#so i tend do dismiss the notifications

[thefirsthogokage]

John Rogers on Twitter: July 18th, 2022

(link to that first one)

[gibbearish]

its been fun watching the hbomb subreddit try very very hard to stick to the "if anyone harasses james on my behalf they wont see the light of heaven" by imo overcorrecting to "any time anyone mentions somerton ever it's because you're obsessed with him and want to pick on him because he's the villain of the week" bc its like. yknow actually i dont think people keeping an eye on his various attempts to weasel back into the spotlight and keep doing his same old shit over the last /two months/ is the same as harassing him because it's hip and fun. i think maybe those are not the same thing

[heinzpilsner]

I lied to you, bwahahaha!

I keep thinking about tSR (from Aang's perspective this time though)

And when I think, I type in my notes, simple as that.

You know, another component people (me including) kinda tend to overlook about this episode is that Aang didn't just argue with Katara and Zuko about their morals.

He was put by Katara into the position to argue because she suddenly went to him and asked to borrow Appa for their revenge trip. And after Aang refused, they decided to take him anyway.

And... It wasn't a right thing to do. At all.

Katara's right to revenge in general is one issue (which I'm not going to discuss here).

But they had no right of using Aang's personal animal companion to commit something Aang openly disapproved, no matter how upset his refusal made them.

It would make Aang their unwilling accomplice, and besides - for him, it wasn't just like giving them his vehicle to commit crimes (which would be bad in itself): it'd feel like letting them to kinda corrupt his unintelligent friend and put him into unnecessary danger, I suppose.

(Not to mention the unnecessary danger for Aang's intelligent friends!)

I saw some people criticizing Aang for not respecting Katara's moral beliefs in this situation, but... It's Katara who went to Aang with her request for his cooperation, not the other way around. Hence, it's Katara who first implicitly asked from him to discard his pacifistic values for her sake. Basically, she suddenly (really suddenly, if you think about it from Aang's perspective) put him into a "It's me or your morals now, Aang? Choose wisely!" situation, and when he wasn't eager to give her the answer she wanted on the spot, she resented him and just turned to leave ("I knew you wouldn't understand"). To treat your close friend in such a way is pretty unfair, no matter how much you're hurting at the moment. And of course Aang felt the need to explain his views to Katara after this - because he valued their friendship and was concerned for her.

(I'm not stating here that Aang's behaviour was perfect, or that his relationship with Katara in general couldn't benefit from him being more attentive to her feelings and values. That's not my point. I'm just trying to explain Aang's exact position here.)

And after that, Katara and Zuko treat Aang as if he's not their friend anymore or something. As if he's some equivalent of a pirate, and to steal something that belongs to him is a right thing to do just because they want.

Aang was actually extremely understanding and (yes) forgiving in this conflict. Zuko had no right to be so dismissive and sarcastic when you look at the situation from this angle.

I mean, hello Zuko, it's Aang's beloved bison you're stealing here for your risky, non-urgent and morally problematic mission that can psychologically harm Aang's beloved girl as well? And he isn't even angry at you for this? You could be a little more grateful, you know.

(Do you value Aang's friendship at all, Zuko, or your heart can accommodate only one important person for you at any given moment, eh?)

Again, I'm trying to be objective here. From Katara's or Zuko's perspective, the situation looks completely different (with a big neon 'lost mothers trauma' sign all over it). But this post is not about their perspective.

Something like this.

(I can always change my mind on the topic after noticing some new facts though, you know. My opinion on anything isn't set in stone. It can be such a bummer sometimes, haha. I keep ignoring my notifications, anyway.)

[taughtdefense]

you remain laser-focused as you land a variety of different punches & kicks at the training dummy, each hit perfectly in-sync with the loud music that’s playing in your ears thanks to your airpods. you’re alone in the dojo right now, so your defenses are down. not completely, but enough to throw caution to the wind. your duffle bag is on the edge of the mat, which holds a towel, your water bottle, your car keys, phone & a copy of the dojo keys kreese gave you on the second day of his takeover, & of course your earplugs. you’d swapped those for your airpods, put on a playlist, & got to training. you'd picked up on kreese's training style like it was nothing, & he's told you that he's impressed with your fearlessness & ferocity, & your ability to think five steps ahead of your current opponent. kyler's become a frequent punching bag opponent during sparring, & you take him down with a few precisely-placed moves, in less than five minutes, every single time. he's not the best student in the dojo, & you usurping that title from him ( not that he ever had that title to begin with ) has seriously fucked with his head. in your opinion, he needed to be humbled, to be knocked down a peg.

he's been getting more & more frustrated by your clear superiority in strength & knowledge in karate, & his emotions makes him stupid. you don't have that issue; by that, you mean you don't have to deal with your emotions getting the better of you during fights. you'd flipped your humanity switch off a long time ago, the second you created this universe. only miguel, tory, cosima, ciro & scarlett have an idea of what you're actually like... but with the rest of the valley, you're closed off. robby is included in that second list, because you're determined not to repeat history with him. it's why you've kept him at arms length & have barely looked his way since he joined cobra kai. you're not pissed at him like tory & scarlett are, you're just... frustratingly uninterested, like you want nothing to do with him.

it’s been two hours since today’s evening lesson wrapped up for the day, & everyone — including sensei kreese — have packed up & left the dojo. it's dark outside. the dojo is nice & quiet, which is honestly how you prefer it. there's not any distractions nearby that could pull you out of training, & you'd even silenced your notifications. you don’t tend to train this extensively, or this intensely. but, you knew you’d be bored at home, stuck inside with the rainstorm that's blowing through the valley, & had some extra energy to work off. so, here you are. you're barely even sweating, & you're not even feeling the slightest bit of exhaustion. ( your nonhuman stamina comes in handy. )

when the dojo's doors open & quickly shut, you don't cast a glance backwards, although you can tell it's only @taughtpain. you could lie to yourself & say you're happy to see him, but you're not. you land another three kicks to the dummy's head in rapid succession, using a little more strength on the third & final kick. the force causes the dummy to rattle violently in place for a handful of seconds, which you ignore. you simply switch your stance, aiming a quick punch at its chest. finally, you turn around, holding his gaze for a split second before pulling an airpod out of your ear, walking over to your phone to pause your music. there's a handful texts from tory & scarlett, which you'd ignored in favor of training. you begin replying, barely even glancing up at robby, like he's not right in front of you. after you hit send on the reply in the group chat, you toss your phone back onto your duffle bag, rolling your shoulders.

❝ if you're looking for sensei kreese, you're shit out of luck. they left a while ago. unless you're here to train, you can leave. ❞ dismission, boredom, & disinterest line your words, & your face conveys this perfectly. ❝ or, you can stay here & wait out the rainstorm with me, since you're already here. i don't fucking care. ❞

[bookwyrminspiration]

Dumb question but do you usually reblog asks game answers you send? Because I answered your ask for one of them (the book themed one) and I don’t know if you saw it or not. It’s cool if you did see and just didn’t reblog it, but I wanted to make sure? Sorry if this is presumptuous.

Not a dumb or presumptuous question at all! I tend to be very inconsistent with my responses. Sometimes I'll reblog them, but usually if they're a mutual I'm more familiar with, but even then that's only on occasion. Otherwise I will try to reply to them--but again, also inconsistent!

I'm quite forgetful when it comes to responding to things, so I truly mean nothing by it. I've been tagged in several tag game-like things over the past few weeks that I keep forgetting to go through, for example, and there are a handful of DMs I also keep forgetting to respond to.

I promise I was not trying to dismiss whatever you said. In all likelyhood, I read it when I got the notif, went "I should respond to this in a minute!" and then i got enough notes between reading it, setting my phone down, and coming back I couldn't see the notif anymore and forgot. it happens a lot.

I'm working to be better with it, but it's an ongoing process. If you'd like and are comfortable, tag me in the post! Then I can find it and reply! but I'd probably reply tomorrow, as I'm about to go to bed

[i-just-like-commenting]

It’s all one struggle (part 1)

This is just a rambling thought I’ve had in my head from reading comments and reblogs of this post, mostly positive, others validly critical, a few frustratingly missing my point, and a bunch of terfs to block. (I have finally decided to turn off notifications for the sake of my social anxiety disorder) But especially there was one tag that someone added noting that a lot of transphobia was “rooted in sexism” and...I dunno, I think it kind of fundamentally  is sexism? Or maybe that what we think of as sexism and homophobia and transphobia are all just kind of the same thing and I’m sure I’m not the first person to have had this thought, I’m pretty sure this is just what people mean they talk about “the gender binary” as a negative, but I want to type it out for my sake as part of the whole learning experience. Warning that I’m going to be parroting sexist, homophobic, and transphobic language to unpack it, so decide if you want to read on.

It all comes down to dividing the world up into categories of masculine and feminine, ne’er the twain shall meet, and which category you personally must be is determined at birth by your genitals, sorry you get no say in the matter. And by the way, masculine is better than feminine, and this hierarchy cannot be defied.

