot sank deeper into the shadows. Luckily he'd managed to blame it on a stray tree root, but he wasn't sure how long he could keep it up...) 

Over the course of said days, Macaque had tried multiple times to find a better place to hide the lantern than within his own magic. (He'd long since figured out that the lantern was reacting whenever he lied, thus messing with his own magic. He had no idea why it was doing this, but the why didn't really matter so long as he could find a way to stop it.) But of course, since karma was apparently out to get him, he was interrupted by someone every single time, forcing him to keep the lantern within himself, lest the others find out about it.

Honestly though, he was shocked that Wukong hadn't noticed, considering his golden vision and all, he should've been able to see the fact that the lantern's magic was contained within Macaque.

(Macaque had nearly panicked when, on day 2 of him following MK to his training, Wukong had leaned close to him with a contemplative look on his face.

"...Why are you so close to me?" Macaque had asked, and huh, how long had that slit been in Wukong's eyebrow? Had it been there for a while and Macaque had just never noticed or-

"I'm checking to see how much of the glamor you're wearing." Was Wukong's response, as he studied him. "You're still recovering, you probably shouldn't be using magic to cover all of it."

So....Wukong was concerned about him. Macaque couldn't really imagine why, but still-

"You didn't need to get so close to me- can't you obviously see I'm wearing it?" Macaque had asked, gesturing at his own face. Wukong, surprisingly, winced at that, finally backing up a bit.

"Well, I guess you seem fine." He'd muttered, turning away, "Don't know why I was even worried."

And Macaque should've been relieved, but for some reason-

For some reason he felt like something was wrong.)

-

Macaque relaxed in the shade of a tree, watching Wukong train MK. It was almost soothing to watch the mentor and student trade hits as they sparred.

But of course, being relaxed didn't mean that Macaque didn't notice things.

Like how Wukong was a full 2 seconds slower in blocking MK's attacks than he'd been when Macaque had stolen MK's powers. Which wasn't really something that would normally raise concern- he probably just wasn't being as serious as he would be when encountering an actual threat, but.

Something about it was making the alarm bells that had been constantly ringing in Macaque's head louder. (Something he, obviously, didn't appreciate. Loud sounds, even mental ones, weren't very pleasant for him).

Macaque, of course, was never one to miss an opportunity to call Wukong out.

Which was why it was so surprising when MK beat him to the punch.

"Monkey King, are you okay?" MK asked, and Macaque sat up straighter, paying more attention, because oh, he wanted to hear this.

"Of course bud! Why do you ask?" Wukong said, and despite the fact that his back was to Macaque, the shadow monkey just knew that the other was lying.

"Well I don't know, you've just- seemed off, is all." MK said, shifting back and forth as he seemed to contemplate what to say. "Like, a little slower maybe? And I haven't seen you use your cloud in days, which is kinda weird, since you normally seem to use it-"

Wukong stiffened, and it was at this point that Macaque got genuinely curious, deciding that he had to see what kind of expression the other monkey was making right now. So, he slipped down into the shadows of the tree, and reappeared out of MK's shadow, startling the both of them as he slung an arm around MK's shoulder. 

"Kid's right y'know." Macaque said, putting on a smirk as he looked at the other. "Even I've noticed, and I've barely even been paying attention."

That was a lie, and he barely kept himself from wincing as he felt the tingle of magic flow through his body.

Only for nothing to seemingly happen. That was...mildly concerning, he'd felt the flow of magic, so something had definitely occurred, he just couldn't tell what.

...Well, whatever. If he couldn't notice it then it probably wasn't important.

Macaque refocused back in on the subject at hand, studying Wukong's expression. Nothing he hadn't expected, the usual nervous smile and look in his eyes that indicated he was lying where all there.

Or, well, most of it was expected.

The slight twinge of fear was new.

"I'm telling you, there's nothing wrong!" Wukong said, taking a slight step back. "I'm fine, really!"

Both MK and Macaque rolled their eyes in sync.

"If you're so fine, then explain to me why you keep waiting until MK is almost right in front of you before blocking him?" Macaque asked, MK nodding along as he spoke. "Seriously, it's like you can't see it unless it's close-"

Both Macaque and MK froze, coming to the same conclusion at the same time. Wukong, seeing the expressions on their faces, scratched his cheek nervously, avoiding their gaze.

"Oh my heavens." MK said, "You need glasses."

"I do not-"

-

Tang had been having a peaceful day at the noodle shop.

Having, being the key word.

Because suddenly, said peaceful day was interrupted as Macaque appeared out of nowhere beside him. Tang barely kept himself from startling out of his stool. (He'd started to grow used to the shadow monkey's sudden appearances, but that didn't really make them any less startling).

Macaque, for a moment, looked confused as to where he was, looking around in surprise, before taking notice of Tang and schooling his features into something unreadable.

"Oh." He said, "Uh. Hello?"

"Hello to you too, Macaque?" Tang said, a little confused, before finally taking notes of one important fact.

Macaque's eyes were fully purple.

"...Ah." Tang said, "Not Macaque."

"Hm, smart man." 'Macaque' said, leaning back, "Nope, I'm not the original. Just a shadow clone, that's all I am."

"Why are you here? Is there trouble?" Tang asked, worry seeping into his voice. The clone just shrugged.

"Dunno." 'Macaque' said, "One minute, I didn't exist, the next, I'm here."

"How can you just not know?" Tang asked, blinking in disbelief.

"He probably created me on accident." 'Macaque' said, almost as casually as though he was reading out a morning newspaper.

"That can happen??"

"Well, not normally, but in certain cases-" The clone started, then paused, eyes narrowing. "Well, actually, if that's the case, he probably doesn't know I exist right now..."

"Shouldn't you... tell him?" Tang asked, and watched as the clone contemplated it.

"Well I mean, not telling him would be kind of funny." He said, before shaking himself out of it. "No- no, you're right, I should probably tell him."

The clone proceeded to go completely silent, and Tang watched him with thinly veiled concern. After about 2 minutes of silence, with the clone making increasingly dramatic facial expressions, Tang decided to comment again.

"...Are you actually contacting him right now?" He asked, and the clone broke out of whatever state he was in to glance at him.

"Hm? Oh- yeah." He said, "Mental connection, y'know?"

"Then how come MK doesn't ever-"

"Cause he doesn't know it exists."

-

Of course. Of course the lantern had made a clone.

That certainly explained why there hadn't been any obvious reaction after the magic tingle.

Although, it was weird that the clone had ended up in the noodle shop. Why on Earth would it have formed there?

(In all honesty, it was probably because, once again, Macaque felt safe there. But he never planned to admit that fact, not even to himself, so he slid that thought back into the deepest part of his mind.)

As it was now though, Macaque sat back under the tree, head in hands, mentally communicating with the clone as MK and Wukong continued to argue about whether or not the Monkey King needed glasses.

"C'mon!" MK said, stomping his foot on the ground, "Just admit that you're nearsighted already! It's obvious!"

"I don't need glasses!" Wukong said, hopping backwards as MK tried to tackle him. "I can see just fine!"

This statement was contradicted, as MK suddenly moved backwards, distancing himself from his mentor. Macaque could see Wukong squint, something he wouldn't normally do-

And then MK moved forwards, with a speed Macaque honestly hadn't seen him use before (and wasn't that funny, that somehow this argument was actually causing MK's speed to improve) and managed to tackle Wukong to the ground.

A roll of parchment fell out of one of Wukong's pockets.

"Oh?" Macaque said, standing up, temporarily blocking his shadow clone's messages out of his mind (it was fine anyways, it seemed to have gotten distracted), he walked over, picking up the roll of parchment. "What's this?"

"Wh-Hey!" Wukong said, looking up from his position of being pinned to the ground by MK, squinting his eyes as he focused on Macaque. "Don't- give that back!"

"Well now, if you're so pressed over it then I kinda have to look, right?" Macaque said, slowly unrolling the scroll despite Wukong's protests. MK, surprisingly, kept Wukong pinned, watching with curiosity as Macaque looked over the parchment's contents. "....Huh."

"What is it?" MK asked, and Macaque turned, holding out the unrolled parchment so that MK could see it. Wukong, at this point, stopped struggling, simply laying on the ground face down.

"Tell me, Wukong, why exactly do you need a map?" Macaque asked, crouching down in front of the other. "You planning on going on vacation again or something?"

"You're going to leave me again?" MK asked, and maybe Macaque was just hearing things (rather unlikely....) but there was almost a note of panic in MK's voice.

Wukong must've picked up on the panic too, as he quickly jumped into reassurance.

"Woah, hey, I'm not- I'm not vacationing any time soon." He said, attempting to shift around a little, before sighing. "...Could you get off me now, please?"

MK scrambled to get off his mentor, Wukong slowly sitting up and stretching a little. Macaque rolled his eyes at the display, shaking the map a little to draw their attention back to it.

"Hey, I'm not letting you off that easily." He said, "Explain the map. Now."

Wukong sighed again, avoiding both Macaque and MK's eyes.

"...Fine, so maybe I.....wasn't exactly on vacation...." Wukong muttered, "I was...searching for something. A weapon."

"...To fight the Lady Bone Demon, right?" MK asked, and Wukong looked at him in shock.

"How'd you-"

"Maybe leaving your successor alone when there's a powerful demon on the loose isn't the best decision, Wukong." Macaque said, rolling up the map and putting into his own pocket, before lightly rubbing his arm, a few specific... memories running through his mind. "Seriously, be glad she still hasn't gotten everything she needs."

"What do you know about what she-" MK started, then cut himself off, looking at Macaque as though he'd been given the answer to everything. "She's the one who hurt you."

Macaque didn't respond, turning around and walking away.

"Hey wait- where are you-" Wukong started-

"I'm going back to my spot under the tree." Macaque said, "You two can sort through whatever your 'vacation' was about on your own."

-

"...Huh." The shadow clone muttered, eyes closed as he seemingly listened in on whatever was happening to the real Macaque. "That's.....interesting."

"What is?" Tang asked, curiosity getting the better of him.

"Nothing really important." The clone said- and started melting slightly. Tang looked on in confusion as the clone suddenly panicked, stumbling over his words. "Wait- no I mean- it, it is important, but not really something I should be the one to tell you about?"

The melting stopped, the shadow clone returning to normal as he let out a sigh of relief.

"Does that....usually happen?" Tang asked.

"No." The clone answered, but didn't elaborate. Tang figured he'd just have to ask the real Macaque about it later. "...Anyways, do you think you could help the real me out with something?"

"Depends on what said something is." Tang said, crossing his arms.

"It's nothing bad, I promise." The shadow clone said, chuckling. "But, would you happen to know where I could buy a pair of glasses?"

-

"This is dumb. I look stupid."

"Aw come on Monkey King, I think you look cool!" Mei said, MK nodding along with her. "The glasses suit you just fine!"

Wukong sighed, sitting in the noodle shop with his arms crossed, leaning on the counter.

"What's with the sudden need for glasses anyways?" Pigsy asked, sliding a bowl of peach slices over to the monkey. Subtly, he also handed a bowl of plums over to Macaque, who was sitting slightly off to the side in the shadows.

Wukong stiffened, pausing for a moment before opening his mouth to answer-

"And don't lie to me." Pigsy added, and Wukong slouched a little.

(Macaque had to admit, it was kinda fun to watch the Monkey King basically get reprimanded like a child.

The only reason he didn't comment on it was that he was sure that if he did, he'd get the exact same treatment.)

There was a moment of silence, before Wukong groaned, laying his head down on the table, and muttering something that was too quiet for the others to hear, but nearly made Macaque choke on the plum he'd been chewing on.

"What?!" He said, in pure shock, "You- you're losing your powers?!"

Almost instantly, there was pandemonium.

"What do you mean you're losing your powers!" MK practically screeched, "That can happen?!"

"I don't know, but it's the only explanation I've got!" Wukong said, throwing his hands up into the air. "I can't use my golden vision or my cloud anymore- and I don't know why!"

"How, exactly, does this relate back to you suddenly needing glasses?" Pigsy asked, completely ignoring how the others where in varying states of a mental breakdown.

"I- I usually just use my golden vision to make up for it." Wukong said, "Like, magic contacts, you know?"

"...And now you can't do that anymore." Tang said, "Because you can't use your golden vision."

"......Yeah." Wukong sighed.

"Is there...anything we can do to help?" Sandy tentatively asked.

"Well, I was planning on going out and finding.... something." Wukong said, turning to look at Macaque. "Speaking of which, you promised you'd give me the map back once I got glasses, and I'm wearing them now so-"

Macaque tsk'd, pulling the map out of his pocket and tossing it over to the other monkey, who caught it and placed it upon the counter. 

"It's not like I can go and get it now though." Wukong said, the others staring over him to look down at the map. "Since I can't use my cloud anymore..."

"I have an airship." Sandy said, and Wukong turned to look at him in confusion. "We could use that, to travel there."

"What- no. No. Absolutely not." Wukong said, jumping up onto the counter (ignoring Pigsy disapproving glare), and staring down at the others. "In case you don't remember, you guys have something called mortality. I'm not going to just bring you guys with me-"

"Like you have much of a choice." A new voice said, and Macaque barely kept himself from startling as he suddenly noticed Red Son beside him.

"How long have you been there-" Macaque hissed, but was ultimately ignored.

"You coming too, Red Boy?" Mei asked, despite Wukong's faint protests that nobody was coming with him, thank you very much-

"I have nothing better to do." Red Son said, shrugging. "My parents went on vacation a little while ago, I've just been hanging around since then."

"So, we're all going?" MK asked, glancing over at Macaque, who, realizing he was being stared at, sighed, standing up and stepping closer to them, in the light.

"Fine, whatever." He said, "If you guys want me to go, I'll come, but I'm not happy about it."

The others stared at him, with a mixture of confusion and shock.

"....What?" Macaque asked, already dreading the answer. MK slowly pointed behind him.

"Has your shadow always moved like that?" He asked, and Macaque didn't even bother to look, instead immediately slamming his back against the wall to cover it as he threw a glamor over his own shadow. He wasn't sure what it had been doing that the others saw, but he absolutely refused to let it be seen any longer.

"...Whatever it was you saw, forget about it." He said, and while most of the others simply shrugged, accepting it as just him being weird, looking away-

The look in Mei and Wukong's eyes did not promise good things.

-

The first day on the ship, everyone was mainly focused on settling in, making sure all their stuff was where it needed to be, choosing rooms, so on and so forth.

And so, for the most part, Macaque was free from whatever Wukong and Mei were planning.

The second day on the ship, however.

The second day on the ship made Macaque wish the airship had a plank so he could jump off of it.

It had started small.

"Hey, Macaque?" Mei asked, grabbing his attention before practically shoving her phone into his face. "What do you think about this?"

Macaque could barely register the image in front of his face, but eventually parsed it out to be a picture of- a kitten??

"I hate it." He said, instinctively, and almost immediately started sinking into the shadow beneath him. Mei, being so close to him, immediately noticed, confusion flashing on her face for a brief second, before a smirk took over.

"If you say so." She said, and backed off, turning away as Macaque hurriedly pulled his feet out of the shadows before he could sink any further.

Some part of him hoped that would be the end of it.

As soon as he ran into Wukong though, he instantly knew that this wasn't over by a long shot.

"Macaque." Wukong said, leaning against the wall, and Macaque instantly noticed that his glasses were missing.

"You owe Tang 5 cents." Macaque hissed, it was well known that Tang had made the Monkey King promise to pay him whenever the monkey was caught not wearing his glasses. Macaque, of course, didn't really care, but he was looking for some way to distract Wukong from whatever he was planning to do to him.

"I'll pay him later." Wukong shrugged, and Macaque mentally cursed. "So. How'd you sleep last night?"

Macaque wasn't going to be led into the trap this obviously was.

"How did you sleep last night?" He shot back.

"I didn't." Wukong said, perfectly honest. "I did see you walking around for a bit though, so I'm curious as to whether or not you slept. You need it more than I do, remember?"

That.... was true. Macaque did need to sleep more than Wukong did, but-

"I slept just fine." Macaque lied, sighing as he felt the glamor over his ears fade away. Wukong crossed his arms, a concerned look on his face, but Macaque ignored it, choosing instead to walk into a nearby shadow to teleport to another location on the ship, throwing his glamor back on as he did so.

(He, in truth, was in the same boat as Wukong, both literally and figuratively. He hadn't slept at all, instead laying awake all night, worrying.

Wukong was losing his powers. MK was not nearly close enough to being ready. The others, outside of Red Son, might have some powers or abilities, but they are no where near close enough to being capable of beating the Lady Bone Demon.

He'd have to rely on the unknowns of this weapon Wukong was seeking out.

Macaque didn't like relying on unknowns.)

He emerged in the ships engine room-

And very nearly fell right on top of Red Son.

"Watch where you're going!" Red Son huffed, dodging out of the way and angrily brushing non existent dirt off of his jacket. "Seriously, what is with you guys and trying to knock me to the ground?"

"Maybe you just look very squishable." Macaque muttered, not really intending on giving Red Son a proper response. He actually didn't want to interact with anyone right now, especially not Red Son, so he turned, moving to leave the engine room-

"Not so fast." Red Son said, stopping Macaque in his tracks by grabbing hold of the back of his scarf. "I've got some questions for you."

Hm. That didn't bode well.

"What makes you think that I have any answers?" Macaque asked, only to be met by a deadpan look that promised-

That promised fire if he didn't co-operate.

If there was a list of things Macaque strictly didn't want, fire would be number one, at the top of the list.

"...What do you want to know?" He asked, slumping a little in defeat.

"Why you stayed." Red Son said, elaborating when Macaque only looked at him in confusion. "Your wound healed. You were perfectly free to go. And yet.... you stayed. Like you were....trying to protect something."

"Uh, yeah, myself, obviously." Macaque said, shrugging. "Hanging out around the Monkey King and his successor is the safest place to be after-"

"That's not it." Red Son said, and Macaque froze. "Sure, staying around them while you're weak makes sense, you'd need someone to protect you. But after you've recovered? Once you're strong again? Sure, I can understand you getting attached, but always staying around them is a little strange."

There was a glint, in Red Son's eye, and Macaque suddenly remembered a moment, yesterday, where Mei had dragged the fire demon off to the side to have a little conversation. He'd thought nothing about it at the time, but now-

"You say that you're protecting yourself....But at this point, somehow, you're mostly protecting them, aren't you?" Red Son asked, "Whatever it is you're hiding, you're hiding it to protect both yourself and them."

Macaque didn't answer, instead staring at the floor.

Whatever Mei and Wukong had been planning, Red Son was in on it.

And he was very clearly not as interested in taking a subtle approach.

"Your powers have been on the fritz lately." Red Son said, almost like it was an afterthought to his whole theory. "Don't think that we haven't noticed. It's different from Wukong though, in that you're not losing your powers, if anything, it's like they're getting stronger, almost as though they're being drawn from a different source-"

Macaque didn't want to stay here any longer.

"I have no idea what you're talking about." He lied, and didn't resist as his powers fluctuated in response, letting himself completely fall into the shadow behind him.

-

He ended up falling out of a shadow on the ceiling.

Luckily, it was in his own room, so no-one else was there to witness it.

Didn't mean it didn't hurt though.

"...That's gonna bruise later...." He muttered to himself as he slowly pushed himself off the floor and stood up.

For a moment, he just stood there, slightly dazed.

And then he started pacing.

This was not good, the others were onto him, he wouldn't be able to keep this up for much longer.

Not to mention the lantern, it's influence on his abilities was getting stronger the longer he left it inside himself. There was literally no telling how far it's influence would go.

(He'd already started noticing some strands of his fur turning purple. It wasn't anything that couldn't easily be covered up by a glamor, but the fact it was happening at all was incredibly concerning.)

He had to find another place to hide it. But where-

And suddenly, Macaque was struck by an idea. A rather bad idea, honestly, there was sure to be consequences from this, but it was the only idea he had right now.

-

The ship's clock struck 4 am.

Macaque slipped into MK's room, holding the faintly glowing lantern.

For a moment, he stood there, beside MK's bed, letting the lantern hover over top of him, thinking.

Maybe......maybe he shouldn't do this. He could probably find another way, something more reasonable than a hastily made, sleep deprived, decision. After all, the lantern had proven that it came with side effects, who knows how it'd affect MK?

Well. If he's actually being honest, he was hoping that the Monkey King Magic MK had would effectively cancel out the lanterns effects.

...He had no way of proving that it could do that though.