From this everything follows. Women are restricted to an inferior position and cannot ascribe to power or to anything else deemed masculine. Men who are attracted to anything deemed feminine are weak, degenerate, defective. All the usual things centered on sexism and what the earliest kinds of feminism were trying to fight.

But this man/woman, masculine/feminine divide defines how you’re supposed to have relationships too. Men must want women, and only fittingly feminine women at that, likewise women must want men, and only fittingly masculine men at that. If men want men, that’s feminine, they’re weak, degenerate, defective. If women want women, they’re transgressing their place and trying to be masculine.

Even sexist societies that have had some “acceptance” of homosexuality like the Hellenistic world or pre-Meiji Japan have tended to do so within the confines of this dynamic. While obviously there have always been people in equal relationships, they are not what these societies publicly celebrated. No, one male partner has to take a feminine role by virtue of social inferiority, often from age (including flat-out pederasty) or class (owners with slaves, monks with novices, samurai with attendants). And lesbians? Assuming anyone wants to talk about you at all, prepare to be depicted as mannish for your desire.

Again, later waves of feminism agree with this, and recognize how sexism and homophobia have been interlinked. It is not a coincidence that religious groups that allow women as leaders are going to be the ones that have begun to accept same-sex marriage. Once you realize that the masculine/feminine proscriptions on behavior are flawed, that connect to the limitations on how relationships can be formed between men and women.

But much, much more fundamentally, this sexism means that you cannot ever defy the category society put you into. You cannot say, this label you have given me does not fit, I do not accept this divide. You cannot cross it to the other side, you cannot say you lie outside it or someone between. Genitals at birth are destiny, they are what define you.

Are you born intersex? Congratulations, your biology will be at best dismissed as an outlier, or at worst surgically altered without your consent to match the social idea of what it should be. Not intersex and want to change your body in any way once you’ve reached an age to voice consent? Mutilating yourself, you must stay exactly as you were at birth!

Sexism plays out in how we treat afab and amab people differently too. Trans men and nonbinary afabs are treated with condescension - you’re just confused, self-hating girls who were probably peer-pressured into transitioning - or you’re vindictively denied medical care because if you were really not women, you couldn’t get pregnant or have a period. You’re out of your place, not being appropriately feminine, you must be punished.

And trans women and nonbinary amabs? You’re defective, perverted men, of course. A danger to women and children, the same slurs put against gay men for the last couple of centuries.

(It is very revealing that those cultures around the world that have accepted some level of trans-ness have done so by eschewing a binary to begin with, by allowing for three, four, or five genders that people are sorted into when they come of age rather than only at birth.)

The so-called feminists who want to carve out this final space and say that, no, this isn’t the same, you need the definitions of man and woman to match up to your genitals at birth (please continue to ignore intersex people as we always have). And so “women are the ones who can get pregnant” becomes a definition they’re willing to accept, never mind that this just tells cis women that they are defined by their fertility, the same concept that has limited fertile cis women from getting medical treatment to limit their fertility and has questioned the womanhood of those of us who can’t get pregnant. Which is, you know, sexist.

It circles right back. Because it’s all the same struggle, against the same thing. You cannot care about one part of it without caring about all the other parts, Heck, I’m probably missing what some of those parts are because I haven’t seen or experienced, feel free to add your own.

You can certainly try, of course, and I can say that from experience as starting out like most people of my generation as pretty transphobic, but if you start to think about it all, that begins to fall apart. We’re all in this together, our needs intersect, we have to share space with each other somehow. Maybe it’s still not clear what that space will eventually end up looking like, what language we’ll use to describe it. We’ll step on our toes trying to all get the spotlight, it will be messy. But ultimately we can’t throw anybody under the bus.

(This is part 1 because I actually think that this struggle is part of another even more fundamental one, but this post is getting long enough as it is.)

[winter-soldier-vibes]

“I Don’t Hate You Like I Hate Myself” (Bucky x reader)

“I don’t hate you like I hate myself”

Bucky x reader

Word count: 4224

Warnings: eating disorder/bulimia, self hate

Summary: Reader suffers from an eating disorder and Bucky finds her purging one night. 

A/N: Sorry it’s been so long, I really am. It’s been a hell of a few months. Still working through it and writing has been helping me. I hope you are all doing well, reach out to me if you need me, and of course, if this in ANY WAY may harm your journey, feel free to skip <3

------------------------

“Goodnight guys” you said, a slight laugh in your voice. You stood up with your empty plate and placed it in the sink. There were a few groans around the table.

“But it’s so early,” Tony said, the others nodding in agreement

You looked at the watch on your wrist. “It’s 8 pm, Tony.”

“Exactly!” Thor said, shaking his head as if it were obvious. 

You shook your head at them. “Goodnight everyone,” you said, turning around and walking up the stairs.

As soon as you were out of sight, you let out a breath of relief and dropped the smile. You rubbed your face in exhaustion and closed your eyes a little, feeling heavier with each step. Truth be told, you were exhausted. But you still had something else you had to do. 

You pick up the pace walking to your room, thoughts spiraling faster as you closed the door and locked it. “F.R.I.D.A.Y., turn on soundproofing.” you said.

“As you wish, y/n.” the A.I. responded. 

You sighed, and went into the bathroom, closing and locking the door behind you. You knew no one would come in, but it was a force of habit by now. You tied your hair back and filled a hidden water bottle with tap water before chugging it, and then lifted the toilet seat. ‘Damn family dinners,’ you thought to yourself. You took a deep breath as you leaned over the toilet, pushing one hand into your stomach and used the other to stick 3 fingers down your throat. After a few small gags, you started choking up your dinner as well. 

You had tears streaming down your face, not necessarily from sadness but from exertion. You coughed after one particular gag, until eventually nothing more came up. You placed your hands on either side of the toilet to steady yourself, back heaving up and down as you tried to catch your breath. Your heart raced and your head pounded, so you tightly shut your eyes and shook your head slightly. 

You stood in front of the mirror, sideways. You lifted your shirt and sucked in your stomach as much as you could. It was flat.

‘That’s much better,’ you thought to yourself. You flushed the toilet and turned on the shower. You became emotionless, running through the routine you always did. Wash your hands, cold water to the face, spray the air freshener, and take a shower to wash away the shame. 

You didn’t want to do this to yourself. You just didn't know what else to do. 

You thought it was just about the food. It was just about the way you looked, the size of your clothes, the number on the scale. That was all it was supposed to be. How did it grow to be so much more?

Every time was supposed to be the last time. You never meant to do it. But any time you ate anything, you just felt sick to your stomach. At first it was with shame and anxiety - now it was a physical nausea that overtook you. You thought this would make it easy to eat less, and it did. 

Until you felt sad

Or mad

Or stressed

Or a mission went slightly wrong

Or you began overthinking the smallest things

And whenever you felt anything negative you just needed to replace that with something else. A distraction, something to numb you out. To make you feel less than this overwhelming, crushing emotion. You needed to get it out. 

So you ate.

And then you threw it all up with all of your emotions, until you were left in a quiet bliss

You knew, logically, as a human, that you needed to eat. But it always felt wrong. Like it wasn’t for you, like you were weak for eating. You weren’t naive, you knew the side effects of bulimia. You had begun to experience a few of them - dizziness mainly. But it hadn’t become an issue yet. It didn’t interfere with your work, therefore, it wasn’t a problem. No one had caught on aside from a few minorly concerned looks. Not that you would ever let anyone in. 

It wasn’t that you didn’t trust the team, God no. You loved them and would trust them with anything other than your mind. No, it was more of an embarrassed sickening feeling you got. You didn’t know what to say, there was no reasonable explanation for this. Hell, you didn’t even quite know why you did what you were doing. It was easier this way, simpler. 

It was your problem to fight. Not theirs. You knew your limits. 

With a sigh, you turn off the shower water, stepping out and wrapping a towel lazily around yourself. You kept your eyes from the mirror as you stepped into your room and over to your dresser to put on some pajamas. Sweatpants and a tank top. You sat on your bed and flopped back, rubbing your hands over your face. 

Another day done. Countless more to go.

You looked at your phone to check any notifications. Aside from a few news updates, there were 2 texts from Bucky:

‘You okay?’ received 42 minutes ago

‘If you’re not you know where I am. Sleep well’ received 38 minutes ago.

You smiled a little. You were all a family, you and the team. Bucky and you seemed to bond in the way that introverts tend to. The way that brings out the extrovert in the other. The way that hanging out didn’t have to mean you spoke because you both found comfort in the silence. You grew the closest with him, often checking in with each other. If he had a nightmare, he came to you. Or you went to him, depending on how bad it was. You would talk to him about small matters, but you would never think of telling him about any of this.

You shuddered at the thought. No one could ever know about this. 

You closed your phone after deciding it was best not to respond. It had been too much time since he had sent the messages, and if you sent something now he might wonder what you had been doing for almost 45 minutes. Best to not reply until morning, blaming it on the exhaustion that never left your body. 

You placed your phone on your nightstand and rolled over, shutting your eyes and willing sleep to come easily. Over time you began sleeping less and less, and now it was a miracle if you were able to at all. Maybe it was the hunger pains, or the reflux, or this overwhelming fear that something bad was going to happen. The stress of being an Avenger, of keeping up your act, of being perfect all the time. 

It was exhausting. But not in the way that sleep would ever be able to fix. 

No, this was a type of tiredness that kept you awake. You had to stay alert all the time. Sleep wasn’t restful or enjoyable anymore. It was elusive. You needed a break from your life. Sleep wouldn’t ever be able to provide that. Not when you would be waking up to deal with it all over again. 

You sighed. You hated this. You hated what you were doing, you hated that you couldn’t stop. You hated that you couldn’t tell anyone about it. Not because you didn’t trust them, but because you didn’t know if you wanted to stop. And if you let them in, you didn’t want to be letting them down by slipping up. And you wanted to stop but...you didn’t know how. You didn’t feel good enough, you didn’t feel like you deserved it. And nothing else could make you feel better like this could

You hated yourself. You hated yourself in a way that no one else ever could. In a way that made you wonder if you would ever be able to love yourself with the innocence you once did. 

You turned over again, willing your racing thoughts to slow to a steady jog at least. You took deep breaths, still trying to calm your pounding heart from earlier. As you started to relax a little, feeling closer to sleep, you remembered one last thing you had to do.

“F.R.I.D.A.Y., turn soundproofing off,” you said softly.

“Of course, Y/N,” the A.I. responded.

And with that, you drifted off.

-----

You were rudely awakened by a few sharp knocks at your door. You startled awake and sat up quickly, only to be greeted by a huge headrush. “One minute,” you called out groggily, rubbing your eyes and standing up. Once again, your vision began to black out but you ignored it. You were used to it at this point. It always went away eventually. You pulled over a cardigan and padded over to the door, opening it.

You opened the door to a very much awake Bucky, who seemed to have just gotten back from a run. You weakly smiled, hoping you didn’t look as tired as you felt. Unfortunately, you don’t think that was the case, seeing as Bucky’s smile almost immediately faltered as he took in your tired face. Dark circles under your eyes and a smile that didn’t reach your eyes. 

“Yes, Buck?” you asked, pulling him out of his concerned stare.

“Are you okay?” he asked worriedly. He knew what being tired felt like, but he had never seen it to this extent on anyone aside from him. He knew you had been tired lately, going to bed early, waking up late, yet seeming to grow more tired by the day. 

You sighed and rubbed your eyes a little. “Yeah, I’m good. Just trying to wake up a little.” you said with a little laugh, dismissive. 

Bucky worried about you. He felt close to you but he worried that you didn’t feel close to him. He could always count on you to be someone he could turn to. But no matter how hard he tried, you didn’t seem comfortable opening up to him. He knew it would take time and he didn’t take it personally. He just wanted to be able to be there for you the way that you were there for him. He knew something had been bothering you, he just didn’t know how to approach it. 

He looked into your eyes. “You sure about that?” he asked.

You mustered the best smile you could. “Yes, I am fine. Just -”

“Tired. I know what that’s like,” he said with a slight laugh. “You know that you don’t have to be fine right?” he said reassuringly. It had become his line with you, to make sure that you knew he was there if you wanted to open up. And while you found it very sweet, you couldn’t help but feel guilty. You wanted to trust him, and you hated making him feel like you didn’t trust him. You just didn’t know how. 

Instead you opted for a nod with a small laugh, desperate to get as far away from this conversation as possible. “I swear, I’m fine,” you said a little more strongly this time. 

Bucky nodded, unconvinced but willing to drop it. If you weren’t ready to talk about it, that was okay. For now. “Do you want to come down and get some breakfast? I think Sam and Clint were making a ton of food for everyone. 

You ran through your options. If you didn’t go down, people would be suspicious. If you did, you would have to eat and find time to get rid of it after, plus deal with the banter of the team for leaving so early. You weren’t supposed to eat yet, it was far too early. But Bucky was already suspicious, so it would be best if you just went down and got rid of it later. All of this ran through your mind in a second before you said:

“Yeah, sure, I’ll be down in a few minutes,” to which Buck turned around and you closed the door. 

After a few seconds you closed your eyes and sighed heavily, resting your head against the door. You cursed yourself internally for agreeing but knew it was the option that raised the least suspicion. You went into the bathroom to wash your face quickly and before you knew it you were studying your body. Turning around, looking at yourself from every possible angle. It happened every time. Coming back to reality, you dressed quickly in some baggy clothes before taking a deep breath and heading down to the kitchen area. 

You were greeted with the smell of all things breakfast, and when you walked in you saw loads of everything there could possibly be. They really went all out. Which made you even more nervous: you didn’t want to seem ungrateful or hurt their feelings. 

You had stopped at the door, and Tony was the first to see you.

“Morning Sleeping Beauty,” he said, bringing the small conversation to a stop for a moment while everyone recognized your appearance. You gave a small wave and a smile before coming in and sitting down. You tried your best to not show your anxiety or exhaustion. There was so much food, and you didn’t want to offend people by not eating but you didn’t know if you would be able to stop once you started. 

Everyone was sitting around the table making small conversation and starting to eat. You were taking deep breaths as nonchalantly as you could. You grabbed a few things to put on your plate, trying to keep a steady hand. You didn’t want to draw any attention to yourself. Normally it wouldn’t be a problem - you’d have a few days of no one noticing you skipping meals, then have dinner all together before you all parted ways. You could prepare for that. But breakfast the morning after was sprung on you, and you didn’t think you should be eating in this small of a time window. 

You tried to join in on the conversation, pushing things around on your plate as you did so. You thought you were hiding it well, but from across the table you caught Bucky glancing your way with concern. So you started eating more. 

It was delicious, you couldn’t deny that. You soon cleaned your plate and began filling it back up with more this time. You could feel your stomach expanding and your heart rate was picking up. As you finished your second plate of food, you felt the anxiety set in. You tried to remind yourself that it was a normal amount, and that you hadn’t been eating enough for a normal person. Eating was normal. Eating was normal. 

But you weren’t normal. 

“Well, this has been great, and thank you Sam and Clint, but I think I’m going to go lie down,” you interjected into the conversation, pushing your chair out.

“Leaving again so early?” Tony asked, not unkindly. You looked around the table before landing eyes on Bucky, concern filling his face.

You swallowed nervously before saying. “Yeah, sorry guys. See you in a bit!” you added and hoped you didn’t sound as desperate as you felt to leave the room. You turned around and walked towards the door, conversation picking back up while Bucky watched you leave. Something didn’t sit right with him.

After you had gotten around the corner you picked up the pace, resisting breaking into a jog. You made it to your room, heart pounding in your chest and nearly threw yourself in, closing the door and turning to the bathroom. You closed that door too, locking it as a force of habit. You were usually methodical about this process, you had a system. But you were desperate at this point. You tied your hair up messily and filled up a hidden water bottle at the sink before chugging it and turning to the toilet. 

Back in the kitchen, Bucky decided that he was going to go check on you. He excused himself and thanked Sam and Clint for the food before heading in the direction of your room. 

You were bent over the toilet retching. You hated this so much. It hurt, it didn’t feel good, but you felt so relieved doing it. You couldn’t explain it. You didn’t like doing it, but it somehow was the one thing that helped you feel better.

What you didn’t realize was that you hadn’t locked your room door. Nor did you turn on the soundproofing feature of your room. 

Bucky knocked on your room door, to which he was met with silence. You simply didn’t hear him. Not liking the feeling in his stomach, he let himself in. To his surprise, you weren’t there. But then he heard you retching. 

He furrowed his brows. Why hadn’t you said you were sick? Closing the door behind him, he walked over to the bathroom door before knocking. And you froze.

“Are you okay in there?” you heard him ask.

Shit. 

You swallowed before responding with “Yeah, I’m fine.” You cursed yourself for the weakness and wavering in your voice. You quickly flushed the toilet and turned to the mirror. You were a mess, red face and tear-streaked face. You washed your hands and then your face, trying to get rid of as much inflammation as you could. 

You took a deep breath and leaned against the sink. How could you have forgotten the most important parts of your process? How could you have been so stupid? How were you going to talk yourself out of this?

“Y/n?”

You opened the door with your head down as you tried to walk around Bucky. But he gently stood in front of you before guiding your face to his, his eyes widening at your red eyes and face. 

“Why didn’t you tell anyone you were sick?” he asked.

“It’s fine, don’t worry about it.”

“You’re not fine if you’re throwing up. I swear, if Sam made something that made you sick -”

“It’s not like that” you interrupted.