After a few more minutes of standing there, mentally debating, Macaque finally came to the decision that, yeah, this wasn't a good idea, he should just go back to his room and try to sleep for the few remaining hours of the night, come up with a better plan tomorrow-

A loud sound clanged from the engine room, and Macaque startled, barely keeping himself from squeaking as the sudden noise surprised him, squeezing his hands on instinct-

And snapping the lantern in half, the bottom piece falling and merging into MK's magic.

For a moment, Macaque just stood there in shock.

Then MK curled up, letting out a small noise of pain as little golden and purple sparks started shooting across his body, and Macaque panicked, reaching into MK's magic and hurriedly pulling out the other half of the lantern, shoving both pieces back into himself as MK started to stir.

By the time MK was sitting up, blinking his eyes open, rubbing his arms and looking around the room in confusion, Macaque was gone.

-

The next day, Wukong practically broke down Macaque's door, MK in tow.

"Mine explaining to me why there are traces of shadow magic all over MK?" He asked, before pausing as he registered the scene in front of him.

Macaque was curled up under his blankets, a pillow over his head effectively hiding him from view. The only part of the other monkey that Wukong could actually see was his tail, which was dangling over the side.

This wasn't really that weird, Wukong fully remembered that the other monkey was in no way a morning person.

...It was slightly more weird due to the fact that it was lunchtime.

"Is he...okay?" MK asked, leaning over his mentor's shoulder.

"You tell me." Wukong said, "You're the one with the golden vision right now."

Macaque's tail, which had been swinging idly, froze, and suddenly there was a mad scramble as he tried to pull all the blankets off of himself and sit up at the same time. Essentially, he ended up rather tangled, and was far too late to stop MK from using his golden vision.

-

At first there was nothing MK hadn't already expected. The bags under the eyes, the mussed up fur, the six ears and the scar. These were all things he knew that he'd find.

The purple streaks in Macaque's fur was surprising.

But not nearly as surprising as the lantern that lay intermingled with Macaque's own magic.

"What do you see, kid?" Wukong asked, and MK watched as Macaque sat up straighter, finally managing to pull the blankets off of himself.

"Nothing! He sees nothing! Right, bud?" Macaque asked, a panicked twinge in his voice, and-

MK could see the lantern flare, the magic traversing Macaque's entire body, before condensing around his arm.

Which proceeded to sink into the shadow on the bed.

"...Well." MK started, staring as Macaque pulled his hand out of the shadow and rubbed the back of his neck nervously. "That's not something you see every day."

-

"So I was right then?" Red Son asked, "He's been storing the lantern within himself?"

"How'd you even know about the lantern..." Macaque muttered, from where he sat at the kitchen table, leaning back with his arms crossed. His glamor had been taken down, allowing everyone to see the purple streaks in his fur.

The lantern sat on the table in front of him.

"I have my sources." Red Son said, looking overly proud of himself. Macaque huffed, looking away.

"I thought you said the lantern was destroyed?" Mei said, using a spoon to lightly poke the lantern, almost as though it would grow legs and run away.

"Yeah, like, I saw you break it-" MK started, and then was stopped mid sentence as Macaque raised his fist, before harshly crushing the lantern, breaking it into pieces. A few of the others jumped. "What did you do that for-"

Macaque simply raised his hand, letting his magic call out, and letting the pieces slide back into their proper place. By the end of it, the lantern looked as good as new, as though it'd never been broken. MK watched the display with wide eyes.

"I did break the lantern." Macaque said, "It's just not that hard to fix."

"Regardless-" Wukong started, grabbing the lantern out of Macaque's hand, the lantern switching from it's usual purple to a soft golden glow as he did so. "You seriously should've told us that you have this. It would've saved you so much trouble."

"Would you have trusted me, if you knew I still had it?" Macaque asked, only to be met with silence. "...Yeah. Thought so."

There was a moment of silence as Macaque sat there, looking down, not meeting anyone's eyes. Then Sandy softly placed his hand on Macaque's shoulder.

"It's not that we wouldn't have trusted you." He said, gently. "We would've just taken a bit longer to come around, is all."

"Uh-huh, sure, keep telling yourself that." Macaque said, still looking at the floor, and thus missing the entirely silent conversation everyone else shared.

They all agreed they probably weren't going to get very far with this issue any time soon, by the look of things. (That didn't mean they wouldn't bring it up later, though.)

"If you thought we wouldn't trust you if we knew you had the lantern, then why didn't you just, I don't know, throw it away?" MK asked, and Macaque sighed, slouching down in his chair.

"...Lady Bone Demon wanted it." He muttered, and everyone immediately stood up ramrod straight.

"What?" Wukong hissed, staring down at the lantern in his hands as though he was seeing it in a new light. "Why- what could she possibly want with-"

"Don't know, didn't stick around long enough to find out." Macaque said, shrugging. MK and Red Son both looked horrified.

"That's how you got injured." MK muttered, "She must've captured you because she wanted the lantern...."

"The Lady Bone Demon has a cursed blade..." Red Son said, under his breath, only Macaque hearing him.

"Yeah yeah, I got captured, I got injured, whatever, it's all over with now." Macaque said, waving a hand around as though he wasn't making light of something horrifying. "Anyways, anyone else got any bright ideas on where to hide the lantern?"

"....Was that a pun." Wukong asked, "Seriously. You reveal that the Lady Bone Demon is after both you and the lantern and then you swap topics with a pun?"

"You got a problem with that?" Macaque asked, a smirk on his face. There was a moment of tense silence as the two of them stared at each other.

Wukong set the lantern back down on the table.

And then tackled Macaque out of his chair and onto the floor. Macaque let out a startled yelp as they went down, before quickly switching to clawing at the other as Wukong easily pinned him to the ground-

And then suddenly Wukong's grip weakened, and Macaque easily reversed their positions, pinning Wukong to the floor. For a moment the Monkey King looked confused, before a look of nervous realization appeared on his face.

"Uh- guys?" He said, nervously giggling as Macaque and the others stared at him in confusion. "Um. I think I just lost my super strength?"

[wh0reyp0tter]

Chapter One: Fucking Dragons

Masterlist for this series

Y/N Y/L/N is chosen as one of the champions in the Triwizard Tournament with one of her best friends, Harry Potter. Along with the struggles of being one of the champions, she also has to navigate her feelings for her best friend, Hermione Granger. But, as far as Y/N knows, Hermione fancies Krum.

Includes: Angst, pining, swearing, wlw, bi!reader (mentions of flirting with men), smut, name-calling, Krum hating, fighting, physical violence, fighting, mentions of injuries, and flirting

_______________________________________________________________

I groan as my head collapses into my hands. I feel a hand on my back as I look up to see Harry looking down at me. 

“What’s wrong?” He asks softly. 

“Hermione’s off with Krum,” I seethe loudly. Harry laughs softly as he pats my back. 

“Well, she does have no idea you fancy her,” Harry points out. I shoot him a glare as I flip him off. 

“Shut it, Potter,” I say. Harry and I both were picked for the Triwizard Tournament. We are competing alongside Viktor Krum, Fleur Delacour, and Cedric Diggory. 

“Did you hear what the first task is?” Harry says as he sits down. I shake my head as he leans closer to me. “Dragons,” he says quietly. My eyes widen in shock as I look at him. 

“Fucking Dragons?” I say loudly. Harry hit my arm as he shushed me. 

“Shut up, Y/L/N,” he seethes. I roll my eyes as I let my head fall into my hands again. 

“Fucking Dragons, just my luck,” I groan as I shake my head quickly. Harry stands up as he rubs my back. 

“I’ll see you later, Y/N/N,” he says. I wave him off as I say goodbye. Hours later I’m sitting in Hermione and I’s dorm room as a lamp flickers softly next to me. I huff in anger as I ball up the paper in front of me and throw it in the bin. I pull out another bit of parchment. I start sketching some ideas before one pops into my head. I sit up brightly as I hear the door get pushed open. I hear it close again as someone appears behind me. 

“What are you doing?” I hear Hermione’s soft voice ask. 

“Trying to figure out this riddle,” I say, completely focused on the paper in front of me. 

“Not really a riddle is it? You just have to get the golden egg from the dragon,” Hermione points out. 

“Yeah, but getting something from a dragon! Isn’t that great!” I exclaim, my tone dripping with sarcasm. 

“Hey, no need to be an arse, just saying,” Hermione says as she folds her arms over her chest. I shake my head as I begin to think. 

“Wand, wand, wands,” I say softly as I tap my head softly. 

“Why don’t you use your wand to accio something to help?” She says as she leans against my side. 

“Do you think it’s possible to accio the egg?” I ask as I look up at Hermione. She shrugs as she looks down at me. “If not, you could always accio a broom,” she says. 

“Has anyone ever told you you’re a bloody genius?” I say as I look up and smile at the girl.

“Once or twice,” Hermione responds with a smile. I smile as I laugh and roll my eyes. 

“So modest,” I laugh as I yawn. 

“You should sleep, Y/N. The first task is tomorrow,” she says as she pats my head. 

“Good idea, H,” I say softly as I lean my head against her side. She runs her hand through my hair slowly. I stand up as I shut off my lamp and walk to my bed. I pull back the quilt as I shuffle into my bed. 

“Night darling,” Hermione smiles softly. 

“Night ‘Mione,” I say as I yawn. My eyes close as I fall asleep.

 I blink softly as the light pours in through the windows. I see Hermione still fast asleep. I smile as I walk over to her before shaking her softly. 

“Hermione,” I say softly. She rolls over as she whines loudly. “Come on love, we gotta go down for breakfast.” She sits up as she blinks confused before looking at me. 

“Hi,” she says sleepily. 

“Hey, gorgeous,” I say with a smile. Hermione gives me a sleepy smile as she leans against my torso. 

“Ready for breakfast?” She asks as she stands with a yawn. 

“Have to get dressed first, darling,” I smile. She shuffles to her closet as I move to the bathroom to pull on my robes. I walk out as Hermione walks in, I toss my hair into a ponytail as I sit on my bed. 

“Ready?” Hermione asks as she comes out. I nod as we both make our way to the Great Hall. We walk through the doors before taking our seat with Ron and Harry. 

“You excited, Harry?” I say as I look at the brown-haired boy in front of me. 

“I have no idea what I’m gonna do,” he groans as he puts his head in his hands. 

“I’m on the same boat you are mate,” I say as I reach for a muffin. 

“Like, what are we supposed to do with only wands against dragons?” Harry says as he reaches for a scone and takes a bite. 

“Accio. That’s what I’m gonna do,” I say before biting into my muffin. 

“You’re brilliant,” he says as his eyes lighten. 

“Not me, Hermione. She’s the one who brought it up last night,” I smile as I bump into the small girl. She blushes as she smiles at me. 

“I just shoved you into the right direction,” Hermione says. 

“Come on, H, now's not the time to be modest,” I tease as I poke her arm. 

“Shut up,” she murmurs as she blushes. I laugh as Ron and Harry look at us. 

“When does the first task start?” Ron asks with a mouthful of food. 

“In like, 15 minutes,” Harry replies. 

“Chew and swallow before speaking, Ronald,” Hermione scolds as she glares at the ginger. Ron rolls his eyes as he sticks his tongue out, his half chewed food showing. Hermione gags as I laugh softly. After we finish breakfast Harry and I go change into our tournament gear. Once we finish getting ready we make our way to the big white tent. 

“Hey Y/N, Hey Harry,” Cedric greets us with a smile. 

“Hey Ced,” I smile. I pull him in for a small hug as Harry greets him as well. 

“You guys nervous?” He asks as he looks at us. 

“A little,” I say softly. Cedric rubs my arm softly as he gives me a smile. 

“Thanks for the tip by the way,” Cedric says to Harry quietly. 

“No problem,” Harry says as he pats his back. I hear a quiet voice say my name. I look over to see Hermione’s head poking through the back of the tent. I move over quickly. 

“Y/N, is that you?” She asks softly. 

“Yeah, it’s me, H,” I smile. 

“How are you feeling?” Hermione asks as her voice wavers with nerves. 

“I’ll be okay, Dove,” I say softly. I watch as she pushes into the tent as she embraces me tightly. 

“Please be careful,” she says as she tucks her head under mine. I laugh softly as I hug her tightly. 

“I’ll be fine ‘Mione,” I say. 

“Glad to know you care about my safety,” Harry chuckles from behind us. We let go as Hermione hugs him tightly. 

“You be careful too you git,” Hermione laughs. Harry smiles as he pats her back softly. 

“Thanks, H,” he smiles. I hear a faint click as I turn to see Rita Skeeter standing there with her annoying self-writing quill in the air. 

“Oh a young love triangle! Y/N Y/L/N, pining after Harry Potter, the chosen one, while he’s in love with Hermione Granger!” She exclaims. Harry glares at her as she clicks another photo.

“I’m not pining after anyone you absolute twat,” I say with an eye roll. Skeeter laughs as she looks at Viktor.

“And this one is pining after Granger!” She exclaims as she clicks a picture of Viktor. His face turns red as he ignores her. I roll my eyes again as I turn back to Hermione. I see her looking at Krum as Harry’s giving me a knowing look. 

“Miss. Granger! What are you doing here?” Dumbledor asks as he enters the tent. 

“I was just leaving, professor. Good luck Y/N, good luck Harry,” she says with a soft smile. 

“Each of you will be picking a dragon, this will be the dragon who will be protecting the golden egg you need to capture in order to make it to the first task,” Dumbledor says. We each nod before Hagrid presents us with a brown bag. Cedric pulled out the Swedish Short-Snout. Next was Fleur who pulled out the Common Welsh Green. After her, Viktor pulled out the Chinese Fireball. Harry had pulled out a Hungarian Horntail, the meanest dragons of them all. Next I pulled out Hebridean Black. I close my eyes in frustration as I look over at Harry. Of course we got the two most dangerous dragons. We each hand our dragons to our coaches, mine and Harry’s being Madeye. I shake my head quickly before Cedric’s name is called to compete. 

“Good luck Ced,” I say as I pat the tall boy’s back. He shoots me a smile before walking out of the tent as the crowd erupts in cheers. I move to watch as he stands in front of the huge sleeping dragon. After a few moments the dragon looks at Cedric before letting out a loud roar as a large flame ignites in the air. Cedric is quick to draw his wand before casting a spell on a nearby rock. I watch as the rock shakes and grows four legs before a large head appears. The body follows quickly as the former rock turns into a grey dog. It barks loudly causing the dragon’s attention to shift off Cedric. He darts towards the egg quickly, he picks it up in his hands before holding up above his head with a smile. The crowd erupts into cheers and screams. I watch as the dragon turns to look at Cedric. It lets out another large flame as it hits his face. He doubles over in pain as someone quickly casts the sleeping spell on the dragon. Cedric is ushered into the tent again as he holds the egg in one hand and his face in the other. 

“You did brilliant Ced!” Harry exclaims as he walks towards the injured boy. 

“Thanks Harry,” Cedric says with a bright smile. Harry’s face turns red as I walk over. 

“Good thinking Ced, that was awesome!” I cheer as I pat the boy on the back. I watch as Madame Pompfrey gives him a potion that he downs quickly. 

“Thanks, Y/N/N. I can’t wait to see what you have in mind,” he coughs as he wipes his mouth with the sleeve of his robes. 

“Nothing as good as yours,” I smile. He shakes his head with a small smile as the burn on his face disappears. Fleur’s name is called as I talk with Cedric and Harry. Once she returns I congratulate her as she smiles and hugs me softly. 

“Thank you, your name is Y/N, yes?” Fleur says with a small smile. 

“Yeah, I’m Y/N, sorry we haven’t formally met,” I say as I rub the back of my neck softly. 

“It is okay, it has been very hectic lately,” she replies as a small giggle leaves her lips. 

“Yeah it has, just wanted to say the sleep enchantment was brilliant,” I smile. 

“Thank you very much. I can not wait to see what you have in mind!” The veela smiles at me happily. 

“Nothing as brilliant as you,” I reply. 

“I am sure that is not true,” she gives me a small smile as she hugs me softly. Viktor is called out next, the buff boy walks out as the crowd erupts in cheers. I roll my eyes as I look at Harry. 

“You and Fleur sure do seem cozy,” he teases. I roll my eyes as I punch his arm. 

“Shut up Potter,” I scoff with a blush. 

“Thought you were into ‘Mione?” He says as he leans against me. 

“I am but she’s into Krum, haven’t you noticed?” I roll my eyes. 

“Just an infatuation, he’s different,” Harry says as he flicks my forehead. I pinch his arm as he flinches before shooting a glare at me. After a little while longer Krum emerges with a smug smirk and a golden egg tucked under his arm. 

“Conjunctive curse! Good idea mate!” Cedric smiles as he pats Krum’s back. 

“Thank you,” he replies with a nod. 

“Good job getting points docked too,” I laugh. Viktor shoots me a glare as he scoffs and bumps his shoulder into mine aggressively. Harry snickers softly before his name is called. “Go on Harry! You got this!” I cheer loudly as I pat his back. 

“Thanks Y/N/N,” he smiles as he hugs me tightly before he walks out. More cheers and yells are heard as I watch. The dragon makes eye contact as he begins to run around the dragon. I watch as the dragon chases him before spitting fire at him. I hold my breath as he ducks behind a big rock. I watch him pull out his wand before he screams something. I watch as his broom flies through the air towards him. I smile as he grabs it and jumps on. He whizzes through the air quickly. I smile as I cheer loudly. He flies around the arena before my eyes widen as the dragon breaks away from the chains holding it down. It flies towards him as he whizzes away quickly. My heart sinks as I watch nervously. 

“It’s gonna be okay, he’s Harry Potter,” Cedric says as he walks up behind me. 

“I know, I’m just nervous,” I say softly. I feel a hand slip into mine as it squeezes tightly. A few minutes later Harry flies back quickly as he ducks down and grabs the egg before pulling up quickly. Cedric and I cheer loudly as I watch him hold it up triumphantly. He lands as he runs back into the tent. 

“Did you see that?” Harry exclaims loudly. 

“Hell yeah we did!” I yell. I hug him tightly as I smile. “You did great!” I feel my nerves set in as I realize it’s my turn. 

“Don’t worry, you got this,” Cedric smiles down at me. I take a deep breath as the two boys hug me tightly. I hear my name get called as I take a deep breath. I push open the tent as I smile brightly and wave at the crowd. They all begin to cheer loudly as I see the Gryffindor section letting a banner down that says ‘Let’s go Y/L/N!’. I smile happily as I look in front of me to see the big black dragon standing in front of the egg. I take a deep breath as I draw my wand. I take a step forward as I watch it stand straighter as it glares down on me. 

“Come on Y/N, you can do this,” I whisper. I look the dragon in the eyes as I stare into them. The dragon lets out a deep huff as it stares back at me. I take a few steps forward. It lunges at me as I keep my stance, acting unfazed. I hear the crowd gasp as they all watch intently. I move to the left side of the dragon before I point my wand at the large dragon. 

“Diminuendo!” I call. I watch a thin white stream leave my wand before wrapping itself around the dragon. It shrinks as a loud cheer comes from the crowd. I dart for the golden egg, not knowing how long the dragon would stay under the spell. I pick it up quickly as I turn around and hold it up. I smile brightly as I look around. I turn back to see the dragon back to it’s full size. My eyes widen as I dart away quickly. I hear a loud roar before I feel a faint feeling of warmth on my back. I turn and look at the dragon as I point my wand at it again before screaming 

“Duro!” I watch as the dragon slowly turns to stone. I smile brightly as I quickly duck into the tent. 

“Merlin Y/N! That was brilliant!” Harry says loudly as he pats my shoulder. 

“Yeah Y/N/N! That was insane!” Cedric says as he beams down at me. 

“It wasn’t big and flashy like you guys though,” I say with a light blush. 

“You used what we didn’t think to!” Harry says happily. 

“Y/N! You did incredible!” Fleur exclaims as she hugs me tightly. 

“Thank you,” I blush as I hug the tall veela back. I see Viktor rolling his eyes. I smirk to myself as I look at Harry. 

“Really Y/N, that was brilliant,” Cedric smiles. 

“Thanks Ced,” I say with a small smile. “How’s your face?” I bring my hand up to brush the part that was hit by the flame. 

“Fine now, it’s completely gone,” he smiles down at me. They announce that we all will make it to the next task as we cheer loudly. We retreat back to Hogwarts before Harry and I make our way to our dorm, with the golden eggs in our arms.