Bucky paused for a moment. “What do you mean it’s not like that?”

You clenched your jaw and looked away, backing up a little. “Nevermind.”

Bucky stood in front of you again, a little more insistent now. “No, what do you mean? Are you sick?”

“Buck-”

“Y/n.” he insisted. 

You took a deep breath. “I throw up sometimes,” you said quietly, but loud enough for Bucky to hear it. He shifted on his feet. “What do you mean?”

You looked at him sadly, shaking your head. “It won’t make sense,” you said.

“Then help me understand,” he said. 

You took a few breaths before trying to piece it together. “I don’t know what happened. I was just supposed to lose a few pounds. And sometimes I would eat too much, and throwing up made me feel better. And now I can’t stop. It was just supposed to be about losing weight but now I can’t stop,” you finished before finally looking him in the eye again.

Bucky’s face contorted to one of more concern. Your eyes filled with tears at finally revealing your secret. Bucky came closer to you and pulled you into a hug as you sobs started wracking your body. Bucky held you tightly, whispering that it was okay. He breathed deeply and steadily, hoping you would be able to fall in rhythm with him. 

You were able to start breathing with him and calming down. After a few moments of silence, Bucky asked “How long has this been going on?”

You shook your head. “I don’t even know.” you said, defeated. 

Bucky took a deep breath. “Why didn’t you ever say anything?”

You shrugged weakly. “It wasn’t your problem.” you said.

“I want to help, y/n,” he said, pulling away to look at you. “You always help me or anyone else on the team whenever we need it. If we were going through this wouldn’t you want to help us?”

“Of course I would,” you said firmly, tears building up.

“Then why can’t you let me help you the way you help me?” he asked.

You shook your head lightly. “It’s not that simple, Buck.”

He looked at you, confused. “What do you mean?”

“It’s not like that,” you said a little louder, turning around. You could feel yourself beginning to break.

“What’s the difference between me and you? Why can’t-”

“Because I don’t HATE you!” you exclaimed, turning around with pain in your eyes. “It’s not the same thing because I don’t hate you. I want to help you, because you are a good person, and I like you. I don’t like myself. I deserve this so I’ve accepted that this is what I need to do. I don’t care if it hurts me, because I don’t care about myself!” you yelled, tears streaming down your face again and breathing heavily. “That’s the fucking difference.”

Bucky looked at you sadly. “Is that really how you feel about yourself?” he asked, saddened even more when you began nodding. “What did you do that was so wrong?”

You shook your head, anger calming down into sadness. “I don’t know. I never liked myself. I don’t feel like I belong anywhere, and I never have. And I’ve accepted that I may never feel like I will. This isn’t the kind of sick I know how to heal. People catch a cold or break a bone and there are active steps to fix it and a set timeline before it gets better. And it won’t bother them again. But this,” you tap both sides of your head repeatedly, “this I can’t fix. I don’t know how, I don’t know where to start. I’ve tried but it never really goes away. There’s no medicine or action or rest period or any kind of shit like that. It’s me against me. I’m always gonna lose this battle. I’m not the kind of sick that can get better, Buck,” you shrugged slightly and shook your head. “Not for me.” 

Bucky’s face saddened even more, knowing all too well the feeling of not belonging. He knew the pain of self doubt and self hate, and feeling like you were a bad person. But he had done so many things as the winter soldier, how he killed so many innocent lives. You were one of the kindest people Bucky knew. He didn’t understand how you could feel this way. 

Bucky started walking closer to you slowly. “Y/n...I know what that feeling is like. You know that. But I don’t understand why you would feel that way about yourself.” he was now standing in front of you. “You’re one of the most generous people I know, you’ve helped me so much. I know you’ve helped everyone here. No one here hates you, y/n.” 

“I know,” you said. Before Bucky could respond you continued, “I know there’s no reason for me to feel this way. I know logically I didn’t do anything wrong. But it’s just this...this thing in my head. And it never goes away. And I know all it tells me is lies but the only way I can make it stop is by throwing up. I know it’s messed up, I just can’t make it stop,” you said, looking down again.

Bucky guided your face back to meet his. “Can I try to help? You can always talk to me about anything, you know that right?”

You breathed out. “I don’t know,” you said truthfully. 

Bucky noticeably stiffened, and you quickly added, “It’s not that I don’t trust you. Not at all, I do, it’s just that I don’t want to disappoint you.” you said. “I don’t want to fuck up and hurt you because I couldn’t be strong. I don’t want to bother you every goddamn day with this petty bullshit I have going on.” you took a deep breath and looked away again. “I don’t want you to leave out of frustration that I couldn’t be strong for you.”

“Is that really what you think I would do?” he asked. When you nodded, he went on. “I would never be disappointed at you trying your best. It’s okay to mess up, to have bad days, it’s not going to be perfect. Life can be a little fucked up sometimes, but what I’ve learned is that the hardest way through it is alone.” he said with emphasis, knowing all too well the pain of keeping your emotions in. 

You leaned into him again, his arms wrapping you into a hug. “Promise you won’t leave?” you asked softly.”

His arms tightened around you. “I’m not going anywhere.”

[thinkingoutlouddblog]

Only For You - h.s.

Summary: H is usually pretty in tune with his body, but he’s apparently not very good at picking up when he’s getting sick. 

Word Count: 5k

Warnings: mentions of covid, plus me taking a guess at how covid testing in the US and at events works so sorry for any potential inaccuracies, I mostly used my knowledge of Aus but honestly its described all very generally

A/N: this took longer than I thought it was going to because I started and then got sick a couple days in :/ I’m still sick but she is done! If you have any requests pls send them my way!

Masterlist  ///  Send me an ask!

Harry is never sick.

He was so strict in his fitness and health, his immune system was better than almost anyone’s you knew. You were pretty sure someone could cough directly into his mouth and it would somehow boost his immune system by giving it a chance to exercise. There had to be fifty times over the course of your relationship so far you were sure you were going to pass on whatever illness you had acquired at the time. You always waited patiently for the other shoe to drop, for him to exhibit your exact symptoms and to be awash with guilt at his sickly state, but it never did.

It is such a rare occurrence, in fact, that he can tell you exactly the last time he came down with something. It was August 2019, he was in LA, and he had ended up missing two Fine Line album release related meetings. He remembered it because you had been in New York, tied up in projects of your own. You had pushed your flight up as a surprise to get home and take care of him, but by the time you touched down he had already been on the mend, and was sat in a rescheduled meeting when you opened the door to your shared home.

He could not recall, however, the earliest warning signs of a flu coming on, having experienced them so infrequently.

He dismissed the heavy tired feeling that had settled upon him, certain it was simply the aftereffects of intensive Grammy rehearsals. True to his perfectionist tendencies, he had been tireless in his efforts to make this one of his best performances and had been spending hours practicing a song you were pretty sure he could nail in his sleep. You said nothing of the fact that you thought he perhaps was spending more time than strictly necessary on this, of course, never wanting to undermine his process or invalidate his feelings of being under intense pressure. You just assured him you thought he was amazing and provided opinions and input whenever he asked it of you. He was overworking himself, but he was not deterred until the lights went down after his extremely successful (and extremely sexy, if you did say so yourself) performance.

Two days later, he was sure his hangover had extended over into a second day as he become aware of a dull ache in his head while awaking from his slumber. He groaned, rubbing his face as he rolled towards you, pulling you against his chest. He breathed deeply, cursing himself for drinking so much and sleeping so little only momentarily before thinking, hey, how many times do you win a Grammy? You stirred at his movement, eyes fluttering open only slightly before you shut them again and snuggled deeper into his chest. You sighed in contentment, loving nothing more than the comfortable feeling you can only get waking up in the morning, still on the edge of sleep. It had always been one of your favourite things, and it was only ever made better by waking up in Harry’s arms.

“I hate getting old,” he mutters into your hair, pressing a kiss where his lips had tickled your forehead.

“What?” You laughed at his unsolicited statement.

“Two-day hangovers are supposed to be reserved for after you hit thirty. But clearly, I’m older than I think I am because they have come for me and I am not enjoying it.”

You wriggled up in his embrace, so that you were face to face, giggling at him as you did say. “Oh god, do you think we should start thinking about retiring?”

“You’re supposed to tell me I’m not old!” He tightened his grip on you as he exclaimed in indignation.

“I mean what can I possibly say, H? Two-day hangover? You’ve basically got a foot in the grave,” you jested, but leaned in to peck his cheek at his faux sour expression.

In response, he released his grip on you and rolled away until he was at the very opposite edge of the bed in a big huff. You only laughed harder at his antics. You followed him to his side of the bed, wrapping your arms around him from behind and placing gentle kisses to the side of his neck.

“Darling, have you considered, maybe, just maybe, this two day hangover has nothing to do with the fact that you are getting older and more to do with the fact that you were working yourself to the bone for a month and then partied like the world was ending?” You pressed another lingering kiss to his neck. “Or perhaps like someone who had just won a Grammy?” A smile broke over your face at the memory, a fresh wave of pride washing through you, somehow still managing to leave you buzzing.

“Nope, I refuse to hear that. My youthful body is supposed to be stronger than any party, even an I-just-won-a-Grammy party.” You snorted in his ear, completely unsurprised by his steadfast stubbornness.

“Alright then old man,” you rolled away from him and hopped out of bed.

“Hey,” he called out, both at the jab and your exit from bed.

“Since my big shot Grammy winning, senior citizen boyfriend is still feeling a bit dusty I suppose I’ll bring him a coffee in bed,” you sing out over your shoulder as you make your way to the kitchen, craving the caffeine yourself.

He knew you were making fun of him to highlight how melodramatic you thought he was being. Each comment about him being old was really made to tell him just how young he was and how little you thought he had to worry about.

He sighed, wanting nothing more than to remain motionless in the warm comfy bed but having no choice to get up and make his way to the bathroom before he could enjoy his coffee in bed. (And maybe some lazy morning sex, he was sure that would help relieve some symptoms). His whole body felt heavy as he rolled out of bed, his limbs and shoulders feeling almost as though they were made of lead.

His brow scrunched as he slowly made his way to the toilet to relieve himself. This really was some day two hangover, he thought. I don’t care what y/n thinks, I’m pretty sure this is one of those moments where you realise your prime is coming to an end.

He flinched as the sunlight pouring in through the frosted glass of the bathroom window hit his face, instantly doubling the force of his headache. He grumbled and scrunched his eyes until they were nearly shut, attempting to minimise the light infiltrating his vision. He did his business as quickly as his protesting body would allow.

By the time he had returned to bed and bundled himself back under the covers the kettle had boiled and you were on your way back to your room. You shuffled along slowly, pausing every two steps to stop your nearly full mugs from spilling over the edge. Harry loved to point out the coffee drips that you left along the floor in your shared home so frequently. They were spread far and wide, and in fairness to you, most of the time you didn’t realise you had done it, else you would have wiped it up immediately.

“H?” you called softly, as you looked up from the mugs to see only a Harry sized lump under the doona as evidence that he was even there.

When you received only an, “Mmm?” in response you continued your slow spillage-avoiding pace up to his bed side table, placing the cup down gently.

“Are you feeling okay baby?” you kneeled down beside him, stroking his hair back from his face.

“Jus’ tired,” he muttered, not opening his eyes.

This shocked you somewhat. He’s always been a morning person, and never tended to sleep in two days in a row. The two of you had spent the morning in bed yesterday, having only crawled in in the (not even that) early hours of the morning and spent the rest of the day lazing about the apartment, nursing respective hangovers. Even with complaints of his hangover extending over into a second day, you had expected him to be itching to throw himself back into his routine, not curled up in bed still feeling shitty.

“You can back to sleep,” you assured, even though he seemed to already be halfway there. “Your coffee’s there if you want some.”

You pressed a kiss to his forehead before leaving him to it, closing the door softly on your way out.

Two hours later, Harry stirs once more from his sleep. His throat is dry as a bone, and his once dull headache is now pounding. He lifts his heavy head off the pillow and his eyes fall to his now cold coffee. He reaches over and takes a gulp, hoping to ease the feeling in his throat. Is not uncommon for him to awaken with a dryness to his throat, he often finds a hot coffee is enough to solve the problem, but alas, he is desperate enough to settle for the cold one before him for now. Instead of the relief he is craving, a burst of pain shoots through his throat each time he swallows a mouthful. He coughs as he places the mug back down, unwilling to have another sip.

And oh Jesus, it finally hits him. He’s sick.

All the signs he had shrugged off now became blaringly obvious to him in retrospect. And oh fuck.

Alarm bells go off in his brain as he registers the risk of what exactly this could be. He scrambles for his phone on his bedside table.

Harry: Don’t come upstairs.

You glance down at your phone as you feel the buzz of the notification. You had spent the morning pottering around the house, catching up on little chores the two of you had neglected over the past few days in the Grammy busy-ness and subsequent hangover. Happy with your efforts, you had settled back into having a lazy morning and were watching television on the couch quietly.

“Harry?” you call out in confusion as you read his text, already pausing the TV and standing up, intending to do the exact opposite of following his advice.

You can’t have made it three steps before he’s calling you. The wave of confusion is soon followed by one of extreme worry as you pick up the phone.

“What the fuck is going on?”

“Don’t come up I’m sick,” he spoke hoarsely.

“What do you mean?”

“Darling, it could be covid you can’t come up here,” he was cursing himself on the other end of the line. He should have been paying more attention to what his body was trying to tell him. Shouldn’t have been risking you like this. If he had it, he was sure he had already infected you too and guilt gnawed away at him.

This stops you in your tracks. You hesitate, you do. But ultimately, you know if he has covid, you’re probably already infected. If he does have it, which you are praying he doesn’t because young as he is, healthy as he is, there is always a risk. The worst running through your mind. If the worst were to happen, you would curse yourself until the day you died for not going to him right now.

“It’s not covid,” you tell him firmly.

“Baby-“

“Your tests from before the Grammy’s were negative, and we should be getting more test results back any minute that will be clean too,” you’re on the move again, absolute in your resolution. The both of you, along with all the other attendees of the ceremony, had been tested both before and after. They were meant to text each of you with your results any minute (or call, if they were positive, but that was a possibility you were trying to put aside).

“Even so, we can’t risk it until we get the results.” At the sound of your footsteps on the stairs he spoke your name sternly, halting your steps again.

“Harry,” you countered, matching his tone.

“Please don’t fight me on this. If you’re so sure that the result is going to be negative, and that they’re going to come in any second,” he pauses to cough, lungs and throat protesting with each word he speaks, “then a little while in bed by myself won’t kill me.”

“But-“

“Darling, please. If it is covid, I’ll never forgive myself for not doing everything in my power to try and keep you from getting it too,” the quiet desperation in his voice is the only thing that could break your resolve.

With a long exhale, you turned back down the stairs but kept the phone to your ear.

“Fine,” you huffed, “but only because I was always taught to respect my elders.”

“See that’s the good news,” he half laughed, half coughed at the exhalation of breath, “I’m not an old man with a two-day hangover, just a young man with an unspecified illness.”

“Do you still have your smell and taste?” you asked worriedly.

“I could definitely taste the cold ass coffee I just drank,” he rasped. He paused for a beat, hearing only the rustling of sheets. “And our bed still smells like you,” you heard the smile behind the comment, appreciating his sweet reference to the love he often professes he has for the way you smell.

“Sometimes I feel like it’s nothing you’re putting on, and sometimes I think it’s everything you’re putting on plus just, you. There’s no other smell like it and I wish I could just bottle it up and have it forever. Bloody aphrodisiac,” he had once told you.

“And you’re not running a fever?” You chewed the inside of your lip as you fired questions at him, a bad habit that reared its head when you were worried, stressed or concentrating hard.

On his end of the line, he felt his forehead for warmth. “Umm,” he considered it, “I’m not sure. Probably not.” He was actually pretty sure he had the beginning of one, but he could tell you were freaking out and he didn’t want to worry you any further until he heard for sure.

“I’m going to grab you a thermometer and some cold and flu tablets,” Harry immediately started to protest but you didn’t let him start. “I’ll put a mask on and just leave them outside the door. I’ll grab you some water and something to eat too. I’m not just leaving you sick up there with nothing.”

He sighed into the phone. “I’m not going to win this argument, am I?”

You scoffed. “Of course not, I let you win the last one not more than five minutes ago.”

He sighed once more, and you rolled your eyes at your overdramatic boyfriend. “Fine, but you have to be in and out.”

“Yeah, yeah,” you leaned the phone between your ear and your shoulder as you grabbed what you needed for him.

“I’m not joking, y/n. You have to be quick.”

You bit your tongue, refraining from snapping back. Did he seriously think you were stupid? You knew he didn’t, he was just sick and stressed about the situation, but that didn’t stop the flare of annoyance that burst through your chest. You shook it off, knowing it was misplaced.

“Okay I’m going to put the phone down so I can pop a mask on and run up,” luckily, you had a million masks around the house ready to go.

“Kay,” he muttered, eyes feeling droopy all over again.

You pull your mask on, and with arms full of supplies dashed up the stairs. Once you arrived at the door, you placed down the cold medication, water and thermometer as well as the banana you had snatched off the kitchen counter before turning and running back down the stairs.

As soon as you’re back down the stairs, you’re pulling your mask off and putting the phone back to your ear. You faintly hear the close of your bedroom door, deducing Harry had grabbed everything.

“I’m back,” you acknowledged your presence on the phone.

“Thank you for that, my love.”