[karlajoyner]

Impossible (Reggie Peters x Reader)

A/n: This was again another request! I definitely enjoyed writing it! If you guys have any requests please comment them or dm me! Also currently working on an Owen Joyner smut that goes a little more into detail than the last so be prepared! Also let me know if you guys think I should make a tag list!

Requested by: @universefangirl (Tumblr)

Warnings: Smut (18+)

————

I sat in my best friends garage listening to her rehearse with her band until it was time.

"Flynn's gonna love this" I said looking up from my sketch book.

"Thanks y/n/n. I honestly don't know what I would've done if you hadn't believed me"

"Well at first I didn't. But you proved your point Jules" I said remembering how I just thought they were normal boys at first. Cute normal boys.

"I just hope she forgives me" The girl sighed looking down. I looked back at the rest of her bandmates who like all guys stood there awkwardly. They all sent me a look begging me to comfort her. I rolled my eyes standing up.

"Julie we've all been best friends since kindergarten. We've been through everything together. This is just another one of those things we have to get through" I said going to pull her in for a hug from behind.

"Thanks. Again. It really means a lot"

"What are best friends for?" I smiled as she hugged back the room going silent.

“You never know how long your supposed to wait in this type of situation before you can talk again you know?" (If you know where that's from I love you) Luke said making my head whip towards him.

"Maybe a little longer" The brunette spoke making me facepalm.

I looked back at the group nervously to see them giving me a thumbs up. My gaze quickly finding the cute bass player who sent me an air kiss. I jokingly pretended to catch it earning disgusted looks from the rest of the band.

"Gross" Julie joked.

"Shut it Molina" I warned turning around to go bring our other friend in. I was startled at the sudden sound of knocking outside the doors. Hearing a few chuckles from behind me as I opened the door.

"Hey Flynny" I smiled using the nickname I gave her when we were kids.

"Y/n? What are you doing here? Where's Julie?"

"I'm right here" Said girl called from behind me.

"Thanks for coming we just wanted to rehearse the song so it was perfect which it's not but whatever"

"No if I'm gonna hear a song from your imaginary ghost band I want it to be perfect so get back in there" Flynn said waving us back.

"All of you. You too" She said pointing to absolutely nothing.

"She's not lying Flynn. They're real"

"Oh my god now you've got y/n/n in on your imaginary ghost band? Do you play air drums?" Flynn's asked placing a hand on my shoulder.

"No that's Alex. I'm not in the band per se but I watch them rehearse all the time. Plus my boyfriends in it"

"Oh so she really sucked you in. So where are they?"

"They're not out here"

"Oh I know" Flynn said patting Julie's shoulder before walking in. I looked at the girl beside me playfully rolling my eyes.

Flynn had always been the logical one out of the three of us. So no doubt this was gonna have to be good. I shut one of the doors behind us while Julie shut the other before making my way towards the boys who stood there looking excited.

"Good luck" I whispered. Placing a quick kiss to Reggies cheek.

"Oh so my best friends just kissing the air now. That's great. What's your moms number again?" She asked pulling out her phone. I playfully rolled my eyes taking a seat on the couch pulling up my sketch book once more.

I was currently working on a drawing for the guys. Something that screams were alive. As Luke put it.

"All right guys you ready? Uh actually can you go over there. Reggie needs some space to rock out and he feels kinda weird walking through you" Julie said. Flynn letting out a chuckle.

"Boy when you create a world you really live in it"

"Just sit" Julie said sitting her down in an empty chair.

"If you'll notice there's no equipment that will produce a hologram. Feel free to look around. The guys took a poem that I wrote about you and put it to music"

"Y/n helped" Reggie interrupted making me smile.

"I'm sorry. The guys and y/n"

“Aww! I wish I didn't have to talk to your parents after this"

“Come on Flynny it's a great song"

"If you say so y/n/n. So when did you go crazy?" She asked placing a hand on her knees.

"It's called Flying Solo. Hope you like it" I smiled upon hearing the opening notes of the song.

J- If I leave you on a bad note

Leave you on a sad note

I know all your secrets

You know all my deep-dish

Guess that means some things they never, they never

Change...

We both know what I, what I, what I

Mean...

When I look at you it's like I'm looking at me

I looked up from my book when Flynn let out a scream signalling she could finally see them.

All- My life, my life would be real low, zero, flying solo

My life, my life would be real low, zero, flying solo without you

Hey! yeah-e-yeah

Hey! yeah-e-yeah

My life, my life would be real low, zero, flying solo without you

I grinned at Flynn who gave me a horrified look.

"Are you seeing this?" She whispered. I only nodded giggling at her reaction.

J- Yeah, you know who I'm likin'

Way before I liked them, duh...

Cause you liked them first

And if somebody hurts you

I'm gonna get hurt too

That's just how we work, yeah, that's just how we work

It will never

Change...

We both know what I, what I, what I

I bit my lip watching my boyfriend sing at a close proximity with Luke. Something that I'll never get used to. But definitely enjoyed. When they finallly separated Reggie sent me a wink as he sang the chorus. Luke gradually making his was over to me sitting down on the armrest beside me.

My life, my life would be real low, zero, flying solo

My life, my life would be real low, zero, flying solo without you

I chuckled as Luke scared Flynn. Instinctively I smacked his arm. Earning a confused look coming from the girl as Julie pulled her away towards Alex and Reggie.

Hey! yeah-e-yeah

Hey! yeah-e-yeah

I watched closely as Flynn attempted to touch my boyfriend only to have her hand go right through him.

"Weird right?"

"They're ghost!" "Oh we prefer musician spirits"

"But y/n" Flynn said pointing at me.

"We don't understand it either. But she can see and touch them. It's not the same for both of us" Julie explained showing how her hand went through Reggie as well.

“Julie so does this mean you're joining the our band?"

"Umm actually I think you're joining her band"

"I'm gonna go with what she said" Julie said sticking a hand out for me. I grinned taking it.

My life, my life would be real low, zero, flying solo

My life, my life would be real low, zero, flying solo without you

Julie sang the three of us dancing along.

"You're crazy" Flynn mouthed to me making me smile wider. She tilted her head to the side pointed at the bassist who had his focus on me.

Hey! yeah-e-yeah

Hey! yeah-e-yeah

I moved away from the two girls to let them have a moment. Reggies bass playing coming to a halt. Instinctively I moved to his side. His arm finding my waist and pulling me close. A chuckle leaving his lips.

My life, my life would be real low, zero, flying solo without you

Julie harmonized coming forehead to forehead with Flynn.

"Still wanna talk to our parents?"

"No I'm good" Flynn said the two girls hugging.

"Bring it in y/n/n!" Julie said opening her arms wider. I smiled kissing Reggies cheek before rushing to engulf my best friends in a group hug.

"I'm really glad Flynn enjoyed the song today" I spoke after a long day. I was finally able to sit in at my desk and continue drawing in my sketchbook.

With Reggie present in the room as well. Like most nights.

"I did too. She seems like a cool girl"

"Oh she is Reg. She was literally my first ever friend and with Julie the three of us have been inseparable since" I explained to my boyfriend who moved his arms behind his head.

"Well then I guess I'll have to get to know her better. For your sake of course" He said the room falling into a comfortable silence with exception of my soft music playing in the background.

Ed Sheeran to be exact. He had easily become one of the boy's favorites new artist. So when they hung out in my room I played him a lot. Along with other artists of course.

It had been about 15 minutes of my pencil hitting the paper when I finally looked up to see Reggie gazing at me.

"Have you been staring at me this whole time?"

"Maybe"

"Why?" I asked.

"Because your adorable"

"Really Reg. Look at you. Your a hot teenage ghost rocker from the 90's and you think I'm adorable" I giggled.

"I love your laugh" He stated my cheeks immediately heating up.

"Thanks" I smiled shyly.

"I love you" He spoke again. My heart stopping.

That was the first time either of us had said that. Since the night I met them in Julie's garage to now. Those were the last words I never expected anyone to say that wasn't family or Julie or Flynn.

Upon not hearing a response the look on his face dropped as he pulled himself to the edge of the bed in front of me.

"I-I mean you don't have to say it b-back I was just thinking out loud but like I could have been t-talking about anything like pizza. I love pizza. P-pizzas good well except pineapple pizza kinda of sort of. Actually you know what's really good cheese pizza that's nice I really like it-" I quickly cut him off by placing a tender kiss to his lip. Feeling his hands cup my cheeks the warmth of them making me feel safe. Loved.

I wanted more of him. I wanted to feel all of him.

Finally breaking apart I smiled at the boy in front of me.

"What?" He asked as I gazed into his beautiful brown eyes.

"I love you too Reg" His small smile only getting bigger.

He quickly removed the sketchbook away from me. Placing me onto his lap.

"Are you sure?"

"I don't think I've ever been more sure of anything my whole life" I smiled as he pushed a strand of hair behind my ear.

"Kiss me" I whispered. Reggie immediately taking action.

I giggled as he began to kiss down my neck my hands flying to remove his red flannel. He was quick to remove it himself among my request. His other hand gripping my waist. I took this as my opportunity to fix myself on his lap straddling him. Like I'd done so many times before.

Our lips met in the middle as we both kissed each other with such force. Such passion. I smirked into the kiss as I placed my hand under Reggies tank top. His reaction something I hadn't expected.

"W-what are you doing?" He asked pulling away to look me in the eyes. I bit my lip giving him a look.

"Oh" He said letting out a breath.

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah"

"Have you ever....." He trailed off. I nodded watching his face drop.

"If it helps I didn't really like the guy. And it was a long time ago"

"Oh" He kind of perked up.

"So? Are we good here?" I asked placing a soft kiss on his neck. And another and another. Until finally settling on a spot. Earning a throaty groan from the ghost.

"Yup" He squeaked out making me smirk. I placed my hand where it had been previously hiking it up his shirt. He quickly removed it before pulling me back in for a rough kiss.

"Reggie" I moaned as I began to grind on him only earning a soft whimper from the boy. Thankful my parents were out of town. Not for Reggies sake but mine.

"Come on y/n/n don't tease me now"

"You asked for it Reg" I smirked standing up. I smiled noticing how intently he was watching my next moves. I quickly removed my shirt and bra watching him gulp down nervously.

"Like what you see?" I asked biting my lip nervously.

I watched as he nodded eagerly before continuing. I removed my jeans as well leaving me in my panties before slowly bending down in front of him.

"N-no" He spoke stopping me from reaching toward his jeans.

"W-why not?" I asked confused.

"It's just- I wanna be with you tonight. We have plenty of time for everything else but this. This is different. It's our first time. I mean like not our first times but like our first time together and I-" I quickly cut off his cute rambling again with a kiss.

"I get it Reg. It's about us tonight" I smiled pushing him back onto my bed. Straddling him once more.

“Your so beautiful" He whispered his hands flying to my waist.

"Why thank you Reginald" I spoke bending down to meet his lips. Our bare chest coming into contact for the very first time. I moaned as he toyed with the waistband of my panties.

"Reggie please do something" I mumbled against his lips. He immediately took action flipping us over.

"Are you sure about this?" he asked waiting for my consent.

I simply nodded watching as he removed his jeans and boxers letting his hard on spring free from the contained fabric.

"Reggie" I panted digging my teeth into my bottom lip to widthold from the unholy sounds threatening to escape my lips.

"What baby? What do you want?" He teased pushing his finger against the fabric of my panties.

"You" He quickly ripped apart the thin fabric around my waist letting it fall off my body. Throwing it off to the side.

"Are you ready?"

"Wait!" I shouted pulling open a nearby drawer. I pulled out a condom from a box that had been sitting there for a while.

"Protection? Why do you have that there?"

"Well I knew this day would come Reg. I was hoping it would be with you" I said a smile forming on his face.

"Do you think we'll need it? I mean I'm a ghost"

"Safety first baby"

"Well okay then" He said slipping it on.

"Okay now are you ready?" I nodded as he slowly entered me.

Our moans filled the room as he let me adjust to his size.

"Baby your so tight" "Yeah well it's been a while" I muttered pulling at the hair at the nape of his neck.

"Okay you can move" I said giving him the go.

"If you want me to stop just say so okay?"

"Okay" I confirmed as he lent down to place a kiss upon my lips. He slowly began to move until he found a good pace. His thrust moving faster as a spur of moans left our lips.

"God I love you so much" I mumbled against my lips.

"Mmm. Faster Reg!" I encouraged him really feeling the pleasure course through me now. Getting exactly what I wanted I began to moan louder feeling him hitting my G spot at the perfect angle.

"Right there" I spoke feeling a knot forming in my lower stomach.

"I'm so close baby"

"Me too" He panted. We both released our orgasms at the same time relief washing over me as he pulled out. I laid back on the bed watching him throw the condom in the trash can under my desk.

"That was amazing" He said coming back to hover over me.

"It was" I smiled up at him. Pulling him down from behind his neck for another kiss. "I love you baby. I love you so much"

"I love you more" I said as he laid down beside me pulling the covers over us.

"Impossible"

[thewildsophia]

.Art Project. Clone High//Van Gogh x Reader

Van Gogh x Reader

Word Count: 2564

~~~~~~~~~~

No matter how hard you tried, you just couldn’t get the thought of the tiny Dutch artist out of your head. You weren’t even sure what about him it was that caught your attention. Perhaps it was his orange hair that almost looks red in the right lighting, or maybe his pale skin that mirrored the white bandages that you know he changes everyday (you also loved how his face would blossom with this gorgeous shade of orange-pink when he was complimented), or maybe it was just his hands. Yeah that was it. His hands, petite and delicate, that could paint such beautiful, exquisite paintings that told of many different things.

God you felt like such a creep. 

But you couldn’t help it. You were absolutely infatuated, -- no, that’s not quite right -- obsessed with him. 

And the worst part about it all was that the two of you have barely had any real interactions with each other. The last time the two of you had really talked was when you were assigned an art project with him. It was a collaborative project where you two were given a piece of art and two canvases and you would paint half the artwork on each canvas using styles and colors that were different, but still complimented the other half. 

You two had received the artwork The Kiss by Gustav Klimt, with you painting the man and Van Gogh painting the woman. You had used cooler colors -- blues, greens, grays and purples -- while Van Gogh used warmer ones -- reds, yellows, oranges and whites. You had focused most of the detail on the man, leaving the background somewhat barren with Van Gogh doing the opposite, focusing on the background and less on the woman.

It had actually turned out really well and the two of you had received a perfect grade, but what you liked the most about the whole thing was how much time you got to spend with him. 

You worked with him for a whole week and when the deadline was coming up he invited you to his dorm to finish it. You actually found it quite funny how much his room looked like The Bedroom, but you weren’t surprised. 

If you really thought about it, it was probably the second day when you started to become fascinated by him. The sketches had been completed and you two had just started painting. No matter how hard you tried, you just couldn’t focus on your piece, intrigued by his painting. His strokes were quick, decisive, like he knew exactly what he wanted. It was difficult not to stare as he painted and you had barely gotten any work done that day. And he quickly picked up on your distracted state. 

“Is something the matter?” God that voice sounded just perfect to you. It was deep, but not too deep, and somewhat raspy, like he had a slight cold. You could listen to that voice for hours. 

“Y/N? Are you alright?” You remember him asking. 

“Yeah.” You had answered, “I’ve just never seen you paint before. It’s beautiful.” After those words had left your mouth, that beautiful peach color blessed his pale skin and he looked away with a bashful smile. 

“I-Thank you.” He had stuttered and it was probably the cutest thing you had ever heard. You wanted to get him to do that more often. After that the two of you continued to work on your project with the occasional chatter between you. 

When the two of you had finished, you didn’t really talk to the other. You’d wave to each other in the hallways while transitioning classes or offer a quiet “Hey” when entering Painting II. What you did find a bit strange is that if you show up first, he’ll sit at the same table as you and vice-versa, and neither of you seemed to mind it. 

Actually, it kind of worked to your advantage. 

You really couldn’t help yourself and often found yourself drawing Van Gogh in your sketchbook, ranging from basic sketches to full on ink pieces (of course you’d ink them when you got back to your dorm). It’s actually gotten so bad lately that you now have completed paintings of him, whether it be acrylic, watercolor, oil, gouache, you name it and you probably have it. 

You were actually about half way through painting another piece of him, although you didn’t like this one as much as some of the others since he looked a bit too feminine. While painting, you heard a knock at your dorm’s door. You quickly looked at the clock hanging on the wall opposite of a window. 

“It’s almost 10pm, why the hell is someone coming up here?” You thought before getting up and looking out the peephole in your door only to be greeted with nothing. You grumbled to yourself while opening the door just to make sure no one left something for you. 

Upon opening the door, you’re greeted with none other than the clone of Vincent Van Gogh himself, canvas and set of acrylics pinned at his side. You felt yourself straighten as you greeted him.

“Oh-Hey. It’s almost 10, are you alright? You need something?” You asked watching him shift his stance before answering, 

“Yeah, I’m fine. Sorry for coming by so late, I just needed a bit of help with the portrait project and you’re the only person I really felt comfortable coming to.” He admitted, rubbing the back of his. You felt your heart stutter at hearing that.

“It’s alright, what did you need help with specifically?” You asked leaning onto the door frame. 

“I’m having trouble with making a background that works with the subject.” He said. Weird. Backgrounds are usually his speciality. “Um, may I come in?” He asked. Your eyes widen slightly with realization of you forgetting to let him hit you.

“Of course! Sorry.” You apologized sheepishly, moving out of the way to let him in. 

“It’s fine.” He said. You closed the door before quickly jogging over to your desk, grabbing the still wet painting and placing it against the wall opposite the door, facing towards said wall. You cleared a spot on your desk for him to place his things. 

“Alright, let’s see what you got so far.” You said looking over his painting. 

You talked to him for about 15 minutes about how he could improve what he currently had before you got up to grab you painting to show him what you had done.

“That’s Frida Kahlo, right? If I remember correctly she’s from Mexican descent, so I would use brighter colors like greens, pinks and yellows.” You said while rustling with the huge stack of paintings you had looking for it. “I had gotten Aaron Douglas, so I stuck with more desaturated colors and focused less on details and more on the silhouettes of the subjects.” Once grabbing the painting you returned to Van Gogh, placing the painting onto the desk next to his.

Only…That wasn’t the right painting.

Nope, instead it was one of Van Gogh, specifically the one of him you had finished a few weeks ago of him looking at himself in a full-body mirror while painting a self portrait. You grabbed the painting, pressing it against your chest the moment you realized it was the wrong one. You stared at him a moment before turning around and scrounging around in the pile again for the right painting. 

“Y/N-” Van Gogh started, but you weren’t gonna let him finish. 

“Just! Give me a second.” You said, searching a bit faster. God seemed to be against you that night because when you started to look for it faster the whole stack fell and, of course, with it came the majority of paintings you had made of him. And…the painting of Douglas. 

You stood there a moment, feeling the sweat gather at your forehead and back of your neck. You grabbed the painting of Douglas before stacking all the other ones up. You turned back around, slowly walking back over to the desk and putting the right painting next to his. 

“So, um, like I was saying earlier…” But your voice died in your throat when you heard him speak.

“Y/N.” He said firmly. You felt yourself swallow thickly before looking over at him. “Come with me.” 

And you did. You really didn’t feel like arguing with him after what had just happened. He led you to his dorm room on the 3rd floor, unlocking it and gesturing for you to step in. You did before he closed the door and walked over to the corner of his room. He pulled out a bundle of canvas, separating them from each other. 

“You know, for the longest time I felt like such a creep doing this so often, but after seeing what you’ve been doing, I feel a lot less like one.” He said while revealing the paintings to you.

They were of you. They were all of you.

You felt your heart leap out of your chest as your eyes laid on the paintings. They were all different from the last, varying in size, color, style, much like your own. 

“I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you ever since we were assigned that project together, ever since…you said that about my painting.” He started, “At first you were just a passing thought, but as time went on, you started to plague my mind more and more often to the point where I couldn’t get you off my mind.” He finished, that stunning peach color returning to his cheeks. 

You walked over to where he had the paintings spread out over his bed, running your fingers over the texture in the dried paint.

“Oh, Van Gogh, these are…” You started, still stunned about everything. 

“Not my best work, I know.” He said scratching the back of his neck, “It was a bit difficult painting you without having you here to reference.” He admitted. 

“No, Van Gogh, these are beautiful.” You said stroking your cheek, “And not just because they’re of me.” You added with a laugh, to which Van Gogh also let out a chuckle. 

The room then when quiet, neither of you having the courage to speak up until you decided the silence had lasted enough. 

“I don’t know what it is about you,” You started, “But you’ve captured my interest, and ever since I got to watch you paint that day I also haven’t been able to get you out of my head.” You paused, breathing in deeply. Well, it’s now or never you suppose. 

“Everytime I think of you, I can physically feel my chest tighten and I feel almost like I’m going to be sick, but in a good way.” You tried to explain, not meeting his light blue eyes once. “I’m not sure if this is what love is supposed to feel like, since I’ve never really been in love before, but…I know that I do like you. Like…really like you and…God, I don’t know what I’m saying; I’ve probably said too much.” You finish with a nervous chuckle. 

“No,” You heard him say, “You said just enough.” He grabbed your hand, making you look down at him.

“I’ve…I’ve never really been in love before either, but…I do know that I really enjoy being with you, even if we’re not talking to each other. Just being around you makes me happy. Hell, the whole point of me seeing you this late was just to see you.” Van Gogh looked up at you briefly before looking down at the ground. “Ah, I’m rambling. Look, my point is that I don’t know what it’s like to love someone, but I do know what it’s like to really like someone, and…I really like you.” He finishes, looking back up at you only to notice the glassiness of tears that clouded you e/c eyes.

“Oh, no, wait don’t start crying.” You heard him say, but you couldn’t stop the flow of tears that warmed your cheeks every so slightly. You collapsed onto your knees, embracing Van Gogh, soon feeling his arms wrap around you and the wetness of tears on the back of your shirt. You hugged him harder when you heard a sob rip from his chest, trying your best not to start sobbing yourself. After all, you didn’t look the most elegant when you cried. 

The two of you stayed like that for what felt like hours before finally pulling away from the other. You looked him in the eyes, rubbing away some of the stray tears that still remained on his cheeks. He returned the favor. 

“All this time,” he started, “I was so scared to tell you how I felt about you. Hell, I was scared to talk to you at all. I was so worried that I would mess things up between us that I decided to just stay silent.” He paused, sighing. “It’s…difficult for me to connect with people so…I don’t have many good friends. I didn’t want to ruin what we had.” 

“I was scared too,” You admitted, “In all honesty, I wasn’t sure if you even wanted to talk to me after we finished the project. I like being around you, so I was okay with just sitting near you in art.” You ran your hand through his orange hair, being mindful of his bandages. 

“I guess we're both kinda creeps.” You say after a minute. He smiles with a chuckle. 

“Yeah.” He whispers, “I guess we are.”

~~~~~~~~~~

Extended Ending: 

You let go of Van Gogh, allowing him to clear his bed and put the paintings away. He straightened his bed out, looking over at his own clock that read quarter til midnight. He turned to you, peach dusting his pale cheeks.

“Would you, um…” He stuttered, “Would you like to spend the night? I don’t mean like, you know, but just…sleep. It’s late, we have class in the morning and it’s a bit of a walk to your dorm.” He finished, gesturing to his bed. You blushed before smiling.

“I’d love to.” You answered. He smiled before opening the covers, patting the open space.

“Great! I-Um, I’ll get the lights.” He said, walking past you. You took your shoes off before climbing into his bed, moving all the way over to one side. He turned the light off, the room only being visible because of the moonlight coming through the curtains. You felt the bed shift, assuming Van Gogh had gotten in the bed with you. 

For a while, you both laid there stiffly, painfully aware of the other’s presence. You felt his eyes on you for a while before he spoke.

“Um…would it be alright if I…” He said, scooting closer to you. You did the same, until the two of you met in the center. You turned your body towards his and he did the same. The two of you simply stared at the other for a moment before he wrapped his arms around your neck. You, in turn, wrapped your arms around his waist, resting your chin upon his head. He pressed his face into your collar and you shuttered as you felt his breath on your neck. 

“This,” he started, “This is…” Leaving you to finish his sentence. 

“Nice.” 

[nina5319371]

Week 8 Studio Tutorial – Digital Iteration

My understanding of Andrew’s own explanation of ‘low-fidelity’-’hi-fidelity’

He gives examples from the handle, which from the aluminum handle, brass handle to plastics handles versus 3-d print. In my interpretation, it was a process from hi-fidelity to low, from the accurate and high-quality material towards the fast production. Hi-fidelity refers to be featured by minimal changes in sound reproduction; whereas, low-fidelity produces less accuracy and with less perceived value compared to the hi-fidelity. Hence, the difference between these two concepts results not only in the material but also in the perceived value, such as the feeling when users grip the weight of different handles.

From low to high, this process is a traditional and clean process to output the highest; however, from high to low, this is a way to test various aspects simultaneously and research different elements to add to the design.

Part1 introduces the basis and provides preparation for part2

CAD(Computer aided deisgn) has become mainstream, alomost every modern manufacturing company has access to at least one form of CAD or another. It helps me to achieve the design in a cheap and less cost mode in a most realistic way. Also, I suppose, 3d modeling would be a mundane performance for laymen, such as customers and factories. Compared to paper or sketching, a 3d file can be easily sent to everywhere by Internet.

By watching the recordings of the class several times, I have achieved the objectives overall, from conceptual understanding for 3ds max and quick generations. Before the class, I was extremely worried about computer-aided design, because I suffered a lot from the time of Rhino😫. However, everything was beyond my expectation positively😁. I get well on 3d max, especially the high-tech design of the interface, which was much more friendly.

My favorite: I enjoyed playing the modifiers and changed the numbers from different components(image1). I felt like this was magic, especially displaying the twist, mesh smooth, and the FFD, which can be seen from my bottle(image2); Organic shapes of the sofa were performed by squeeze(image3); lastly, I made myriad changes in edit poly to apply multiple layers inside the box, so that the container could be functional(image5). Actually, this was hard to define the numbers to the mesh smooth and squeeze; for me, I solved it by several failures from experiences.

My biggest regret ever: If I had time next time, I’d definitely save the file every 15 minutes, because when the rendering started, the application is going to easily break down. This is the reason I did twice this week. This point I assume that the fatal disadvantages are software complexity, aaintenance and Upkeep. Everything starts from digital devices, but also ended in its machinery shortcommings. The success or failure of the affair is all due to the very same point.

Online exercises and tutorials offered a series of episodes to lead me into the 3ds max: currently, it would be likely to create the object type first, then with various modifiers.

At last, I wanted to add material on the surface and did the quick rendering where the dice was designed by the aid from the tutorial(image6), which resulted in a glassy effect through several stages, bevels, connect, chamfer, and NURM subdivision. I like the way how bevel turned out to reveal the depth and details.

In a nutshell, digital works always benefit from techniques but are also limited by familiarity at first. Specifically, it was a process like clay making: firstly, the rough and overall structure; then with details and alterations. Next time, I would go further about the modifier list.

[captainjanegay]

someone holds me safe and warm | Stucky | Sickfic, Hurt/Comfort, Canon Divergent, Timelines, 4+1 | 5.4k words | Ao3

Summary:

Four times Steve was sick or hurt and Bucky tried his best to care for him and one time the roles were reversed.

A short trip through Stucky timeline with loads of softness and care on the way.

A/N: It's here! My Secret Santa gift for the loveliest @snarky-drabbles​ ♥ I was so worried I won't be able to finish it and it turned out much longer than I wanted it to be but I really hope you'll like it :') I was so happy when I've heard you wanted some nice and soft sickfic and I hope I was able to provide you with exactly what you wanted ♥ I wish you the happiest holidays season, love! Despite the stressing, it was such a pleasure to write it for you ♥ Also big thanks for @metalbvcky​ for hosting this event, it was so much fun :’) And thank you my sweetest Luisa @its-tortle​ for giving it a read and being your incredible, supportive self :’)

.

1. December 9th, 1928

The snow has been falling all night. Bucky’s mum had to almost forcefully drag him away from the window, because Bucky couldn’t stop looking at the tiny snowflakes making layers over layers of fluff on the ground. If he could, he would stay up all night, just to make sure the snow won’t disappear before he wakes up. The only argument that eventually makes him go to sleep is the threat his mum makes, saying that he won’t get to go out with Steve tomorrow if he doesn’t make it to bed in the next 20 minutes. He makes it in 15.

When his mom finally lets him go to the Rogers’ house the next day, it’s well past 11 o’clock. Luckily, the snow is still there and Bucky’s pretty sure there’s more of it than he remembered. On one hand he wants to take the longer route so he can spend more time kicking it up in white, fluffy clouds, jumping into snowdrifts or making snowballs. He doesn’t throw them at anyone, his mum raised him better than that, just drops them back onto the ground. The most fun was in creating a perfectly round ball anyway. But on the other hand, he wants to get to Steve’s house as soon as possible, so they can go out and do all of those things together. Eventually, he decides to take the shortest route possible but he kicks the snow around even more to make up for it.

Ten minutes later he runs up the stairs of the old tenement house and knocks on the door. Two slow and three rapid taps, as always. Bucky bounces on the balls of his feet, waiting for Steve to run to the door to let him in, as always.

But this time it’s not Steve who opens the door. It’s Mrs. Rogers, her face pale and with dark circles under her eyes. But as soon as she sees Bucky a big, genuine smile brightens up her face. It’s the exact same smile Bucky has seen on his friend many times.

“Good morning, James,” she says. “It’s nice to see you.”

“Good morning and likewise, Mrs. Rogers,” Bucky grins, taking off his cap. “Is Steve here? It’s been snowing all night and I was hoping we could go play outside!”

Mrs. Rogers sighs, her smile getting a bit sad. Bucky senses that something’s wrong, and his excitement melts like the snowflakes he tried to catch on his tongue.

“I’m afraid that won’t be possible,” Mrs. Rogers says. “Steve’s sick. He won’t be able to go outside for a while. I guess you’ll have to face all this snow by yourself today.”

Bucky's face falls upon hearing that. He was really excited for today and he spent long minutes before he fell asleep last night thinking about all the fun he and Steve could have. But Steve’s sick and the idea of doing all of them alone doesn’t sound fun at all. So instead of saying goodbye and heading home, Bucky looks at Mrs. Rogers with hopeful eyes and asks, “Would you mind if I came in and stayed with Steve for a while?”

The warm smile is back on Steve mother's face as she ruffles Bucky’s hair in an affectionate gesture and steps to the side, letting him in. “Of course, I don’t mind. Steve will be so happy you’re here.”

Bucky quickly shrugs off his coat and kicks off his shoes. Just as quickly, he apologises for all the snow he’s brought inside and picks up his shoes to put them on the rag by the door. Mrs. Rogers only waves a hand at him. Instead of running straight to Steve’s room, Bucky follows Mrs. Rogers to the kitchen when she asks for some help. Tongue sticking out in concentration, Bucky takes a careful hold of the bowl of hot chicken soup and slowly walks after Mrs. Rogers who is carrying an armful of meds and a glass of water.

As soon as they enter the other room, a small, blond head peeks out from under a mountain of blankets. As soon as it notices Bucky, a smile splits its face.

“Bucky!” Steve says, his voice all raspy and weird.

Bucky only grins in response, sending a quick look Steve’s way before he focuses back on the bowl in his hands. Only when it’s safely set aside on the bedside table, Bucky jumps towards the bed. Mrs. Rogers stops him when he tries to give Steve a hug, saying he might get sick, too, so it’s better if he keeps a bit of distance.

Steve's smile falters. He tries to convince Bucky that he should go so he won’t catch anything from him. In response, Bucky calls him a dimwit and drops onto the floor next to the bed. 

Mrs. Rogers checks Steve’s temperature, rubs his back with something with a very strong smell and gives him some medication. Steve looks miserable and a bit embarrassed through all of it. Seeing his friend’s discomfort, Bucky tactfully looks away and starts babbling about the snow, about mean Mr. Flanagan slipping on the icy pavement in front of his house today and falling onto his butt while shouting obscenities. He tells Steve how pretty the park looks with trees and bushes all covered in snow. He asks if Steve would be able to draw them if Bucky describes it to him with all the details he can remember. When he glances up at his friend, Steve’s eyes are finally bright and happy again, and he’s really excited to try. 

Mrs. Rogers leaves a few minutes later, dropping a kiss to Steve’s head and ruffling Bucky’s hair before she walks out of the room. Steve adjusts his pillows so he can sit more upright and takes a small sketchbook from the bedside table. Bucky rests his folded arms on Steve’s bed and places his chin on top of them. As soon as he starts talking about the snowy park, Steve starts drawing. It looks just like the real thing. Soon enough, Bucky starts making up details, at first some believable ones but then he comes up with more and more ridiculous things. Giggling, Steve dutifully puts them on paper. It’s really nice, knowing that Bucky managed to make his best friend laugh despite the misery and terrible cough that escapes his mouth every so often.

The snow might be nice but there’s still plenty of winter left, so Bucky’s sure he and Steve will have a chance to play outside soon. Bucky is more than happy to sit by Steve’s side if it means he can save him from boredom this way.

Besides, their version of the snowy park is so much better than the real thing.

.

2. December 14th, 1936

It’s cold. The old stove is not giving as much heat as it’s supposed to. They’re slowly running out of things to keep the fire running and Bucky should probably check if there are any old wooden crates or something he could take from the docks tomorrow. It’s not freezing yet, but the nights are supposed to get even colder. He has to do something. The coughing fit from the other side of the room makes Bucky take another log from the quickly disappearing pile in the corner, before he goes back to stirring the soup.

He didn’t make it, just heating up a portion of what his mom gave him when he came by for a quick visit earlier today. It’s better than anything he could make, but it’s not as good as Mrs. Rogers’. God, there’s no way anyone could compete with her in terms of cooking or baking. Bucky was pretty sure her chicken soup had some actual healing powers, considering how quickly it was able to get Steve back on his feet.

It’s easier to think about Mrs. Rogers' soups and their magical properties than the fact that each time Steve gets sick, it seems to be worse than the last time. Thinking about that won’t do anyone any good. And Bucky would rather swallow a log than let Steve see how worried he gets sometimes. 

So he stirs the soup extra vigorously before pouring it into a bowl when it gets nice and hot. It’s filled to the brim, so Bucky furrows his brows in concentration as he slowly makes his way across the room.

When he’s halfway there, he hears a laugh from the pile of blankets on the bed. It’s a bit wheezy but it’s a laugh nonetheless. When he looks up, Steve is already looking back at him with a soft smile on his face.

“What?” Bucky asks defensively, feeling flustered all of sudden.

“Nothing,” Steve says. He looks tired and pale but his lips stretch in an even bigger smile. “When you’re concentrating on something, you still stick your tongue out. Just like when you were a kid.”

“Oh fuck off, Rogers,” Bucky mumbles, placing the bowl on a stool that serves as a makeshift bedside table. “You’re not getting any of the soup for being an asshole.”

“How am I an asshole?” Steve asks. “I just think it’s cute that you still do that.”

Feeling that his blush is only getting worse, Bucky turns around and pretends to be very busy putting away the food from his mom. After taking a deep breath, he gets a grip on himself and walks back towards Steve.

As he approaches, Steve tries to slowly pull himself up into a sitting position, his arms shaking with effort. When Bucky reaches out to help him, Steve sends him a warning look so fierce that Bucky just raises his hands in surrender and backs away. He sits on the chair by the small table, stacked with books, old newspapers, letters, some of Steve’s sketches and who knows what else. While Steve eats, Bucky tries to tidy it all up, putting it all into nice piles and filling the quiet with mindless chatter. He tells Steve about the new Christmas tree they’ve put up at the docks, and about Becca’s new guy who seems decent enough to get Bucky’s approval of going out with his sister. Every once in a while, he throws Steve a quick glance. He tries not to sigh at the sight of Steve’s shaking hands or at the fact that he needs to take a little break every few sips as if even eating tired him out. Bucky doesn’t offer help, no matter how much he wants to. Steve would probably strangle him with his bare hands if he did, even in his current weakened state.

So Bucky doesn’t say anything about that, just keeps babbling nonsense, getting an occasional hum or a chuckle out of Steve. After a few more minutes, Steve buries himself back under the blankets.

“It’s very tasty but I’m full,” he says. “Give your mom my thanks when you next see her.”

“How do you know I didn’t make it?” Bucky asks in mock offense, putting away the leftover soup. “You were asleep for most of the day so you can’t be sure.”

“You’re a decent cook, Buck. But that’s way out of your league. You’ve reheated it like a champ, though!”

Bucky narrows his eyes at him and shakes his head. “You’re such a punk, Rogers. Now scoot over - for such a small person, you’re taking an awful amount of space. I’m cold and you have all the blankets.”

They both know it’s just a guise. There’s a perfectly good cover on Bucky’s bed on the other side of the room. Steve doesn’t protest though, just move forward a bit, leaving space for Bucky to slide between him and the wall. As soon as Bucky’s settled, Steve’s body goes lax next to him and he presses his back closer to Bucky’s chest. Automatically, Bucky wraps his arms around Steve’s middle. He rests his head on top of Steve’s, the soft fair hair tickles his cheek. Soon enough Steve’s breathing evens out. Bucky closes his eyes, but it takes him a bit longer to drift away, as he anxiously listens to all the hitches and rumbles in Steve’s breathing. At some point, still deep in his sleep,  Steve in his sleep wraps his long, delicate fingers around Bucky’s wrist. The touch soothing enough to let Bucky calm down and allow the sleepiness to finally take him.

As long as he holds Steve close to his chest, nothing bad can happen.

.

3. December 20th, 1938

There are blood stains on Steve’s white shirt. Some around his collar and some on his cuffs, which means that he managed to pack a punch or two before he got beaten up by whomever he started a fight with this time.

Bucky’s lips are set in a thin line as he tries to get a better look on Steve’s face to assess his injuries. Which wasn’t that easy considering that Steve is currently looking anywhere but at him. 

“Oh, for God’s sake, can you just—,” Bucky says angrily, gripping Steve’s chin and turning his face up. He might be furious that Steve has gotten into another fight, but his grip is gentle. The last thing he wants is to cause Steve more pain. But God knows how badly he wants to punch that reckless punk himself, sometimes.

Steve jaw is set and at first, he looks like he wants to free himself from Bucky’s grasp. Changing his mind, his eyes gaze right into Bucky’s, a challenging expression on his face. Bucky would laugh if it wasn’t for the state of said face.

The blood is most certainly coming from Steve’s split lip. Or maybe it’s from the deep cut on his left cheekbone, surrounded by a darkening bruise. There’s some dried blood under his nose, too. He doesn’t have a black eye this time, so that’s good. Although by the way Steve flinched when squaring his shoulders to look up Bucky thinks it’s a safe bet he got punched or kicked in the ribs. Bucky prays none of his fragile bones are broken.

The anger he felt dissipates, at least a bit. What’s left is worry — which Bucky tries to hide, knowing that Steve would just get annoyed at that – and affection. He stopped trying to hide the latter ages ago.

“Who was it this time?” Bucky sighs, absentmindedly swiping his thumb across Steve jaw, careful not to put pressure on any of the bruises.

“Some asshole, as always. He was shouting obscenities at a girl who didn’t want to go dancing with him or something and he tried to follow her home,” Steve says with a shrug, followed by a wince.

Bucky can’t stop another sigh that escapes his mouth. He really wishes the world would be a better place. A place where people weren’t harassed for no reason, so Steve didn’t feel obligated to help them. Damn Steve Rogers and all his righteous anger and his heart of gold.

“Sit down. I’ll clean you up, punk.” Bucky puts his hand down and takes a step back. When he sees that Steve opens his mouth — to protest, most likely — Bucky points a finger at him. “Don’t argue with me. I will kick your ass. Don’t think I won’t.”

Steve rolls his eyes but there’s a hint of smile tugging at his lips before he turns around and walks toward the bed. Bucky goes to get something to clean up Steve’s cuts.

“I can do it myself,” Steve says when Bucky’s back, reaching out for the wet cloth Bucky brought.

“Oh, I know you can. Just let me be useful since you’ve stolen all the glory, being a hero who saves ladies in distress and all,” Bucky responds, taking a gentle hold of Steve’s chin again.

“If getting beaten up and kicked like a dog is glorious, then yes, I guess I have. You’d be more of a help than I was, if you were there.” Steve’s smile is full of irony as he tries to look away but Bucky’s hand keeps him in place.

Bucky drops the hand that was gently wiping at the cuts on his face and waits. Eventually, Steve’s eyes land on him, probably wondering why Bucky stopped.

“You are worth dozens of men, Stevie. Dozens of me. You’re half my size but you saved so many people already. You’ve stopped that asshole from doing who knows what to this girl and gave her time to get home safely,” Bucky says, his voice steady and sure and his eyes never leaving Steve’s, no matter how Steve wants them to. “You always know the right thing to do, and I swear your heart is made of pure gold. If that’s not glorious, I don’t know what is. You’re incredible, Stevie and help me God, I’ll beat the shit out of you if you keep putting yourself down like this.”