Your phone dinged in your ear, indicating a new text message. You pulled it away from your ear to examine the contents of the text.

You breathed a small sigh of relief.

“They just texted me my covid test results, they’re negative.” Everyone had been tested upon their exit of the Grammy afterparty.

There was a pause on the other end of the line. You silently prayed that pause wasn’t caused by him examining another incoming call, suggesting his results were positive and required an actual conversation.

“Mine are negative too,” he exhaled, you could hear the relief in his voice.

“Oh, thank god,” you said, already turning to go back up the stairs, taking them two at a time.

“I thought you were confident I didn’t have it,” he teased.

“Sorry somebody had to put on a brave face for Mr Worry Wart,” you teased right back. You hung up the phone as you reached the top step. Turning to the left and opening the door to your room.

You stride over to the bed wordlessly and climb in on your side, instantly wrapping both arms around him. He relished the embrace. You loved to poke fun at him, but sometimes the humour was just a way for you to mask how you were really feeling about things and deflect. Harry usually doesn’t point it out but he’s always aware of it.

“I love you,” he whispered, voice still croaky.

“I love you, too,” you pressed a chaste kiss to his cheek.

You stayed like that for a moment longer before you swung into action, full nurturing mother bear mode activated.

“Now, have you taken your temperature? Taken some of the cold and flu tablets?”

At the shake of his head you frowned at him. “Come on then. You do that while I go make you a nice hot tea to soothe your throat. And a box of tissues,” you added at the sight of him sneezing practically hard enough to shake the room.

So back down to the kitchen you went for the third time that day, grabbing him both the tea, the tissues and a nice hearty bowl of porridge, figuring it would be gentle on his throat. “Temperature?” you asked as soon as you crossed the threshold of your doorway.

“No fever,” he punctuated with a cough.

You frowned as you watched it happen, his eyes were rimmed red, his nose beginning to run. He sat up in bed as you handed him the bowl of porridge. You placed the tea down so you could also hand him the box of tissues that had been tucked up under your arm.

“Thank you so much for all this, angel. But you don’t have to wait on me hand and foot, I’ve got a cold, I’m not bed bound,” he grabbed my hand and traced the outside of my hand as he spoke.

“I know I don’t have to do it, but I want to do it. My baby’s feeling crappy I just want to do whatever I can to make him feel less so.” Even after all this time of being together, your cheeks flushed slightly at your sappy words. You meant them, of course, but intimacy was still not one of your strong suits. The way you were raised lacked those kinds of affirmations and endearments, and was never modelled practically in your parent’s relationship. It left you both craving it, and feeling uncomfortable when it actually occurred. With both experience and Harry’s help you had gotten better at it, but you still weren’t 100% there yet. He knew one day you would be, though, and he was so proud to see how much progress you had made. Even if you couldn’t always see it.

Hearing those words from you, was just one more indication at how far you’ve come, and it warmed not only his heart, but his whole chest. With his grip on your hand, he gave you a slight tug, encouraging you to lean forward. Just as you had five minutes earlier, he presses a kiss to your cheek, craving your lips but knowing he can’t have them right now.

“You’re too good to me,” he praised as you pulled away reluctantly, giving him space to enjoy his breakfast while it was still warm.

He expected a joking, I know, in response but instead he receives a serious, “There is no such thing as good too to you. You deserve the world.” You don’t break eye contact with him, even as he is too shocked at your response to form one of his own. “But all I got you was this bowl of porridge sorry babe,” you broke the tension, pulling your hand from his.

“Where are you going now?” He pouts at you as you grab the half empty coffee mug and make your way out of the room.

“I’ll be right back, I promise,” you assure him, already planning how else you are going to fuss over him. He has to be well to go to London to start filming his new movie soon, you reason with yourself. But really, you know he could have nothing coming up and you could be the busiest you’ve ever been, and you would still play nurse for him.

By ‘right back’ he assumed you meant in half an hour, because his mug and bowl are both empty by the time you return, and he is nearly drifting back off to sleep. He is still somewhat upright, but slumped back into his pillow, head lolling to the side slightly, directed towards the door almost as though is watching and waiting for you. While still conscious, his blinks are becoming slower and slower, reminiscent of a baby. You coo at his adorable sleepy state, the moment tugs at your chest so strongly it is almost physically painful. Sometimes, the magnitude of your love for him nearly sweeps you off your feet. You just feel so damn lucky to have these wonderfully domestic moments with him. To see him like this, to be his person that gets to take care of him. While he is a rockstar and you get to do all sorts of crazy things with him that most people dream of (like for instance, watching him perform at and accept a Grammy), you love doing everyday life with him.

“It’s not quite sleep time yet, baby,” you spoke gently, hoping not to startle him too much.

He peeled his eyes open and pouted at you once more. “Why not?”

“Because it’s nice, long, hot, steaming shower time,” his frown deepened, clearly not wanting to move. “I promise you, you’ll feel so much better afterwards.”

“You promise?” He refused to wipe the pout from his face, really stepping into being babied.

“I promise, now up you get,” you offered him both hands to help him up.

“Fine,” he groaned as he took your hands, and you pulled him up.

As soon as he was upright, he wrapped both arms around you and held you tight. He allowed himself a few short seconds before pulling away, not wanting to get you sick too. Even if it wasn’t covid, he still wanted his love well.

You shepherded him into the bathroom, where he winced once more at the brighter lighting. His eyes were always more sensitive to light when he had the flu. You turned the shower on for him while he got undressed, before turning to pull the blinds closed without him breathing a single word of complaint. His heart swelled with love for you for the hundredth time that day. To be loved by you was to be seen. He didn’t need to use his voice to be understood (though that communication obviously had its place).

“Take your time baby, let the steam help get all the bad stuff out,” you gave him a little smile before leaving, closing the door behind you to allow the steam to build up within the space.

Harry let out a sigh as he stepped into the stream of hot steaming water. You were right as ever, the steam helped clear him out somewhat, and even just feeling clean helped him to feel better already. He relished the heat and the soothing feeling of the water, massaging his scalp with shampoo as he began to wash up from head to toe.

He had no idea how much time had passed by the time he reluctantly turned the shower off and stepped into a big fluffy towel. He was much quicker in drying himself than he had been in the rest of his shower routine, eager to rug up in a jumper and some sweats (and some of those thick soft socks you bought him for winter).

He swung the en suite door open, contemplating where he left his comfy winter clothes last when he stops at the sight before him.

You’re putting the last pillowcase on, having changed the sheets completely. His breakfast dishes are cleared, replaced with a hot steaming bowl of vegetable soup and his bottle of water. You’ve dug the humidifier out of the cupboard as well and you’ve got it all set up and running for him. The book he was currently reading was picked up from its previous place on the living room coffee table and waiting for him on your pillow. The exact clothes he was about to grab were sitting at the edge of the bed, laid out ready for him.

“You’re an actual angel, ya know that?” He shakes his head in disbelief. He has no idea what he did in a past life to get so lucky. The success of the music, he can go to bed each night feeling like he has done a lot to earn. He’s worked hard for a long time, and while he accredited a good portion of it all to luck, he knew he wasn’t talentless or undeserving. With you, however, he had simply won the lottery. You weren’t a perfect person, but you were his perfect person. He would spend the rest of his life doing everything in his power to feel deserving of you.

“Only for you,” you say softly.

He strides over to you, holding his towel to keep it from falling as he went. He presses a kiss to your forehead and mutters an, “I love you so much.”

“I love you more,” you peer up at him. “Now get those on,” you gesture towards his clothes, “before your soup gets cold.”

“Where did the soup come from?” He asks as starts to shrug his towel off and pull his clothes on.

“Where did you think I went earlier?” you referenced your half hour long disappearance, having been downstairs chopping up and preparing vegetables to go into the homemade soup.

“Oh, angel,” he breathed, “you really are the best.”

“Oh stop. Don’t act like all of this is not exactly what you do every time I’m sick. Which is far more often than you are, I might add.” You weren’t wrong, he did baby you just as much if not more.

“You’re still the best,” he refused to relent.

“Yeah, yeah,” you end the conversation, not being able to handle too many compliments.

He lets it slide, knowing he could compliment you further and ask you to really hear what he was saying, because he meant it with his entire being. But you were doing so much for him, and he really was tired so he didn’t bombard you with more praise than you desired.

Once he was dressed, he hopped back under the covers and sat up with his soup. He didn’t have the appetite to finish it, but he knew as much of it as he could handle would do him some good.

You jumped into the shower yourself, wanting to feel as clean as the sheets did when you got into bed with him. By the time you were out of the shower and into your own pair of fresh comfy clothes, Harry had finished most of the bowl of soup and had set the remainder aside.

“Thank you so much, angel,” your cheeks tinted pink at the purposeful repetition of that particular pet name.

“Don’t mention it,” you crawled under the covers with him, picking up his book from your pillow. “Now, where were you up to?”