Steve chuckles at the last part and opens his mouth as if to respond but closes it a second later. The smile he gives Bucky is shy and soft. Bucky’s heart aches to just lean down and close the remaining space between them. Instead, he lets go of Steve’s cheek and goes to wet the cloth again. It’s not necessary, but he needs to take a grip on himself before he does something stupid.

A few moments later all the blood is cleaned from Steve’s face, his nose turns out not to be broken this time and most of his cuts have mostly stopped bleeding. Bucky counts that as a win. 

“Take your shirt off,” Bucky says, trying not to blush. “Gotta make sure your ribs are in one piece.”

“Just admit you want to get me naked,” Steve replies without missing a beat. When the words leave his mouth, his eyes widen in shock, as if he wasn’t expecting to say them out loud. “I mean— I didn’t—,” he stammers.

Seeing how the blush colours Steve’s cheeks, still visible despite the bruising, and travels down Steve’s neck and past the collar of his blood-stained shirt, Bucky admits to himself that he is not as strong-willed as he liked to think. Sliding his hand down, Bucky traces Steve’s delicate collarbone with his thumb.

“To be honest, I’d prefer to do that for purposes other than checking if your ribs are intact,” he hopes he sounds nonchalant, but he can feel his cheeks are heating up. 

“Oh really?” Steve asks, cocking an eyebrow up. The challenging look is back, and Bucky is going to lose his mind if Steve doesn’t stop looking at him like that. All cocky and sure of himself, like his face is not beet-red at the moment.

Bucky clears his throat and picks up the cloth. “I guess we have to wait until your cuts and bruises are healed and check.”

Steve laughs, gripping a handful of Bucky’s shirt and tugging him lightly. “Can you— Just come here, you jerk. I’d get up but it really hurts, I think you should kiss it better.”

And Bucky does. He kisses Steve’s split lip and then very gently swipes his mouth across Steve’s cheekbone and jaw to go back to his lips a moment later. A giddy laugh escapes his mouth and he thinks that there’s no other thing he’d be doing. He is not naïve enough to believe Steve will stop coming home with bruises of all sorts, but Bucky will always be there to kiss them better.

.

4. December 1st, 2024

The room is quiet. Or relatively so, considering that Brooklyn rarely gets completely silent, even at night. But it’s quiet enough for Bucky to hear the change in Steve’s breathing, where he lays asleep next to him. He opens his eyes and turns around. Soon enough, Steve starts tossing and turning, his breathing becomes more erratic. All those sleepless nights, spent on anxiously waiting for Steve’s next breath, praying the next one would come are flooding Bucky’s memory. He’s not sure if it’s better now. Steve might not be physically fighting for his life now, but the night terrors that haunt him, certainly make him feel like he does.

Carefully not to startle Steve, Bucky places his flesh hand on his arm. He squeezes lightly and whispers Steve’s name. When it doesn’t help, he tightens his grip for a moment and speaks a bit louder. Steve breathing hitches and he goes still for a moment. But then a strangled cry escapes his lips and he tosses hard enough that it wakes him up. Immediately, he sits upright almost knocking Bucky down in the process and he pants heavily, looking around the room with wide, terrified eyes.

"Steve," Bucky says, trying to keep his voice calm. "It's OK. You're OK. We're in Brooklyn. It's 2024. You're safe, we're safe. Everything's fine, Stevie."

It's like a mantra that Bucky keeps repeating until Steve is able to take full, big breaths again. When he finally turns his head to look at Bucky, he looks scared and lost and it breaks Bucky's heart into pieces. Bringing his hands up, Bucky wants to stroke Steve's cheek in a comforting gesture. But before he has a chance to do that, a grimace crosses Steve's face and he quickly gets out of bed and rushes towards the bathroom. Bucky sighs at the sounds of retching he hears a moment later. He gets out of bed and follows Steve. With a voice no louder than a whisper, he repeats over and over those little affirmations he knows Steve needs to hear and believe anew as he gently rubs his back. 

It doesn't take long for Steve to calm down, but Bucky would gladly sit there all night if needed. Soon enough the dry-heaving stops and only a tiny sob comes out of Steve's mouth.  Bucky helps him to brush his teeth, since his hands are shaking so much it makes it impossible to get the toothpaste out.

After that, Bucky tangles their fingers together and walks out of the bathroom. Instead of going back to bed back to bed, he leads them to the kitchen. He turns on the small lamp by the couch as they pass it,mostly for comfort, since with their respective shares of the serum, navigating in the darkness is not much of a problem for them. The dim light softens the dark edges of the living room and open kitchen space.

Bucky puts the kettle on, his hand not leaving Steve's for a second. He smiles — a bit sadly — as Steve comes closer, and plasters himself to Bucky's back, wrapping his arms tightly around him.

Steve hides his face in the crook of Bucky's neck, right palm coming up to lay flat on Bucky's chest, right over his heart. Bucky takes slow, deliberate breaths, knowing that his calm will help Steve. So without a word, he lets Steve see and hear and feel that they're both alive and safe. That whatever haunted him in his nightmare is not real. At least not anymore.

Bucky brings Steve's left hand, the one he's still holding, up to his lips and places a kiss after kiss on  each of his knuckles. More reassurances are whispered right into Steve's warm skin. 

It's hard to tell how long they stay like this. The water starts boiling and the electric kettle turns itself off at some point but none of them as much as flinch at the sound. It could be hours and it could be mere minutes before Steve's muscles relax and his breathing finally steadies. While he doesn't let go of Bucky, he doesn't cling to him like a lifeboat anymore.

Slowly, Bucky turns around in Steve's arms. His hands gently cup his face and he rests his forehead against Steve's. 

"You're here," Steve says. The statement is just a shaky whisper and Bucky's not sure what to make of it, but he gives a small nod.

"I am. And I'm not going anywhere,"

"It's—," Steve starts, and then swallows. "You were— I thought—"

Leaning away just the slightest bit so he can look at Steve's face, Bucky shakes his head. "Shhh, Steve. It doesn't matter. It wasn't real. Don't torture yourself, love. We can talk about it in the morning if you want to, yeah?"

After a second, Steve gives a small nod. Even though the unease still hides in his eyes, he tries to muster a smile as he shifts his head and presses a kiss to the inside of Bucky's palm.

"Now, I'm going to make you a cup of tea because as Mrs. Rogers used to say—," Bucky says.

" 'A cup of Earl Grey always does more good than harm'" Steve finishes and closes his eyes but the smile grows a tad bigger.

"Bless her Irish soul," Bucky says with a smile of his own. "So I'm gonna make some and then we'll go back to bed. Or cuddle on the couch, or take a walk or whatever you want to do, OK?"

Steve looks up at him, his hand stroking lightly across Bucky's cheekbone. "I love you, Buck. I don't know what I'd do without you."

"And you'll never have to know. I'm not going anywhere, my love. I'll be right by your side for the end of time because that's where I belong. And we've proven enough times that there's not a damn thing that could change that.”

.

5. December 5th, 2025

Bucky was never the one to get sick. When he was a kid he had a bad cold maybe once or twice but it was all forgotten within a week or two. Which is pretty surprising, considering that he was hanging with Steve all the time but never managed to catch anything from him. Later, he has gotten the serum so getting sick stopped being a real issue for him.

So why does his throat feel all scratchy, his nose is too stuffy for him to take a single breath and he feels both hot and cold at the same time?

It's because the world hates him, that's why. There's also a teeny tiny chance that it has something to do with his and Steve's last mission.

They were trailing someone who aspired to create a biological weapon, as one does. It wasn't hard to locate this mad scientist's secret lair or to capture him. Overall it was a pretty simple mission and it was going really smooth. At least until they were to extract the highly reactive bio-bomb that — quite literally — blew up in Bucky's face. It was good he was alone in the room when that happened because as the Avengers-issued doctor has later told him, the substances implicit in the bomb would be lethal to regular people in the dose that attacked Bucky. But to someone enhanced the worst case scenario would mean a heavy case of flu that the organism would be able to fight, eventually.

So, of course, the worst case scenario is exactly what is happening now. Every single muscle in Bucky's body is aching, including the ones he wasn’t even aware existed. The sheets are drenched with sweat and he's still shaking under his layers of covers.

"Steve?" he calls miserably. His voice feels like sandpaper in his dry throat.

Not even a second passes before he hears footsteps and Steve enters the room.

“Are you okay?” Steve asks. There's a worried wrinkle between his brows.

Instead of answering Bucky let's out a little whine and pouts, looking up at Steve from where he's buried under the covers so only the upper half of his face is visible.

And what Steve does? The fucker laughs at him.

"Aren't you supposed to be taking a nap?" Steve asks, looking amused.

"I can't sleep," Bucky rasps out. "I'm uncomfortable and everything hurts and can I just die already?"

Steve laughs. Again. Really, Bucky can't fathom where people got the idea that Steve Rogers is all polite, nice and righteous all the time. He's the biggest asshole Bucky ever knew. 

"I figured you'd be dramatic when sick, but I didn't expect that," Steve says as he sits on the side of the bed. He reaches out with his hand and places it on Bucky's shoulder. It's pleasantly cool against his skin and Bucky closed his eyes and sighs.

"You're a dick," he mumbles. "Absolutely no compassion for the weak and hurting, I don't know how you can live like this."

As Bucky says that, Steve leans over and peppers his face — or at least the part not covered by the duvet — with little kisses. It's nice but Bucky's point still stands. Steve's a monster.

"You need anything?" Steve asks, gently stroking Bucky's hair.

"Yes." When Steve makes a questioning sound, Bucky continues, "the sweet relief of death, please."

Steve sighs heavily but when Bucky opens his eyes and looks at him, his face is both amused and fond. 

“I’m gonna make you some tea and soup, how about that?”

“Huh, so you are going to kill me?” Bucky raises an eyebrow. “I wouldn’t go for poisoning but if that’s—”

Not letting him finish, Steve just gets up and leaves the room. Bucky tries calling after him but he doesn’t get any response and he has a coughing fit after raising his voice, so he gives up.

.

This time Bucky might have actually fallen asleep. He’s not shaking as much so he figures the fever must’ve gone down a bit but now his head is throbbing so he’s really not sure which option he preferred. When he confusedly looks around the room, his eyes land on Steve. He’s back, sitting on the bed by Bucky’s side.

Did Steve wake him up? Now that Bucky thinks about it, he vaguely remembers someone shaking his arm. His point about Steve being a monster still stands.

“Why d’you wake me up?” Bucky whines. “You said I need sleep and now you won’t even give me fifteen minutes.”

“You’ve slept for over two hours, love,” Steve points out, his hand on Bucky’s cheek. “I’m only waking you up cause you’ve barely eaten today and I’ve made some soup.”

Bucky narrows his eyes at Steve. He looks at the clock on the bedside table, but since he has no idea what hour it was when he last talked to Steve, it’s pretty useless. He’s not really hungry, but he figures it’s a reasonable thing to do. So, with a loud groan, he pulls himself up into a sitting position. The monster beside him chuckles at that but actually helps him arrange the pillows so Bucky can sit comfortably and places the small bed tray in his lap.

Despite what Bucky said earlier, the soup is good. Recipes are probably the only rules Steve knows how to follow so he’s a decent cook and knows his way around the kitchen if needed. Bucky gladly eats the whole bowl, enjoying the way it soothes his sore throat. 

When he’s done, he thanks Steve, who takes away the bed tray and gets up, probably to take it to the kitchen. Before he can get up, Bucky grabs his hand.

“Stay with me for a bit?” he asks.

Steve’s face softens. He puts the tray down on the floor and gets in bed, lying on top of the covers next to Bucky. Soon enough Bucky is tucked safely into Steve’s arms and under his chin and he lets out a content sigh.

“You’re feeling any better, sweetheart?” Steve asks.

“I don’t know, I’m so miserable and tired all the time. I hate it so much,” Bucky whines. “Is that what you’ve been going through every time?”

“Mostly. I guess I was too used to this to complain much.”

“And too stubborn. You’ve never let other people see how bad it was,” Bucky points out.

“That, too,” Steve chuckles, pressing a kiss to Bucky’s forehead. “You always were able to make it easier, though.”

Bucky smiles, tucking his face further into Steve’s chest. He feels sleepy again but this time the warmth he feels is not caused by the fever. He mumbles into Steve’s shirt, not sure if the words his brain is trying to communicate are the same ones that his mouth says out loud. But judging by the way Steve’s arms tighten around him and by the “I love you, too” whispered into his hair, Bucky thinks they are. 

[emy-loves-you]

Wrong Numbers and Useless Gays Chapter 9

Merry Christmas!

Chapter 8 | Masterlist | Chapter 10

Warnings: Crying, Virgil getting teased for basically being a sugar daddy, Logan attempting to deny his ever-growing chocolate addiction

P- (10:00 AM) Happy First Day of Christmas!

R- (10:01 AM) On the First Day of Christmas my true love gave to me

R- (10:01 AM) A Partridge in a Pear Tree

V- (10:02 AM) Okay first of all the 12 days of Christmas are December 25th to January 5th. The partridge is supposed to represent Jesus, whose birthday marks the 1st day.

V- (10:02 AM) Second of all, why isn’t Logan pointing out that Christmas is in 24 days, like he did with me for Halloween?

L- (10:03 AM) No comment.

R- (10:03 AM) Didn’t strike you for the religious type, storm cloud. And Logan won’t say anything because he gets a homemade chocolate Christmas calendar.

V- (10:04 AM) I had a very religious English teacher. And seriously, Lo? I gave you chocolate weekly and you STILL reprimanded my “Days of Halloween” until the chocolate bouquet. How much chocolate are they giving you?

L- (10:04 AM) No. Comment.

P- (10:05 AM) [*Photo attachment*]

[The photo is of a giant wooden calendar leading up to December 25th. It’s painted white with red doors covering the days. It’s obviously been used for many years. The 1st day is open, and there is a gallon-sized container of truffles next to the calendar. The container is half-empty]

V- (10:06 AM) L, please tell me you didn’t just eat half that container of truffles in 5 minutes.

L- (10:06 AM) NO. COMMENT.

R- (10:06 AM) He did it in 3.

L- (10:06 AM) TRAITOR!

V- (10:07 AM) IF YOU’RE THAT ADDICTED TO CHOCOLATE WHY WERE YOU MAD ABOUT THE BOUQUETS?!?!

L- (10:07 AM) BECAUSE I’M PRETTY SURE YOU SPENT $150 ON THEM!

V- (10:07 AM) IT WAS $118!

P- (10:08 AM) Kiddo, you don’t have to spend that much money on us!

V- (10:08 AM) I know, but it makes me really happy to spoil you guys!

V- (10:08 AM) Speaking of which, what do you guys want for Christmas?

R- (10:09 AM) Give us a moment

R- (10:09 AM) Last time you asked this I jokingly said “Katana” and you actually BOUGHT ONE

R- (10:09 AM) Now we actually have to think about what we want.

Virgil snorted, pocketing his phone. He didn’t have anything planned for today, so he went about sketching. He decided to do some elaborate snowflakes, each with their own unique design. He felt his phone go off several times in a row, so he quickly picked it up and scrolled through Princey’s rant.

R- (10:15 AM) We have made our decisions

R- (10:15 AM) Patton would like one of your more elaborate sketches. Something that makes you smile. If you need to buy him something, he would greatly appreciate some new cooking supplies or some stuffed animals.

R- (10:15 AM) Logan would like a new telescope. His original one broke a few days ago and he hasn’t found the time to get a new one. Some chocolate would also be appreciated.

R- (10:15 AM) And I would like a new set of headphones and anything Disney related.

R- (10:16 AM) But if you are going to buy anything for us, please let us return the favor. I understand your desire to not meet, but the thought of you giving us gifts with nothing in return is pure torture.

Virgil bit his lip, a habit he’d quickly developed after he met these guys. He’s already known them for over 6 months, and they’ve shown no signs of recognizing him or trying to use him. In fact, they’ve done the exact opposite. They respect his want to remain faceless; and while they do like the gifts that he gives them, they discourage him from spending more than he’s comfortable with (what they don’t realize is that he’d try and buy them the world if they asked for it). Virgil sighed (another habit that he's started partaking in more and more) and sent a quick response.

V- (10:17 AM) If I send you my address, do you promise to not try and come over while I’m home?

R- (10:17 AM) We swear on our honor that we will only visit when you are not home, and even then it will be to deliver gifts.

Before Virgil could second-guess himself, he already had his address in the group chat.

P- (10:18 AM) I didn’t realize you lived so close to us, Kiddo!

L- (10:18 AM) Indeed. I have also yet to meet anyone in this city named Virgil.

V- (10:19 AM) Yeah, I don’t really get out much and even then I don’t share my name.

R- (10:19 AM) Well, now that we have a place to send gifts, here comes the question: what would you like for Christmas, JDelightful?

V- (10:21 AM) I mean, new art supplies would be nice. If it helps, I love Nightmare Before Christmas and my favorite colors are black and purple

R- (10:21 AM) Alright, Storm Cloud. We’ll let you know when we’re ready to deliver your gifts!

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(December 18th)

“Remus, Darling, what is that monstrosity in your hands?”

Virgil looked up from his map. They were currently in Aventura Mall, the largest shopping mall in Florida. They liked to come here every year for Christmas shopping, and they had a small set of stores that they went to each time. But Virgil had a longer list this year, so he needed a map to tell him where the other stores were. In front of him stood Janus and Remus. Remus appeared to be holding a pile of condiments. “It’s a hotdog,” he said. He took a bite out of the top, clearly missing the hotdog. Virgil noticed that the inside of the condiment pile was white, and he couldn’t tell if it was mayonnaise, marshmallow fluff, sour cream, or whipped cream. Knowing Remus, it could be any of them, or even a combination of the four. Virgil suddenly wasn’t curious anymore, or hungry.

“Come on, the first store’s just up ahead.” They made their way to the first store, which had one of Virgil’s gifts for Patton.

“Virgil, why are we stopping here? It’s not like we have a very specific set of stores we visit every year.”

Virgil’s eyes were suddenly glued to the sale in front of him, his cheeks bright red. “I just have a few more items on my list this year, that’s all.”

“Oh? May we see?” Virgil nodded, covering the section for Janus and Remus’ gifts before showing them his list.

They stared at the list for a while before Remus burst into giggles. “You really are their Sugar Daddy, aren’t ya?”

Virgil’s face grew even redder, if possible. He quickly turned back to the sale, grabbing what he wanted before making a beeline to the next aisle. “Shut up, Remus. I just like buying stuff for them, that’s all.”

“Right, and that’s definitely not the literal definition of a Sugar Daddy.” Janus replied, picking up one of the items in fake interest. Virgil was going to respond, he really was, but he got a text and he’d rather talk to his crushes than try and explain himself to these knuckleheads.

P- (2:36 PM) Hey, Kiddo! Are you home right now?

V- (2:37 PM) No, I’m at the mall right now. Probably won’t be home until around 8.

P- (2:37 PM) Alright, just wondering! Have a nice time!

Virgil fondly rolled his eyes, going back to the items on his list. The list wasn’t long enough for 5 hours worth of shopping, but Janus will probably want him to come over after their trip. Speaking of Janus, Virgil tuned out the giggling idiots behind him. He’d try and dissuade them from making “Sugar Daddy” comments later; right now, he needed to compare these prices.

Just as Virgil expected, they finished shopping at around 5 and Janus insisted that Virgil stay over for a while. Virgil tried to be as dramatic as possible, summoning his inner Princey as he ‘begrudgingly’ agreed to come over. They hung out for a few more hours, making snarky comments and discussing Virgil’s new “Sugar Daddy” title. Time flew by and before Virgil knew it, he was getting a text from Patton.

P- (7:34 PM) Hey, Kiddo! I just dropped off a box on your back porch. It has wrapped presents from the three of us and my homemade chicken n’ dumplings! I hope you enjoy them (we’re eating them on Christmas Eve) and don’t open your presents until Christmas morning! Hope you like them!

V- (7:35 PM) I’m sure I will, Patton. Thank you

P- (7:35 PM) No problem, Kiddo!

Virgil asked Janus to give him a ride home and sure enough, a large box stood on his back porch. Inside were three wrapped gifts and a closed Tupperware container. Virgil quickly brought the box inside, putting the container in the fridge and the presents under the tree. The three presents were the same size, with red, blue or silver wrapping paper. It was quite obvious who each gift was from, and they were probably all in the same standard boxes. Virgil smiled, going to wrap presents for his crushes.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

(December 25th)

Virgil woke up to his alarm going off at 10 AM. Which was weird, since he almost always woke up before his alarm went off. His mind went back to last night, with the heavenly taste of chicken n’ dumplings and enough Christmas puns to send Virgil back into a giggle-fest. He slowly got up, meandering his way out to the living room. He quickly sent a text to the group chat.

V- (10:02 AM) Merry Christmas, guys

P- (10:02 AM) MERRY CHRISTMAS, KIDDO!

R- (10:02 AM) MERRY CHRISTMAS, STORM CLOUD!

L- (10:03 AM) Merry Christmas, Virgil.

R- (10:03 AM) Now that you’re up, we can open our presents!

V- (10:03 AM) How long have you guys been up?

L- (10:04 AM) They both woke up at 6 AM. I convinced them to wait for you to wake naturally before opening presents, since most of these gifts were from you.

V- (10:04 AM) Alright, then. Let’s get to opening these gifts.

Virgil decided to wait until the others opened their gifts before opening his. He already knew what he got them, but he had no idea what they got from each other.

R- (10:10 AM) [*Photo Attachment*]

[The photo is of a wrapping paper massacre. In the center of the massacre are a set of gifts. The first one is a red pillow with the name ROMAN embroidered in gold letters, probably from Patton. The next gift is a book about the history of musicals, most likely from Logan. Virgil had gotten him a sleek set of headphones and a stack of Disney t-shirts. The headphones were red with gold stars on the ears and the word PRINCEY written in silver.]

P- (10:11 AM) [*Photo Attachment*]

[The photo is also of a wrapping paper massacre with several presents. There were two Winnie the Pooh posters from Roman and a new cookbook from Logan. From Virgil, there was a set of stainless steel cookware, a light blue stuffed dog, and 4 of Virgil's snowflake sketches. Each snowflake had small details that pertained to a specific person, such as crowns, hearts, stars, and storm clouds.]

L- (10:12 AM) [*Photo Attachment*]

[The photo has all of the wrapping paper neatly set off to the side. There was a navy blue pillow with Logan's name embroidered in silver from Patton. There were several posters of different galaxies from Roman. Virgil had gotten him a large metal telescope and several boxes of chocolate. The telescope was navy blue with silver accents.]

P- (10:12 AM) I LOVE THESE! THANK YOU GUYS SO MUCH!

R- (10:12 AM) THESE ARE FANTASTIC! YOU ALL HAVE MY DEEPEST GRATITUDE.

L- (10:13 AM) I also appreciate the gifts, but VIRGIL HOW MUCH DID YOU SPEND?

V- (10:13 AM) No comment ;)

P- (10:14 AM) Did you open your presents, Kiddo?

Virgil turned back to the three boxes, an anxious pit in his stomach. What did they get him? He carefully unwrapped each present. Like he suspected, each present was a standard cardboard box that was taped shut. He turned to Logan's present first. The box contained a new set of art supplies and a sketch pad with a dark purple cover. The first page had a note that read:

"I sincerely enjoy your drawings. The one of the night skies was particularly pleasing. I look forward to seeing more of your art in the future. - Logan"

Virgil blushed at the compliment, turning to Roman's gift. Inside were several Nightmare Before Christmas posters and plushies, with a note explaining that he had bought the posters back in August because "they reminded me of you, storm cloud."

Blushing even more, Virgil turned to Patton's present. When he first opened the box, it looked like a pile of fabric. When he picked it up, however, he was shocked. It was a black hoodie with hand-sewn purple patches. The name “Virgil” was embroidered into one of the patches. Virgil immediately put it on. It was loose and slightly baggy, different from the tight black jacket that he wore as Anxiety. He loved it. Virgil went to text a response when he saw something sticking out of the hoodie pocket. He grabbed the note and felt tears forming in his eyes. It was actually a card, the front saying UR FAM. The inside had a giant heart with the letters ILY. Virgil knew that it was just a pun on family, that this wasn’t actually a confession of love, but a tiny part of him hoped that this meant what he thought it meant.

But he would never tell them that. No, the last thing he wanted was to ruin their friendship. He shakily grabbed his phone and blindly pressed send photo, wanting to send a picture of the gifts like they did. As he angled the camera to show off all of the gifts, he started muttering to himself. “God, these are perfect. It’s all perfect. Goddammit, Virgil, stop crying.” He quickly took the photo and hit send, still misty-eyed from the gifts. Sure, he had gotten gifts from Janus and Remus, but they had never sent such personal gifts, much less heartfelt notes! He quickly wiped his eyes when he felt his phone buzz. He went to check the messages when he felt his heart stop. “Oh Shit.”

V- (10:19 AM) [*Video Sent*]

P- (10:20 AM) Virgil, sweety, why are you crying?

L- (10:20 AM) I believe that Virgil is feeling “emotional.”

R- (10:21 AM) That’s alright, Storm Cloud. There’s nothing wrong with crying when you’re happy! You are happy, right?

Virgil had sent a video. Where he bawled his eyes out and muttered nonsense to the camera. God, Virgil had never wanted to stop existing more than he did now.

V- (10:21 AM) I’m happy, Princey. Embarrassed, but definitely happy.

R- (10:22 AM) No need to feel embarrassed, my Raven. After all, you’ve given us so much over the past few months. Knowing that our gifts made you THAT happy is… quite nice. We care about you, Virgil. It’s nice to be able to show you in ways beyond words.

V- (10:23 AM) Thanks, guys. It means a lot to me.

L- (10:23 AM) It was no issue, Virgil. Now, weren’t you planning on going to your friend’s house today?

V- (10:24 AM) Yeah, I should be going soon. Thanks guys, and Merry Christmas

L- (10:24 AM) Merry Christmas, Virgil.

P- (10:24 AM) Merry Christmas, Kiddo!

R- (10:24 AM) Merry Christmas, Storm Cloud!

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Taglist: @bisexualdisaster106 @self-taught-mess @itawalrus @arodynamic-enby @sanderssides-angst

[fenheart87]

Blue Changes

We had a fun little challenge, we picked a prompt and had 3, 15 minute sprints to write something for the prompt. Then 24 hours for light editing to finish sentences if needed, grammar etc. This is my take on the the prompt "Has anyone ever told you just how adorable you are Because you really are." Dedicated to @verfound 🧡

“Marinette, where is my favorite designer at?!” Jagged burst into the studio, Fang trotting happily next to him on her leash and Penny multitasking between her phone call and tablet. Technically he was supposed to be on a plane to New York, but decided to swing by Paris on his way because he had an idea that just could not wait and wanted to check on his unofficial niece anyways. There was only one speed bump in that plan, the studio was completely empty. The chaos of fabric strewn about and pieces half cut with scissors still mid snip definitely screamed someone was working hard or trying to at least, the mannequin with a half-pinned design and ripped fabric seemed to lean toward the latter.

“Looks like she’s not here… Must be taking a break. Penny, why don’t we order from my favorite bakery and make sure something extra special for Marinette. I’m glad we came here before the next stop on tour.” Jagged poked around at the sketches laying in abandon on the desk, some half crumbled on the floor and more stacked on a sketchbook.

“Seems like she is having some massive creators block… We should treat her when we have a break on the tour.” Penny suggested, already on the phone with Tom and trying to insist they would pay for their order.

Some of the sketches were brilliant but had marks of black throughout them, others were completely marked out and you could not even tell what the design was to start with. It hurt to physically see what pain Marinette was going through, most of the ones with the darker markings were of the same style. He could clearly see the thought of Adrien in the suits and matching dresses for Marinette, the anger of the marks showing something had happened or changed. Sighing heavily, Jagged gathered the papers, Fang batting the ones further away with her tail over to her owner. One paper had him blinking in surprise.

“Penn! Pen! Lookie here! D'ya see this?!” jagged shouted, shoving the paper into his assistant’s face, not even minding when she sighed and pushed it to a proper distance. It was a one-of-kind leather jacket and a custom hoodie drawn to match it. Either could be worn seperate or paired together. The colors were a contrast of electric blue and smokey turquoise, the theme was music and snake. Jagged recognized it as a rough sketch due to the lack of color or material notes along the edge that appeared on her finished drafts.

“Why was this crumpled up? It’s a really great idea!” Penny wondered aloud, noticing that the eccentric rockstar she commonly felt like she had to babysit was scheming. “Jagged no, whatever is it the answer is no.”

The door opened and in walked the designer they were looking for, Marinette seemed stressed and a bit run down. Her hair was thrown into a messy bun, one sleeve was pushed higher than the other and her shirt was wrinkled where it was tucked into her pencil skirt. Flip flops clacked along with her steps, another sign she was worn out if the basic shoe was more preferred to her custom made and very comfortable flats. An energy drink dangled from one hand and her design tablet occupied the other. Both guests watched as she made it all the way to her desk without noticing they were there.

“I have no idea what I'm going to do! I don't have anyone that fits that one or the orange one… I could make it a dress but who would wear it?! Ugh! I’m going to fail at this rate and then I won't graduate and I'll never design again, who would want something made by a failure-” Fang chose that moment to nudge her head onto the petite woman’s lap, startling her so bad she screamed and fell out of her chair.

“Well I reckon that I would love to have exclusive rights to all designs made by my favorite niece but we all know that’s not fair to the rest of the world. Now I know you are in a pinch and you’re stuck like a boat in the desert, so you’re going to take a break, spend some time with uncle Jay and make sure that you show poor Fang some love, she was all excited and you just screamed right in her poor face. C’mere my poor baby, Marinette is so mean I know.” Jagged showed the croc in love through pets and scratches. 

“When.. How, why?” Poor Marinette was lost and couldn't believe the rockstar was in her studio when he should've been halfway around the world for the next stop on his tour. 

“Okay, the only thing we’re doing right now is leaving all this behind for a much needed break for food and maybe a nap in your case. Time to relax and stop stressing for a minute." Penny authoritatively stepped in, stacking the papers on the desk, handing Marinette her purse and phone and with the help of Fang scooted the younger woman out the door.

Marinette protested "Wait I need to finish, it has to be done! I can't take a break, I just did!"

"Negative, now it's time for chow, and you need a shower, at your parents then we need to have a little chat. Ladies first!" Jagged gently shoved the designer into the car with cheer, allowing Fang and Penny to enter before him. 

"So my little brilliant niece, we have some great news and a rock and roll deal for you! Can't tell you what is until after you've taken a break though." They grinned as Marinette grumbles as she gave fang the attention she wanted until they pulled up to the bakery.

Getting out of the car first, Marinette sighed at the smell of her parents baking, the smell melting off some stress like butter melting on a fresh from the oven croissant roll. Her stomach grumbled and she opened the door for the other guests, sneaking an excited Fang upstairs to not scare the other customers. Deciding to take a refreshing shower, Marinette went to her bathroom and put on some zen meditation music before getting in the shower. Quick ten minutes later and she was feeling much more alive and hungry. On a whim she grabbed a random outfit that she had made but never worn, pleated plaid skirt with a red checker pattern offset by the off the shoulder fitted top in a burgundy color, and threw it on before joining her guests. 

"Oi looking good! One of yours?" Jagged shouted with his mouth full, causing Penny to smack his arm as a reminder to use manners. 

"Sure is! Never worn it before but decided change can be a good thing and sometimes you have to start the change instead of waiting for it to happen." Grabbing her favorite pastry and a croissant because you can't just smell one and not eat it, she missed the concerned look her adopted guardians shared.

"So your studio was, well, you seem to be having a hard time." Pen tried to be gentle but made a face at her words.

"Yeah… Life is… Changing." Marinette mused, picking at the pastry.

"Marinette, what can Uncle Jay do to help?" Jagged's serious tone drew her gaze and his heart broke at the sight of unshed tears.

"I uhm well. I- That is, we-" With a huff, she calmed down and a look of determination shone on her face. "Adrien asked me out, on a date date in this really elaborate way. I turned him down. I have no idea what I was thinking but when he asked me I was so happy and then all I could think of was blue and how soft its is and it can be so calm or so chaotic and it’s always changing like the ocean but yet it's always the same and there this feeling of calm and I just couldn't say yes."

The quiet settled into a slightly awkward silence, Marinette was ignoring it and Penny was having nonverbal argument with Jagged on what to say next. With an eye roll that spoke louder than her shouting at him, the assistant took the lead once more. Quietly she rose from the chair she was occupying and sat next to the young designer smoothing out the crumpled sketch she had taken from the studio.

"Is this the blue you're talking about?" 

"Yeah… That’s my blue." A gentle smile touched peach lips briefly, blue eyes going soft.

"Is this the skater kid?"

"Skater kid?" Marinette blinked in confusion.

"Nah Pen it's the boat kid."

"He has a name you guys!" Marinette broke down into giggles, looking much more like herself and less like a zombie just waltzing around and going through the motions. "His name is Luka, yes the one who went me skating with Adrien and Kagami, yes the boat kid who has a heart way too big for just his mom and sister. And now me…"

"Sounds like you made a change?" Penny prompted smiling widely.

"A blue one yeah, I did."

"Has anyone ever told you just how adorable you are?" Jagged shouted, picking up the younger woman and swinging her around as she shrieked. 

"Okay Jagged, let's not take over her whole day. We did have a reason to show up here after all." Penny handed the tablet to Marinette after he relinquished his hold. "This is what we're looking at for a surprise concert once we are back here in Paris. There's some issues I'm ironing out but I wanted to see what you think and if you would take lead on the design aspect."

"Wait, lead designer for your show?" Blue bell eyes swiveled between ocean blue and hazel sets, wide with disbelief and building excitement.

"Yup, this tablet is yours by the way. I do ask you to keep just business on it for the show, if you want more traditional sketches that's fine but once it's done it needs to be uploaded on here." Jagged explained, clapping a red clad shoulder.

"Oh you need an opening act? I've got that covered." The sparkle was finally back in her eye to match the mischievous grin.

"I agree with Jagged, are you sure no one has said it before because you really are adorable."

[mappinglasirena]

Bothersome Beams in Sirena’s Sickbay

You know how I’ve drawn a clean layout of the Captain’s Quarters to make it reflect the room as seen on screen by e.g. erasing the false door, adding in furniture and marks for the windows, etc? I've been doing that for a bunch of other places as well (toooootally not because I’m procrastinating the two Deep Dives I should be working on....), and a few days ago I started on sickbay. And now I'm stuck.

I've been staring at this so long my brain is turning to mush, so now you all get to suffer with me!

(Fair warning: there be loads of extremely pedantic observations ahead. I hope you like staring at deck plans :D)

This is the outline of sickbay on the deck plans from the blu-ray Set Me Up featurette:

(For orientation and because it will become important later: The front of the ship is on the right-hand side, the back is on the left.)

A quick reminder of the relevant main features: the round part of sickbay has walls that slope outward towards the top, a counter running along the wall around 2/5 of the way up, and three support beams cutting through the wall and the counter.

(Note that in reality, the beams are all straight across the top; they just appear curved here due to lense distortion.)

Looking at the concentric circles in the outline above, let’s try to figure out what’s what. Easiest: the broken grey lines, i.e. the largest two circles, surely must be where the wall meets the ceiling at its widest extension. (Here marked in blue.)

Next, when we look at the transition between the rectangular alcove at the back of the room (marked “med bay” in the plan) and the round “lab area”, we see that it’s smooth and there is no step in between.

(Again: the walls are straight, not curved, it looks that way because of lense effects.)

Given that and the thickness of the line, I think it’s safe to assume this is the outline of the wall, most likely at floor level:

These, as far as I can tell, are the windows at the front of the room, next to the door.

As you can see, they extend almost to the top of the wall and stop short of the unidentified outer circle. Looking at a screenshot...

...the windows sit right above the counter, so it makes sense that the remaining lines would be the outline of said counter (here in green):

So far so good.

Here’s the rub. I was trying to figure out what the vertical lines dividing the counter next to the support beams might be, when I noticed these four bits:

Those look like the places where the support beams cut through the counter.

That makes sense, right?

As you’ve probably noticed before, these beams run throughout the entire ship. We see them everywhere on the upper and lower deck, they are clearly the skeleton that holds Sirena together. You can tell how important they are to the structural integrity because all the deck plans have these vertical, broken grey lines to indicate where the beams are located.

Now, take another look at the markings where the beam towards the back of the room cuts through the counter (I magnified the one on the bottom left):

As you can see pretty clearly, the marking in the counter doesn’t line up with the normal position of the beams, indicated by the broken grey lines. It isn’t off by much. My rough estimate so far is that the beams are about a foot wide with seven feet between them, so this is a difference of maybe 15cm (~6″, apparently). But something is clearly strange here.

You can tell there’s something different at the back of the room, because where the beams in the middle and front are marked by long rectangles, the one in the back is only a small square. It looks almost as if there was only a single column on either side. If that was the case, it would probably mean that the beam at the back of the room was a fake, not technically connected to the beams at the rest of the ship like the middle and front ones.

But does that mean it was also moved a few centimetres further to the front? This has been driving me nuts.

There are a few possible explanations for what might be happening here.

1. I am wrong about those being the markers for where the beams cut through the counter. That is entirely possible.

2. Some changes were made to the set that aren’t yet reflected in this version of the layout. As I said elsewhere, these plans aren’t quite accurate to the final set in all details (e.g. the two steps between the mess hall and sickbay aren’t marked), so it’s possible that this is some intermediate version where the counter design varies a little from its final configuration.

3. The support beams at the back of sickbay do not line up with the beams in the rest of the ship. The production designers decided that they wanted sickbay to be the exact size we see in the plans, but for some logistical or aesthetic reason, having the beams at the back of the room in the logical position (i.e. parallel to the ones on the upper deck) didn’t work, so they moved them forward a little bit.

I cannot tell you how long I spent over the weekend trying to make heads or tails of this. 

At first I thought: Well, obviously the beams must have been moved to the front. The grey line marking where they should be goes right across the front of the rectangular bit of the room. They’d block the way if they were in the “correct” place, right?

Except I realized my spatial reasoning is woefully inadequate when trying to visualize a round room with sloped walls, so I did the only reasonable thing: I taught myself how to use SketchUp (again) to make a very, very crude 3D sketch of the relevant sections of this room.

Turns out: when you put the beam exactly where it’s supposed to go, it does actually work out okay. I know it’s a little too small here compared to what it should be...

...but that’s probably more due to my estimates for the thickness of the beams and especially the height of the room being off.

I did another version where I moved the beam forward so it sits where the counter is marked on the deck plan, and the difference is pretty negligible:

It looks a little closer to what we see on screen, but again, that’s probably more a miscalculation issue than an honest-to-god result.

As a last-ditch effort I had another look through my screenshot collection. My thinking was that if the beam was moved forward slightly from where it was “supposed” to be, that would mean we’d see more of it.

(On the left, the beam lines up with the grey lines. The area where it intersects with the counter (solid red) is smaller than in the right-hand example, where the beam was moved to align with the marking in the counter.)

Likewise, the distance the beams extend under the counter would be different, if not by much.

(The beam on the right is moved slightly towards the middle of the room. You can see that it dips lower than the beam on the left, which is in the “correct” position.)

If this was the case we should be able to see it in the screenshots, right? Except...

This is the view towards the front of the room. It’s difficult to tell with the perspective, but I don’t think there is much of a difference in how far the beam towards the front of the room (far right) and the one at the back of the room (far left) extend below the counter?

Maaayyybe there’s a difference there? But then again, if you compare how far they dip below the tops of the chests of drawers, that seems pretty similar...

And this is the point where I decided this insanity had gone on long enough and I should probably stop before my brain got entirely scrambled (since, sadly, I don’t have an EMH to unscramble it for me).

So, what’s the takeaway here?

1.: Short of somebody from the production team giving confirmation either way, we won’t know what happened here. I might have misread the set plan, the plan might have changed, or the beams might have been moved. It will have to remain a mystery until we get more shots with incontrovertible evidence, or somebody takes a measuring tape to the set and reports back ;9

2.: For the purposes of drawing a layout of sickbay, I’m going to assume the beams are in the correct position, since that makes more sense in-universe. I’ll move the counter markings accordingly. If I have to make a correction to that at some point, at least I have done the legwork and can refer back to this post instead of having to explain the whole issue again.

3.: Yes, I did just spend half the weekend obsessing over 15 centimetres, to the point where I taught myself SketchUp (again) and wrote a way too long blog post (I did warn you ;9 ), only to come to the conclusion that, as we say over here: “Nichts Genaues weiß man nicht.” - I guess we’ll never know. I have absolutely no regrets!