“Hmm?” he questioned.

“In your book, where were you up to?”

“Why?”

“So, I can read it to you, obviously.”

“Is that obvious?”

“Yes.”

“And why do you think I’m suddenly incapable of reading it myself?” He questioned, even though he was practically preening internally at the thought of your sweet voice reading his novel aloud to him. It was a beautiful novel, filled with rich descriptions and he just knew it would sound lovely rolling off your tongue, but you had already done so much for him today it was hardly for of him to let you offer this without giving you an out.

“I don’t think you’re incapable, I just know your eyes hurt when you’re sick and I can imagine it makes it hard to focus on the words. Plus, I always fancied a career in audiobooks,” you actually really wanted to do this for him, not viewing it as an inconvenience at all. In fact, you would probably find yourself disappointed if he told you he would rather read it himself.

“Are you sure? You really don’t have to,” he looked you in the eyes, gauging your expression.

“I want to,” you promised.

“About page 150, you might have to read the first sentence to check.”

So, you began reading, until his eyes grew heavier and his eyes drooped. Slowly but surely, he drifted off into the realm of peaceful deep sleep.

Not before, of course, he muttered, more than half asleep, “I can’t wait to marry the shit out of you.”

[wincore]

runway (m) | jung yoonoh

pairing: model!jaehyun x fashion designer!reader

words: 18.7k

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

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

warnings: sexual content, mentions of anxiety

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There’s some nods and sounds of affirmation. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

_jeongjaehyun:

My manager told me it was good publicity

But I could take it down for you

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You don’t make the same mistake twice.

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

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

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

Do you love it? 

Of course you fucking do. 

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

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

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

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

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

You. You’re a big deal. 

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

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

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

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

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

D-1. Same feeling, new season.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“My job? What do you think, genius?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The buzzing reaches a peak before everything is drowned out.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Afterparties are not your thing. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You could have, too.

No way. You tell yourself that’s ridiculous. 

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

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

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

Afterparties are not your thing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Uh, hi,” he greets.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You freeze. 

“New York?” you manage to squeak.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What are you not telling me, Joohyun?”

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

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

“Yes.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You were not one of them. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“(name)?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sarcastic. Very nice.”  

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That’s not what I—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“(name)! Come quick!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your shoulders droop. Amateur. New. Unprofessional.

“Oh.”

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

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

Secrets. 

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

And perfection is your dear old friend. 

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

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

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

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

“No,” you deny. “Just curious.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re just so easy to work up.”

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

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

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

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

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

Jaehyun raises an eyebrow.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sour.” 

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

“Is- Is something wrong?”

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

“You’re doing two different concepts today?”

“Three, actually.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Something sets into motion, subtle but sharp.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s me, Jaehyun.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

You trail off, trying to get yourself to breathe.

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

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

“What?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But he still came all the way here.

“Aren’t you a little…overdressed?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You…have someplace to be then?”

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

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

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

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

Or is it him? 

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

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

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

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

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

“Literally zero times.”

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

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

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

“Dickhead,” you hiss.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jaehyun nods, something akin to agreement in his response. 

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

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

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

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

“Oh? How so?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your eyes flutter over his face once again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Your collar’s…”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There’s something definitely wrong with you, love.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Afterparties are still not your thing. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“(name), thank you.” 

Success feels good. Gratitude feels even better.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You know I like you, right?”

You turn around. “What?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hyung—”

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

“Hyung. I’m hanging up.” 

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

“That—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And a little bit about me.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Do you want me saying something cheesy?”

“Absolutely not.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I certainly hope so.”

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

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

[marvellovegalore]

Breaking You

Chris Evans

Parte Deux - Hurting You

Synopsis: You begin to feel the true consequences of you hurting Chris and it's beginning to overwhelm you - and him.

Word Count: 2,483

Author's Note: I listened to quite a few songs to truly get into the vibe of this but The Cinematic Orchestra - To build a home (slowed) really got me into the energy I want to be delivered from this write-up. Happy Reading! Feel free to let me know how you feel!

Warning: Explicit Language, Mention of Mental Illness, Sexual Content

You’ve rarely had to consider yourself as someone who runs from her problems. You’d probably proudly tell anyone that asked that you quite confidently tackle your problems head-on.

However, you’ve created quite a serious problem for yourself. A broken heart.

What you have periled numerous men with, is now afflicting you. The odd thing is, is that you are exulting in it. It’s an oddly familiar sensation; it drowns your body in an intangible sickness that paralyses and asphyxiates you.

You sit at your piano, watching the silent and unmoving countryside. The fields of Portofino showered with golden sunlight, the brio reflecting into your room.

You haven’t pushed aside the sheer curtains since you arrived four days ago. You’ve taken your first shower this morning, the water sinking you into its comforting, warm embrace. You don’t really want to tell yourself aloud why you chose to come back to your grandparents’ old house, when stuff is going wrong. You’ve decided that playing the piano and smoking your days away is better than confronting yourself in the mirror - good thing all the furniture is covered with sheets. The sorry state of your face would make you plunder even deeper into your melancholy.

You will yourself to forget him and try to forget his existence.

But it’s virtually impossible, with him promoting a new film three towns over.

Good thing is you feel physically incapable of stepping outside of the confines of the house. The ladies that tend to the house scurry around the town buying food for the house and maintain its upkeep, they attempt to feed you three meals a day or four. You refuse most of the time, and they regard you with concerned gazes.

How could you begin to explain that with breaking a man’s heart, you subsequently had broken your own? His words blistered with bitterness bit you and dragged you down to the same pits of sadness that you plunged him into. You can probably say that you loved him, but you’ll probably truly never grasp why you can’t stay in something that requires such cemented commitment.

“Signora?” Your house governess interrupts your train of thought, you pull your cigarette away from your lips. “Sí?” She presents you with a letter addressed to you. The handwriting vaguely familiar to you. You thank her and dismiss her, the cigarette back in between your lips.

The letter doesn’t inform you of who it is from, but you hope, in the depths of your ribs that it’s from him, but you couldn’t possibly understand why he would ask to meet with you. He left you wordlessly two months ago and hasn’t been in contact since, not even through subliminal messages on social media. You can wager that you’re probably dead to him. It was made clear to you when you stood at the beach outside of your friend’s Malibu compound. He would rather die than get back with you; you don’t blame him.

You turn back to your piano, the keys feeling like lead beneath your shaky fingers. You play out a melancholic tune, your fingers feeling like they’re losing blood, you play clumsily, your eyes welling with tears.

You do have to admit, you feel extremely guilty for leaving him.

Life was beautiful with him.

He would have served you the sun on a platter if it meant making you smile - but you’re meant to destroy beautiful things.

It was what your father told you. You ruined his marriage to your mother; your sheer existence drove her to the brink of insanity. Since you were conceived you were a parasite that took the love your mother had for your father and you guzzled it out of her, taking all of her focus and affection. When you were born your parents refused the diagnosis of postpartum psychosis. Your mother believed you were an angel sent from heaven and doctors were trying to take you from her; so, she slowly succumbed to the madness and your father eventually was forced to send her away. The resentment he felt towards you all but scented the house, you were a poisonous leech, and you were treated as such.

You take the last drag of your cigarette and drag yourself to your walk-in closet, you decide on taking another shower - scrubbing away the odour of tar and smoke. You ready yourself for your strange and mysterious encounter. You dress yourself and half an hour later rush out to your car. The sun is low in the sky by the time you start driving away from the house, the countryside hugging you from all sides.

The drive is long into the town centre. The sky is blushed with pink and tinges of orange. You park your car and take a slow walk to the Splendido Mare; you enter the hotel’s restaurant and are led to a table. Your order a glass of wine and wait. After ten minutes you take out the letter, you read it from start to finish and confirm that the invitation was not a figment of your imagination; you were indeed summoned here by a mystery writer. Whom you hope is him.

You sit for half an hour at your table, you sip your anxiety away through two glasses of wine, you step outside and smoke two cigarettes and yet you’re still waiting. You flit through your phone notifications; you decide against your better judgement to type his name into the Goggle search bar. You fleetingly glance around the sparsely attended restaurant. You lock your phone without looking at the updates about him.

The thought of him makes your chest ache, harshly. The pain is tangible, you place your hands over your chest and wince. Something is not right.

You’re not aware of his slow approach, his hands wringing around each other, his cheeks red with nervous energy. He wishes he had had a shot of something - anything before getting here. He doesn’t recall what filled him the mad inspiration to send you a stamped letter to meet him at his hotel restaurant. He doesn’t know whether he wishes he had just called the brunette and spoken to her tonight; but he misses you. Madly.

He pulls out the chair in front of you. You can both tell that you’re holding in your breath.

Every time you see him it feels like the first time, all over again.

And he feels the same, but for either of you to admit it would be succumbing to defeat. You’re engaged in a silent and unspoken battle of wills.