And finally 4.: staring at images of sickbay for hours on end really makes you appreciate just how beautiful that space is. Scroll up again and have a look at the screenshots. The way the circle repeats in the lights and the table and the concentric markings on the floor. The intricate holograms projected by the ceiling lights. The plants and tools all along the counters that give the room so much texture and make it seem like a real, lived-in place. The way the crisp black and white paint on the beams and the gleaming floor contrast with the cared-for but scuffed up plating and worn-off red paint all over the rest of Sirena... I just really love this ship, okay?

Anyway. If you have any thoughts on this, or you’ve noticed something I missed, I’d love to hear about it!

I was about to say “I promise the next post will be shorter”, but who are we kidding? My brain doesn’t do brief. And what is this blog for if not extremely rambly analyses that give us all an excuse to ogle screenshots of La Sirena for a few minutes?

[mistymark]

VIGILANTE/S V

part five // 4.0k words // superpowered!au // (sort of) gang!au // series masterlist

summary; in which you consider yourself somewhat of a vigilante.

warnings; swearing, mentions of death, weapons and killing, gang shit really

notes; this is just a filler bc the whole thing ended up being way too long but !! hope u like anyway <33

One week into living in the warehouse, you’ve got your own routine. You know what times to avoid the bathrooms, you know not to eat Chenle’s cereal – a tip from Donghyuck, who informed you that Chenle once set him on fire for doing just that – you know that Jaemin is the only one who cooks breakfast, and most of the meals eaten in the warehouse are from local takeout stores with shifty delivery guys. You know that 15 pizzas are ordered for one meal – because Jaemin eats at least 5 of them.

“My metabolism is crazy,” he explains to you on your third day there. “I’ll be hungry again in, like, 2 hours.” Mark had laughed and said that was normal for anyone here.

Donghyuck had whispered to you, “Jaemin carries around jellybeans all the time for his blood sugar. If you want to piss him off, call him Jelly Baby.”

You know that every time Jaemin is given an assignment, he brings a girl back to the warehouse, something you’d discovered when you saw Jeno sleeping on the couch in the main room the next day. You know the boy named Renjun doesn’t train, and hardly leaves his room. You know that Donghyuck sometimes snores in his sleep, now that you’re sharing his room, which actually hasn’t been so bad.

Jaehyun had you move in together the day after you met him, and he’d been really nice about it, moving half of his clothes from his wardrobe so you had space, and boxing up most of his stuff to allow more space for your things. He’d even offered to take down his sketches and drawings so you had some wall space. It was a sweet gesture, but you found his posters interesting, so you told him to keep them up.

Doyoung had gone with you to empty out your apartment – not that it had much in it – and convince your landlord to break your lease. “Your landlord has a very weak mind,” he’d said in a monotonous tone, when he was carrying a box to his car, a flashy black thing that certainly did not belong in your neighbourhood at all. The dilapidated, crumbling buildings surrounding you were brown and dirty, the streets grey and filled with potholes, the people who inhabited the area looking just as worn. Doyoung, on the other hand, was clean and sharp, wearing fitted black jeans and a clean white tee. His shoes were almost as shiny as his car, which made you feel slightly self-conscious when you noticed how much he stood out here.

“He’s pretty much given up on life,” you’d agreed, which earned you a smirk from him. It was true, your landlord was a chubby, pot-bellied man who wore nothing but baggy, ill-fitting jeans and old t-shirts with various food stains on them. You’ve never seen him leave the building, and you often wonder if he knows what a shithole the place is.

“I can’t believe you actually lived here,” he looked up at the building, at the brickwork that was being held together by mould rather than concrete, at the wooden window frames that were rotten and splitting apart, at a window that was recently broken, now being blocked by a curtain taped across the panel – at the place you once called home.

Well, not necessarily. It hadn’t felt like home since your dad had died, if you were being truthful.

“You live in a warehouse with criminals,” you reminded him.

“We live in a warehouse with criminals,” he cracked a smile at you, taking the box from your hands and placing it in the boot of his car.

“At least my roommate only kills himself,” you mumbled on the drive back.

“Donghyuck wouldn’t hurt a fly,” Doyoung laughed. “He’d probably kill himself if a fly started a fight with him, just so he wouldn’t have to fight it and win.”

You watched the buildings go by – Doyoung drove slower than the elderly, you were sure – and all the industrial warehouses with cute, bright signs advertising children’s toys and courier services, wondering how many of them were a front for another operation, like Jaehyun’s. “Do you think Donghyuck can die? For real?”

Doyoung was silent for a moment, then, slowly, he said, “We have our speculations. We can’t know for sure, though. And none of us really want to.” You gave a small smile to him, though he was too focused on the road ahead to see it. When you’d first come to the warehouse, you were sure no one liked him, since no one seemed devastated by the fact that he was dead. Now, you knew he was family to them.

“You have a cassette player?” Donghyuck was supposed to be helping you unload your stuff into your now shared room, but he was mostly just being nosy, going through your boxes and not actually putting anything away.

“Uh, yeah,” you throw a glance over your shoulder, seeing Donghyuck sitting on his bed, rifling through one of your boxes. “It was my dad’s.”

He nods, gently putting it on the bed. He doesn’t ask any questions about it, or your family, which you’re grateful for, but it makes you think he doesn’t have any family of his own.

You know Donghyuck is the most open out of all of the team, but you also know not to ask any personal questions.

You know a lot of things after living in the warehouse for a week. You know that Jaehyun drinks tea in the mornings and coffee at night, that Doyoung cannot access Chenle’s mind. You know that Donghyuck is definitely not a morning person, and that he exclusively wears black, as if he’s always ready for a funeral. Maybe that’s exactly the reason; some kind of sick joke surrounding his immortality.

Most importantly, you now know how to survive Johnny’s training sessions. You’ve trained with most of the team, mostly the Shields – Jeno, Jaemin, Mark and Chenle – as their powers manifest physically, and are easier to control, but Johnny has also been helping you use his ability. “You’re smaller and weaker than the rest of the team, and most Shields in general,” he’d said, eyes roaming your body. It was the first time anyone’s ever looked at you like that without making you feel objectified. “If I’m around, my ability may be the difference in whether you win or lose a fight. Try again, and focus on me.” As if you already weren’t.

He’d hunkered down and gestured for you to begin. With the other members around, you could take Johnny down in less than a minute now. Alone, it took you upwards of 10 minutes.

The day you officially move into the warehouse, you’re exempt from training with the Shields, but Donghyuck takes the opportunity to teach you gunmanship.

“I’ve used a gun before, you know,” you say, but after 10 shots you still haven’t managed to hit the target. The firing range isn’t small, located in the basement of the warehouse, which you didn’t even know existed, but you should have been able to at least hit the target once.

He laughs, picks up the gun and nails the target’s centre 5 times in a row, “So have I. Do you want to be able to actually hit your target, though?” The hole in the centre of the target looks about twice the width of the bullet, made from the bullets hitting basically in the same spot each time.

He puts a hand on your shoulder, adjusting the position of your shoulders, then places one on your lower back, adjusting your posture. You’re stiff, and you know it. He clears his throat and steps back, “Go.”

You brace yourself and shoot, the bullet going straight through the target’s stomach.

“Not too bad,” he nods in approval, holding his hand out for the gun and easily changing the clip in three quick motions. He offers the gun back to you, “Again.”

“You sound like Johnny,” you say when you take it from him. You deepen your voice as low as possible to mimic your trainer and the short, efficient way he speaks, “Again. Stop. Go. Try again. Up.”

Donghyuck lets out a loud laugh that immediately brings a smile to your face. “That was amazing.” He sits down and leans back, a hand pressed against his stomach as he laughs, mimicking your imitation. You join him on the floor, resting your back against the wall and leaning over to grab the bag of potato chips he’d brought down with you. “Have you ever shot someone?”

He reaches over and steals a few chips, as if it was the most normal question in the world. But, there’s a slight shake in his voice when he speaks, “Shot? Yes. Killed? No.”

“Who?” He shoots you a sideways glance and you lower your head, “Sorry.” No personal questions.

The heavy stench of awkward silence settles over you. He breaks it, “Johnny.”

You don’t know what to say except, “Shit.”

“Yeah,” he swallows thickly. “It was an accident. Obviously.”

You’re about to ask what happened when you’re interrupted by someone coming down the stairs. Neither of you had bothered to shut the door to the firing range, giving anyone going up or down the stairs a full view of what you were doing. Jaehyun stops when he sees you both, sitting on the floor of the firing range, sharing a bag of potato chips. He doesn’t look at you, focusing on Donghyuck. He clears his throat, “Are you training, Hyuck?”

Donghyuck’s eyes are wide and innocent when he answers, “Teaching Y/n how to shoot.”

Jaehyun’s eyes move from the two of you to the target and back again, but he doesn’t say anything about the lack of holes in it. “Johnny’s ordering Chinese – if you want anything, let him know. I’ll see you guys tomorrow.”

He continues and you turn to Donghyuck, “Where’s he going?”

“Garage,” Donghyuck says, through a handful of chips. “Do you want the rest of these?” He offers the bag to you. You shake your head.

“What else is down here?”

“Weapons vault, garage, the range,” he answers distractedly, too focused on getting the last of the flavouring from the bag. “The gym…” his voice trails off.

When he’s satisfied that the bag is indeed empty, he stands up, offering his hand out to you to pull you up, “Jaemin takes ten minutes to pick what he wants to eat, so if you have a preference, we should probably tell Johnny now.”

You take his hand and let him pull you up, reaching for the gun that lays on the ground, “Where-?”

“I’ll take it,” he takes it, quickly turning the safety on and reaches around to his back, tucking the weapon into the back of his black jeans.

Your second day of training was with Chenle, in the gym, which looked more like the inside of an asylum than anything. Everything was clean and a pale, almost-white shade of grey, and the entire ceiling was a cloudy glass panel that illuminated the room, giving the room a bright and energetic yet sterile feel. The equipment was state-of-the-art, a dark contrast to the overall lightness to the room, and floor to ceiling mirrors took up two of the walls. There was a stack of clean towels in the corner, and a few televisions across the room, visible from each machine. A smaller version of the Super fight ring was situated at one end of the long room. Yet, the thing that shocked you the most was the bright blue flooring, an odd design choice.

Chenle was the least helpful out of the Shields in the team, watching you train with his ability, critiquing your control and your movements with a stern eye. “Wrong. Try again. Make it hotter this time, or you’ll do no damage.” As if to gloat, he held a hand up, and a dangerous blue flame engulfed it. Your own flame, a measly bright orange, wavered.

The entire time you’d trained with him, he’d done nothing but glare and criticise you. You were sure he hated you, or maybe it was just the fact that he wasn’t the only one who had his ability anymore.

Yet, as he was leaving to eat, he’d nodded in approval at you, “Good. We’ll train together again soon, I’m sure.” It was the most he’d said to you. Actually, if you added up everything he has said to you, it would still be less words than were in that sentence.

Basically, he hadn’t spoken to you much all week.

Jaemin, however, was the opposite, and the person you’d trained with the day after Chenle. If anything, he was too kind and too understanding - he barely helped you.

“It’s okay if you can’t run as fast as me, yet,” he’d assured you with a smile, his hands on your shoulders. His smile was wide and encouraging, his eyes kind, and you instinctively knew he was a heartbreaker. No one with a smile like that has ever been heartbroken, you’d thought. His flirtatious manner was also a dead giveaway.

Your suspicions were only confirmed when he’d been sent on an assignment at the Den, and entered the kitchen the day after looking a little too happy. A girl had snuck out a few minutes later, looking only slightly embarrassed as she tried to pull her shoes on and find the exit at the same time. Jaemin had just stood in the kitchen and smiled at her as he ate his toast, not even bothering to show her out.

“You’ll have to eat a lot tonight,” he informed you at the end of your training. “And make sure you don’t have any training tomorrow morning, because you’ll be out for a while since this is your first time testing your stamina with my ability.”

He was right; you were exhausted after only two hours with him. When you’d told him just that, his smile widened and he winked at you. You laughed and shook your head at him, throwing your towel at him, “I’m going to shower.” He opened his mouth but you shot him a stern look, “Do not ask to join me.”

His easy-going smile remained on his face as he shrugged nonchalantly, “Worth a shot.” He bent down to pick up his drink bottle and began tidying up the gym as you left.

The person that surprised you the most was Jeno. His ability was easy enough to control, since you could control when you wanted the super strength, but he was happy to train you in preparation for your own training with Johnny.

“I guess it’s easy if you can control when you want to use someone’s ability, since your emotions don’t get in the way,” he’d said, as he wound his fist up with tape and gauze. “But if we’re not around, you need to be able to defend yourself with just your, uh, body.”

You nodded, but didn’t say anything.

“Keep a clear head and be logical. Johnny is the only one that can see what you’re about to do, so unless you’re fighting him, think about what you’re doing.” The intense look is back in his eyes when he looks up from his wrapped hands, checking to see if you’re listening, as you haven’t said anything. You can easily see why the others would hate fighting him – he’s smart and he’s dangerous. “If you don’t think, you’ll… you’ll get hurt.” Something in his voice has changed, but it’s gone when he speaks again, “You’re no use if you’re dead.” You quirk an eyebrow at him and he juts his chin up at you, “Hold out your hand.”

You do as he says and he steps forward and begins wrapping your hand delicately. It’s far neater than you’d expected.

“Were you a boxer?”

He lets out a humourless laugh, “No. I’ve just been in a fair few fights.” You try not to react, but he can see what you’re thinking when he looks up. “Relax, most of them walked away just fine.”

“Most?” He doesn’t respond, and you take the hint that he does not want to talk about it.

He’s actually quite a good trainer, you discover, and teaches you the strongest ways to take someone down. He’s less talkative than Jaemin, but his instructions are clear and easy to follow, and at the end of your session, you’re able to do basic sparring with him.

“It’s 6,” he says, looking up at the wall of the gym. Without even a goodbye, he grabs his drink bottle and gym bag, lightly jogging up the steps to head to his room.

That night, you ate dinner with Mark and Jaemin. Well, you ate while they played video games. Jaemin shared a room with Jeno, but you hadn’t seen him since your training session. Empty pizza boxes were stacked by the door, and you counted at least 5. Your own box was sitting beside you on Jeno’s bed, while Jaemin and Mark sat side by side on Jaemin’s bed, their eyes glued to the TV screen that hung on one wall. Their room was a lot more… normal than you’d expected. Donghyuck’s was a giveaway that he was a Super – or a psychopath, either worked – with the blood and the diagrams and the journals and the weapons stacked in boxes around the room.

Jeno and Jaemin’s room was fitted out with their beds, desks, wardrobes, bean bag chairs, an old gaming console and a flatscreen TV. A few movie posters and celebrities were on the wall, and old photos. Only Jaemin had photos, and even so, there were only a few taped to the wall above his bed’s headboard. You couldn’t make out any details from where you were sitting.

Mark’s reflexes were no match for Jaemin’s, and he lost almost every round, making you wonder why he still agreed to play.

“Hey, should I save some of this for Jeno?” You asked, staring at the pizza still remaining in the box. There were only three left, and part of you wondered if it would even be enough. The other part of you thought it would at least be polite to offer.

“Nah, he won’t be back til tomorrow,” Jaemin doesn’t even turn around in his seat, his eyes frantically following his character as it moves across the screen.

“Huh. Okay,” you pick up another slice just as the game ends and Jaemin turns to throw another wide grin at you.

“That means my room’s free for the night, if that’s what you’re wondering.” He laughs at the look of exasperation on your face.

When his attention is away from you again, you say, “Jaehyun sure keeps you guys busy.” There’s only a little bit of bitterness in your voice; you’d been with the team for four days and the only time you’d left was to sort out your apartment. Apparently, you weren’t ready for any assignments yet.

“Huh? Jaehyun has him on an assignment?” Mark’s confusion gets your attention, as he turns to look at Jaemin with a furrowed brow. This was clearly unusual – or, at least, news to him.

Jaemin barely glances at you as he responds, “Nah, he’s visiting his girlfriend.”

“Jeno has a girlfriend?” You ask, only slightly shocked. It wasn’t like you’d thought about their love lives, but you’d just assumed everyone was single. It went with the job description.

“Yeah,” Jaemin nods. “She lives on the other side of the city somewhere. At one of the colleges. He normally goes after trainings on Fridays, since it’s the only night she’s not studying.”

Even without seeing your face, he can sense your surprise.

“Don’t ask him about it, though. He’s very reserved when it comes to her. Doesn’t want any of us to know much about her. I don’t even know her n-”

Mark laughs when he finally manages to kill Jaemin, and Jaemin pouts and rolls his eyes, insisting he was too focused on you to play. “You’re such a baby,” Mark laughs louder, and Jaemin swats at him. His hand moves so fast you barely even see it hit Mark’s arm. “Ow! Dude!”

“One more game, come on,” Jaemin insists, turning back to the screen. Then he raises his voice, “Anyway, Y/n, he won’t even tell us her name, let alone anything else about her. So don’t bring it up.”

“Or he’ll literally chokeslam you,” Mark adds, which, for some reason, makes them both laugh loudly.

You nod, despite the fact they can’t see you, and go back to eating your pizza, “I’ve got next game!”

Mark sighs in relief, “Gladly.” Jaemin’s competitiveness was beginning to wear him out.

The following day, Mark taught you the basics of shape shifting. He was the latest addition to the team – other than you – and his control was even worse than yours. “Shape shifting is really difficult,” he giggled, nervously. “If you’re not 100% imagining what you want to be, you’ll turn into something way different. But don’t panic, it will restrict your ability to change back.”

Over the course of the day, you’d shifted into birds, mice, elephants, leopards, any creature you could think of. Though, you had humiliated yourself when he went to get snacks during your break, greeting and talking to the large dog that came trotting down the stairs, as if it were Mark.

“What are you doing?” He’d laughed when he walked back into the gym, snacks in hand.

You’d been at a loss for words, your cheeks immediately becoming inflamed. “I- I thought that was you,” you pointed at the dog, which was panting as it sat down on the stack of towels in the corner of the room.

“That’s Bruce, Renjun’s dog,” Mark explained, tossing you a can of iced coffee. “Don’t tell Jaemin you drank his coffee.”

You paused, the opened can raised to your lips. You lowered it, slightly, “Why does Jaemin need coffee if he already operates at like 10 times the speed we do?”

“For after he crashes,” Mark shrugs. “Sometimes speed isn’t everything.” He laughs at his own joke, “If he doesn’t sleep enough, he’ll still be exhausted. Sometimes he can’t afford to sleep more than 12 hours, so he relies on coffee.” He cocks his head to the side as he examines his can.

Later, when you’re sitting on the floor after successfully shapeshifting into cockroaches, you ask, “Have you ever tried turning into other people? Can you do that?”

“Yes, but – I really have to know what the person looks like. Like, I can imagine a dog and turn into a dog because any small details that I remember incorrectly will go unnoticed by a human,” he gulps down his cola. “Humans are more complex – one small detail could make me look totally different to the person I’m trying to copy.”

“Change into me, then,” you sit up straighter. “If you can see me, surely you won’t have to rely on your memory, right?”

He shrugs and locks his eyes onto you. You’d seen him transfer from human to horse, from sheep to frog, but somehow seeing him change from himself to you was more disturbing. His skin ripples and his bones make disturbing popping noises as they change, and you wonder if it hurts, even though you had shape shifted multiple times and knew it didn’t hurt at all.

Within a few seconds, right before your eyes… is you. “Hello,” he says in your voice.

“Okay, fuck that, change back,” you tell him, looking away. “That’s so creepy. Brilliant, but creepy.”

When he laughs, it sounds like him again, and you let your eyes drift back to where was sitting. He smiles, and his eyes crinkle at the corners. His eyes, not your own.

You could have so much fun with this ability, reminding yourself to try it on Donghyuck later.

You tell Mark this as he tosses a piece of popcorn into his mouth, and you both stretch out on the gym floor, laughing at all the pranks you could easily pull on the other members of the team.

[seokiloquy]

Lost In- What Word? Pt 1 - Akaashi Keiji

AU: Single Parent

Requested

Word Count: 4.5k+

Disclaimer: Fem! Reader, Time skip spoilers, Udai being a meta Furudate insert, just fluff

Pt 1 | Pt 2 | Pt 3

Akaashi wasn’t sure if Udai was naturally forgetful, or just held so much anticipation in his smaller form that he glossed over details and didn't realize it. Udai was an excellent author despite not having reached the major public yet. His first published work was short and eerie which most of the shonen reading population didn’t greedily rip off the shelves. Although, those that did read it gave him overwhelming support, maybe the rest of the world wasn’t ready for that kind of psychological horror just yet.

When Akaashi originally applied for a position at the publishing company he intended to work in the literature department, editing lengthy novels and picking out grammatical errors, not reading conversations via text bubbles and looking for continuity errors between images. He never did pick out the exact moment he went from editor to fact-checker and archivist. Akaashi also never knew how many different ways there were to translate a single word until he met you. And once he did, he realized that his eyes would follow you across the office as you ran around and spoke to other editors, helping them furnish their translations so that they flowed properly.

“Tenma, isn’t he meant to be out of the rotation for this panel?” Akaashi couldn’t help but grimace when faced with the utter despair that had pulled on Udai’s typically eased expression. The panel itself was masterfully drawn, taking up two pages and showing off Udai’s immense talent in drawing expressions and anatomy.

“I spent 8 hours on that, only to find out that it needs to be scrapped. What has my life come to?”

The yellow office lights made both of the men’s hair give off a green tinge and made their faces look sickly. Udai frowned as he pushed his chair back and let his chin sit on the table of the small meeting room. His hair curled around his fingers as they gently tugged on the ends of the wavy black stands, straightening them only to let them go and have them bounce back into place.

Akaashi flipped through the printed out pages of the chapter, letting the loose papers lay flat on the table. He pointed to the next pages. “These are fine though. They’re in the right rotation here, so not all is lost at least.”

Udai sighed, as he threw his weight back into the chair, making it spin with his momentum. “That’s all well and good, but I was really proud of that panel. It was going to be the attention grabber.”

Akaashi pursed his lips gently, flipping through the pages once more before tucking them into the pale yellow folder and closing it. Udai’s new story was in its beginning stages, only having a sample chapter that would be published in the following week’s magazine, that is if they got it done in time. 

“It needs to be perfect. I can’t have this not work and starve for the rest of my life.”

Akaashi opened his mouth slightly, taking in a deep breath, ready to spout out his words of encouragement for his colleague when there was a knock on the door followed by the soft creaking of the hinges as it opened.

“Sorry to interrupt, but I just wanted to ask Udai about some of the uh… what’s the word? Dang, I’m supposed to know Japanese, it’s my job. The— I give up. Help?”

Udai chuckled and waved you over to take the seat opposite him, you shook your head and bowed slightly as your hand raised, saying you were alright, not needing the chair. Leaning down slightly you pointed at the ruff sketch copy in your hand where your current author’s handwriting seemed to over the edges of the text bubble slightly.

“I’m sorry to interrupt, but how in the hell am I supposed to translate ‘paisen’?”

The innocent question seemed to brighten Udai’s mood much more than Akaashi’s monotone words of support would have. The older man launched backwards, nearly flinging himself off the chair, in a fit of laughter. His hands gripped the shirt he wore above his stomach and chest as they tried to ease the laughing pains.

Akaashi chuckled at the sight before looking at your somewhat regretful expression, you were probably too used to your co-workers laughing at your in-fluency at Japanese. “You can probably substitute a familiar nickname or a joking reference of respect.”

You sighed and brushed your hand over the back of your neck, “I swear, Himari had the intent to torture me with this last chapter. Thank you, Akaashi.”

Finally calmed from his fit of giggles, Udai sat straight in his chair and sent you a gracious smile. “Well, at least when you join our team I won’t torture you as much.”

You gave Udai and Akaashi a teasing smirk as you reached for the door handle. “I’m not so sure about that,” you said. “Besides, you need to get the attention of the readers before I join your team. No point in translating a comic that doesn’t even get off the ground right?”

You sent them a wink and the door closed behind you with a quiet click.

“Was that a challenge?”

“I believe so,” Akaashi said, handing Udai a blank sheet of paper. “Looks like we have some work to do.”

The office was, as it was the day before, and the day before that, calm. Udai sat in a small isolated office on his own with a naturally coloured lamp hanging over his hunched figure. The rest of his team, including Akaashi and now you as well, sat outside his door in a row of cubicles that led up to a large window that took up the entirety of the wall. In the corner cubicle, pressed against the window and directly across from him, you sat, typing away on your computer as you translated the Japanese text into Wild Words fonted English. 

“Akaashi, is the end of chapter ready to translate?” Your head peeked over the frosted cubicle wall, a small smile pulling at the corner of your lips and the corner of your eyes pinching together. Akaashi’s gaze fluttered around.

“Ah, Ya the edits are done so you can finish translating it now.”

The smile you wore only seemed to grow, making Akaashi want to turn away and stare at the same time. The sun’s light contrasted with the dull rectangular lights in the office, making your skin glow. Your fingers tightened on the top of the glass and your shoulders rose to your ears, you narrowly missed knocking over an owl keychain that hung on his side of the wall.

“Perfect,” you said. “I’ll get them done now.”

The day continued like this, everyone working and occasionally calling out to each other through their cubed walls, possibly getting a twirling pen in the forehead followed by a meek apology (coming from you). Every time you spoke to someone you would rise out of your seat to make eye contact with them, refusing to continue speaking otherwise, and even though he wasn’t the person you always spoke to, each time your head began to poke out of your squared corner Akaashi couldn’t help but turn his attention your way, watching as the sun's light danced around you. It didn’t come to a surprise when, like every instance before, Akaashi looked up when you shot up from your seat. Only this time there was a frantic look plastered unevenly on your face, one that the warm light didn’t compliment.

“Please tell me my clock is wrong and that it’s not 4 pm.”

Chiyo leaned back in her chair, setting down her Cintiq’s pen and flipped the watch on her wrist so that the face faced her. “Yup, it’s actually 4:15.”

Akaashi was surprised to hear a not so work friendly English curse leave your lips as you rushed to save files on your computer while simultaneously packing your purse. You continued to swear as you ran out of your cubicle and toward the elevators with a quick “goodbye” being thrown over your shoulder. The office was quiet.

“Does that happen often?” Ena asked as he pulled off his glasses.

The group of artists and their editor sat in stunned silence for a few moments, minds racing over where the young translator had scurried off to. In their collaborative confusion, the team slowly went back to their respective jobs.

Himari came around the corner of the office, coffee in hand, as she chatted with her editor, who was nursing his own mug. The writer looked up for her conversation to see Udai’s team and gave them a polite nod. They were going to meekly return to their work when Himari paused her steps and looked at the empty plush chair that sat rotated and untucked in your cubicle.

“Oh, did (Y/N) leave?” to Akaashi’s surprise, Himari was not.

“Does she do that often?” he asked, setting down his pen on the counter of his desk.

Himari nodded, smiling, “Oh ya, sometimes she gets lucky and her friend can handle it but a lot of the time she has to run out of here by 3.” Akaashi’s brow furrowed slightly as Himari took a sip of her coffee before continuing waving her hand by her head, “Don’t worry too much about it though, she always comes in early to get her work done.”

Before they could question further, Himari was off with her editor sending them a knowing smile.

When the end of the workday rolled around, only 45 minutes after your quick departure, Akaashi found his eyes trailing back to his phone that sat at the corner of his desk on top of a stack of papers. Keeping watch on his phone, he swung his bag over his shoulder and shut off his computer. The device remained silent as the team began to pile out of their seats, toward the elevators and in a fit of contemplation, he reached for the phone.

Your response was quick and vague; Family thing, happens often. I’ll tell you later. See you tomorrow!

After the sample comic was released, Udai was thrown when he received an immense amount of interest for his characters and story, and he was even more excited when he received word from the magazine’s publishers that they wanted him to continue with the path he was on. The months building up to this moment were filled with constant plot revisions, reference excursions, and interviews until they came to a conclusive framework of the story, and continued introductions as new members were added to their original duo to make the workload less hefty. 

Today though was the day that the story’s first chapter would finally be released to the public. 

Akaashi tracked into the office, heading to the lounge to grab a coffee before coming up to his cubicle against the window and setting his bag down, immediately heading to the lounge. 8:40 in the morning, 20 minutes before the expected time of arrival, Akaashi, back at his desk, was just about to take a sip of coffee when a small snore overlapped the sound of the air conditioners, creating a dishonest harmony. 

On the other side of the frosted glass wall of the cubicle was you, head resting on the black mouse pad that had a small plush cushion for your wrist. Akaashi quickly rounded the desks, coming to our side to gently rouse you from your slumber before your co-workers arrived. He was to wake you up gently with a hand on your shoulder, that was the plan. The plan changed when he noticed the small picture frame on your desk, surrounded by various action figures and Funko pops.

With one hand on your shoulder and the other holding the fame, he studied the photo with a kind gaze. He was so enthralled with the image that he forgot that below his other hand, was you.

“He’s cute ain’t he?” you asked, startling the editor back to his current reality as you stretched, arching your back like a cat. Akaashi’s attention was brought back to the current situation as you reached out for another frame in the opposite corner of your desk. “His name is Naoko. Here, this photo is newer.”

The young boy in the new photo looked like you a lot, more so than the previous one where he was just an infant that carried more resemblance to a potato than a human. Akaashi, without taking his eyes off the pictures, pulled the chair out from under Ena’s desk and sat next to you. He didn’t say anything, deciding just to admire the photos he held and letting you decide whether or not he should have the pleasure of hearing a story.

You sighed and yawned, leaning over the armrest of your chair so you would see them too. “He’s six, really quiet. I moved here when I found out. Hardly even out of university, and I was already pregnant with some strangers kid,” you laughed, making Akaashi stare at your features for a moment, wanting to point out which ones could be found on the boy.

“Is he the reason you moved to Japan?” Akaashi was a little taken aback by your willingness to talk, but in hindsight, you didn’t seem like the person to keep secrets, often rattling with your co-workers about your interests. Thinking back, maybe he should have expected something like this, Himari seemed to have known after working with you for several years, happily dancing around the topic of your personal life with your new coworkers when your sudden departure was questioned.

You shrugged, “not entirely, but he sure was a good excuse. I had plans to move to Japan for years before I even got into university. When I found out, I was sort of… uh. English…. Fuck, I need a job. So I applied to be an intern here, moved in with a friend I met online and prepared to have a baby.” Your arms flew about as you talked.

“You act as though it was easy,” Akaashi laughed, placing the frames back onto the table.

You let out a happy chuckle and spun your chair to face Akaashi head-on, eyes not leaving his, “I wouldn’t say it was easy, per se, but I’m happy with how things turned out.” you yawned a bit, “I should also apologize for running out of the office early sometimes, I have to pick Naoko up from school so —”

“You don’t have to apologize for that.” The gentle smile he wore was contagious.

It was 8:50 when the rest of the team came in. Immediately catching sight of Ena, Akaashi pulled away from your side, rolling the chair back to its respective location. He heard a breathy laugh escape you as he scurried around the desks to return to his designated spot across from you, cardigan flailing about.

The rest of your team piled into their seats sending the two of you waves and morning greetings. Ena nearly dropped his ‘don’t talk to me till I’ve had my coffee’ mug as he tripped over his rubber slides just before reaching his desk next to yours.

Sending your friends a smile you quickly slid back into your cubicle to re-adjust the frames on your desk with a yawn. Akaashi gave you a nod when you looked up to his stiff, still standing, form. You made his heart feel much weaker than he’d like to admit and without saying another word, he picked up the forgotten mug filled with brown liquid and handed it over the glass, into your hands.

Naoko was much more reserved than Akaashi expected, definitely a contrast to your more hyper personality. He spent most of the day sitting in the corner behind your cubicle where a table was set up next to a row of cabinets. What the boy was doing, Akaashi wasn’t entirely sure, but there was a small tickle at that back of his brain that made him want to find out.

When you had come in that morning, the group was surprised to see the small boy trailing behind you, holding onto your hand tightly with the both of his. “PD day,” you said. Udai spent the first few minutes of the day gushing over the boy’s cheeks instead of working, only to end up being backtracked and having to cram into his lunch break. Akaashi would be lying if he said he wasn’t thankful for that though.

“What do you have there?” he asked, taking a seat next to the boy and setting down his lunch next to the younger’s bento box.

Naoko curled in on himself, bringing the phone (that was most definitely yours) to his chest. The boy’s knees had pulled up to his shoulders as his feet pushed on the edge of the chair. Akaashi sent the young boy a kind smile and waited. From the corner of his eye, he could see your chair turn around as you took in the sight of your son and co-worker. He watched as you began making large swinging motions with your arms. Akaashi tried not to laugh.

Whatever had been playing on the phone hadn’t been paused in the short time given to do so, making the familiar sound ring quietly around the two of them. 

Akaashi looked back your way for a moment, only to see you tilt your head up in a supporting nudge and turn back around.

“Are you watching a volleyball game?” he asked, rousing a more positive reaction from the boy.

Naoko’s shoulders lowered and he slowly placed the phone down between them. As Akaashi had concluded, a volleyball game played on the small screen. He put forward another question.

“Do you like to play?”

The six-year-old shrugged but nodded before scooting his chair in closer and reaching for his food. Akaashi mirrored him, slipping off his collared cardigan and pulling his lunch closer, still watching the game.

“I used to play volleyball.” This caught the boy’s attention, who turned his head to look at Akaashi, brows raised and lips pursed. “I was a setter.”

Naoko swallowed his food and for the first time, Akaashi got to hear him speak.

“I like playing setter too.”

His voice was rather meek and had a sort of authority to it, but the biggest thing he noticed made him stifle a laugh.

“Hey, (Y/N),” he called gently, making you spin your chair around in question. “Why is Naoko better at Japanese then you?”

“Hey! That’s mean!”

Naoko began to wiggle in his seat, desperately trying not to laugh at his mother’s, your, irritation. You shot a look at your son and gasped.

“Don’t you start laughing at me. I speak English better than you do.”

“You don’t need to speak English in Japan, mom.”

Kaashi continued to choke on his laugher as you pushed the palm of your hand into your forehead. “I’m being teased by my own son,” you cried quietly, turning your chair back around to face the unedited pages.

Naoko giggled and looked back Akaashi’s way. “Can you teach me?”

Akaashi didn’t see you still in your chair, listening.

“Of course I can.”

“Udai, seriously? You promised that you weren’t going to use weird industry term slang stuff on me.”

With a wide-eyed look and hair messily tied back, the man in question rotated his chair around childishly. “I never promised. I just said I'd go easier on you.” It was infuriating really. 

With a pitiful whine, you shook the rough script in your hand making an angry fluttering sound. “You’re so mean Tenma. You know that I have trouble with slang.”

Udai only laughed and waved you off, “It’s a good way to learn is it not?”

You rolled your eyes but relented, giving a wave and closing the door. Once at your seat Akaashi poked his head out, eyes visible over the top of his square-framed glasses.

“He did it again?”

“Ya,” you huffed. “I can’t blame him though. It’s just frustrating that I can’t remember what a lot of the words mean. I should buy a dictionary.” Akaashi watched as you turned your monitor on. “Oh, um, Naoko was asking about you the other day.”

“Really?”

Your hands came together behind your neck, pulling your head down bashfully. “Ya, he’s been wanting to show you how he’s doing and maybe get the chance to learn a bit from you.”

Akaashi gave you a kind smile, so small that it didn’t even crease his cheeks, and nodded. “Sounds like a plan.”

Your cheeks warmed as you beamed up at him before turning your head down towards your computer screen. Akaashi took a second to appreciate how the cool light from the overcast sky made you look. It was silent in the office for a moment. Just a moment.

“Udai! Another one?!”

In theory, so long as you have space above your head, you can play volleyball anywhere. Your apartment wasn’t ‘anywhere’.

The three-bedroom living space was built as housing and not an Olympic arena, and after breaking one too many of your glasses playing around, it was made clear to you, Naoko, and your sport junky roommate, that volleyball shouldn’t be allowed in the house.

“You guys can go play volleyball with Akaashi at the park, no?” Yukie asked, grabbing an onigiri of the large plate on your kitchen counter and stuffing it in her face. You made a large dinner that day, only to have your friend eat most of it, instead of leaving leftovers for Naoko’s lunch. Not that he complained about it, you sure did though.

Taking Yukie’s words to heart, when the weekend rolled around and Naoko was becoming more anxious, you invited Akaashi to your neighbourhood park to play volleyball.

“Open your elbows a bit more, make a triangle with your hand, and when the ball comes just cushion it with your fingertips before sending it out, okay?”

Naoko nodded, staring at his hands that were being moved around by the older player. Akaashi’s form was kneeled by the boy’s side, his head nearly resting on the younger's shoulder as he tried to make sure he was in the right position.

“Alright,” he said, grabbing the smaller than average volleyball off of the grass. “I’m gonna toss this to you, do you think you can get it to hit my hand right up here?”

Naoko nodded again, eagerly waiting for the blue and yellow ball to come flying his way. You watched silently from the park bench as Naoko tried (and often failed) to get the ball to touch Akaashi’s hand accurately. 

“Almost there, you got this Naoko!” Akaashi encouraged.

Earnestly waiting to see the next move, you sat forward in your seat, watching as that ball made a tall arch towards Naoko’s waiting palms. As the ball made contact with his fingertips, he bent his elbows and wrists before shooting them out into a straight line, sending into the palm of Akaashi’s hand before dropping back onto the grassy field.

Your son, as most six-year-olds do when accomplishing something, shrieked. He shrieked very loudly before sprinting directly into Akaashi’s stomach to give him a (breath-stealing) hug. Akaashi coughed as he tried to get air back into his depleted lungs. From the side you giggled, watching as Naoko’s smile grew, head buried into Akaashi’s stomach.

It became standard, going out to the park during your off days. And this day, like the weekends that have come before, the routine of going to the park, ball in hand, continued. But after spending an hour or so watching the familiar movement of the yellow and blue ball fly through the air, Naoko interrupted the serene setting with a loud request.

“Mama! Mom! Can we go get onigiri?”

Looking up from resting your neck on the back of the bench to turn your gaze onto the energetic boy that was hopping around on the grass. “I’m okay with that, but you should probably ask Akaashi along. We don't want to leave him at the park do we?” you teased, picking up your bag and walking toward the two.

Naoko spun again to look at Akaashi, whose hands were now tucked into his jeans pockets. “Please!” he wailed. “Come with us! Please, please, please, please, please!”

Akaashi let out a hearty laugh. “Calm down, I’ll join you.” without saying another word, Akaashi offered his hand out, letting Naoko clutch it eagerly.

“Udai are you sure it’s okay to bring Naoko along? This is meant to be a work trip and I’d hate for him to dis… dic… get in the way,” you gave up at the end, sighing over your tripping words.

Udai gave Naoko, who had been clinging to Akaashi’s arm since all of you had met outside the city gymnasium, a pat on the head. “It’s alright. Besides, he’ll probably be a great resource.” 

You nodded and watched as Naoko rattled to Akaashi about his school team and new things they had been practicing. You pouted. Upon their arrival, Ena, Chiyo and the others immediately began teasing you for effectively losing your son’s favour, which didn’t make your whining any less audible. On top of that, the group of artists found your sullen look to be a perfect reference, taking their cameras out.

“Keiji,” you cried, following behind the rest of the group as they waltzed through the gym entrance along with the crowd. “You’ve stolen my son.”

Akaashi paused for a moment, taking in a calm breath before looking over his shoulder. “He’s your son, I can’t steal that from you.”

Naoko threw a large smile over his shoulder, making your dragging steps falter.

When did it change? The expression on his face. When did it become so happy? Did he not smile before?

You picked up your pace, brows furrowed as you watched your son chatter happily.

When did he start speaking so much? Since when did he have so much to say? Was it something new in his diet? Or maybe the new friends on his volleyball team?

You found your gaze shifting to the hand that held his. Without thinking about it too hard, you quickened your steps to come up to Naoko’s other side. Your heart pounded as you held your closest hand out for him to grab hold of. When he finally did, immediately looking forward to dragging the two adults with him, the smile you gave Akaashi was the largest he’s ever seen coming from you. 

You looked back at all of your interconnecting hands fondly.

When did he become another person’s son?

I tried going a bit of a different direction with this one in comparison to most Single Parent aus. I’ll admit it could have more meat to it, but oh well, things to improve on. 

Question:

Do you prefer weekly one-shots that are shorter in length (like we’re doing) or longer ones with bigger plots and inconsistent updates (Sort of like “Catch Me If You Can” and “Ready Aim FIre” but longer)? 

- Bacon

Posted: 31/07/2020