“You sent me a letter?” You show him the letter. He nods, you sigh. “What is it you want to talk about?” You’re afraid to look into his eyes, they’re huge lakes filled with your dreams and deepest desires.

He hesitates, a ghostly sentence is formed on his tongue – he decides against materialising it. “I heard you were nearby; thought we could catch up.” He motions for the waiter. You narrow your eyes in - almost offence. What does he think, that you’re old pals?

He wants to catch up, but you want to do everything. Mostly profess your adoration for him and make love to him.

You despise the feeling; you’ve never felt like this for anyone. The alien feeling makes you heat up, your chest rises and falls quickly; agony filling your body as if you were a vessel to claim. “Right,” is all you can utter.

“What have you been up to?” He’s ordered two martinis, his eyes connecting to yours. You wince as the pain in your chest returns. How can he be so close yet so far?

“I was filming a fragrance campaign recently.” You speak quickly, an itch to smoke tickling your fingers. He nods, his eyebrows raised high.

“Nice.” He sighs and extends his clasped hands further onto the table. You look even more beautiful than in his thoughts, which he can’t expel you from. It seems your haunting presence is with him to stay, and his imagination can’t do any justice to your face and your intoxicating smell.

The conversation you have over your first drinks is dry, emotionless and full of hidden desires.

After each of you have three cocktails you let out the first laugh. He’s released himself a bit from the shackles of wanting to one-up you, his joke about his dog’s stubbornness reminding you of the good days of domesticity with Christopher and his dog. You move out to the terrace, candles flickering in the wind; you share more laughs. Memories being shared between you about life together.

There’s a clear shared emotion - longing. You crave the late summer nights sharing the dance floor with his friends or yours; him undressing you slowly in your pool; the nights watching the fire pit in your Santa Barbara home; the dinners enclosed in brick walled Italian restaurants with candles illuminating your elated faces.

“Come up with me.” His suggestion is quiet, his lips edging closer to yours. You nod, overcome with emotion. He grips on to your hand, the grip of a man thanking his lucky stars. He leads you to his room, on the top floor. A paradisiacal view of the sea and hills greeting you. The sun has set completely, and the moon casts a pale light over the buildings across the water.

Chris closes the door, and no sooner is he clutching at your lips with his. His hands smother you onto him and you meet him with the same desperation. Your hands slip under his shirt and moan into his mouth, your lipstick smearing over his lips. You feel him inhale your smell; he sighs desperately as he pulls you closer to him. You fall onto the chaise lounge in front of the open doors leading onto his balcony. The wind whispers sweet nothings onto your skins as you meld together, your bodies wanting desperately to be combined. He removes your clothes with familiar precision and your fingers touch him where you know he likes it.

The grooves of his skin are familiar, his dick entering you slowly as your fingers caress his tanned skin. He looks spectacular underneath you, his skin illuminated by the moonlight. You ride him slowly, you lips adventuring each other, like your bodies are each other’s long lost home territory. Your lips touch again, but it feels like the first time all over again. You feel yourself melting, your brain feels high, your limbs terribly relaxed. You guess this is what true love feels like. There’s nowhere else you’d want to be.

You love him. Only him.

He turns you over, on all fours, one hand gripping your throat and the other around your hair. He thrusts into you - with passion, his lips ghost over your shoulder. You feel your eyes close, the strength to fight the sedation unable to be found. It goes on for a while, and he flattens you onto your stomach. He lays on top of you, his hips gyrating against your skin, his arms encircling your torso. You feel safe, his head laying to rest in between you shoulder and jawline. He inhales your scent and kisses your shoulder, his lips printing their mark on your skin.

He turns you over and takes a deep breath, his eyes hold your entire world. They’ve trapped you into his universe and you have no desire to leave. He’s your whole world and you gave him away on a silver platter - but he’s here. He accommodates himself in between your legs and gives you a hug, his lips find yours in the darkness. The moonlight bathes you generously and he nestles himself inside you again. His lips refuse to leave yours; his thrusts grow in fervour; he wants to bury himself inside you and never leave.

He’s so deeply, and madly in love with you.

He can’t believe you hurt him. He hates you for it.

He pulls away from your kiss, his breathing heavy and slightly laboured.

His hides his face in the nook under your head. You feel like crumpling when you feel tears run over your shoulder, you hug him tighter. You want to stitch his wounds closed, tightly with your bare fingers and your lips. You want to mould your bodies together and live forever in this moment. His fingers reach for your clitoris and he makes love to you in two different ways. Your head lolls back and you feel ecstatic, currents washing over you slowly and you orgasm.

Chris kisses you desperately, swallowing your moans. He thrusts into you, complementing your orgasm. He releases himself into you, slowly moaning into your mouth.

After a few moments he stands up from the lounge chair and heads to the shower, as he walks through the door, he turns to you. He smiles in a way that you understand is an invitation to join him in the shower. You stand slowly, your legs feeling like jelly. You join him for a warm shower, peppered with tender kisses and saccharine touches.

Your bodies unconsciously refuse to part until you’re lying in his bed. He turns off the lamp and lays facing you.

A sweet look embalms his irises. His hand lifts itself to nestle under your cheekbone. He regards you softly.

“I love you,” he whispers, his voice shaky.

You smile sleepily, “I love you too.”

You’re hypnotised to sleep by his soft breaths.

—

The sunlight reflected on the lake wakes you out of you slumber, the first dreamless one you’ve had in months. You turn to the side where Chris is and find nothing but empty air. You sit up quickly; the room is deadly silent. Nothing but your movements on the bed make noise. You scramble out of the bed and look for him.

There’s no trace of him in the room. You let out small wail of desperation. What if it was all a dream?

You pace the room, an uneasy feeling setting itself in your chest. You feel the space between your ribs tighten and your head feel faint. Your legs feel weak and unsteady, you crumple into a heap near the chaise lounge. Your breath feels constricted, massively so. The world begins to spin, and you fall onto your back.

It feels like a heart attack.

You can barely feel your heart.

You drag yourself to the counsel table, desperate to reach the phone. Your hand misses it massively, instead a hotel branded paper flickers down next to you. You pick it up, the tightness in your chest limiting your movement.

I guess this is goodbye, I can’t get over the fact that I’ll never be able to trust you. No matter how much I want to.

I hate you for ruining us

I’ll miss you, forever.

With all my love,

C

--

Parte Quatre -

Tags -

@chvntelle-99, @krispy-toes, @hampass, @calimoi, @saltyflowermakertaco

[pies-writes-and-more]

Hungover Love

word count: 2,688

pairing: UniversityStudent!Akaashi Keiji x Fem!Reader

warnings: characters getting drunk and hungover - all assumed to be of legal age

a/n: I don’t know where this came from but I started writing it so here it is haha. Got the idea from @moanlightlust‘s list (can find it here!) so thank you! I’ll bold the prompt down below (I kinda changed it for the sake of the story but still got the idea from their prompt list :)) Thank you to @satan-ruler-of-hells​ and @thisnoodlewritesao3​ for reading over this for me! Love you both :)

haikyuu masterlist

“Akaashi?” You repeated the name for the second time as you strained your ears to hear something besides bar music and Bokuto’s loud voice in the background.

“Hm?” The small grunt made you smile, knowing he was probably slumped over on a chair, holding his face in one hand and leaning on a table in front of him, with his other hand pressing his phone a little too hard on his ear.

You let out a small laugh, pausing the show you had on your TV so you could hear him better, “Akaashi, you called me. Did you need something?”

There was another grunt on the other end of the line, and you chuckled as you heard Konoha teasing Bokuto about something in the distance, “What is it, Akaashi?” You inquired some more, listening to him hum quietly to the song playing.

“Y/N Y/L/N,” he mumbled and you just shook your head with a smile. God he must’ve had far too many drinks to be this out of it. “I fucking love Y/N Y/L/N. It almost feels like she can hear me right now,” he was saying and you just laughed. “Like I can... I can hear her laughing.”

“Akaashi, you idiot,” your face felt hot but you tried to ignore it. He was drunk. Very clearly drunk. He didn’t mean anything by it - the last time he was drunk, he told you he was going to leave his college volleyball team and join some new sport because Bokuto was getting on his nerves. 

It didn’t mean anything. It didn’t. It didn’t matter that those were the words you had been waiting to hear from him. It didn’t matter that you’d spent the last two years pining after him. He was drunk.

“Didya know... the other day.... Y/N smiled at me cause I said something funny- what did I say... I can’t remember what I said but I said something funny and she smiled and I just.. God it’s that smile ya know?” Akaashi’s voice seemed so much lighter than it did usually. You could tell that he was smiling and just imagining that goofy drunk smile on his face made your heart skip a beat or two.

“That’s nice,” you tried to keep things casual, avoid getting your hopes up too much. You didn’t want to ruin what you had with him - the nice fun friendship that was definitely just a friendship.

“Y/N?” Akaashi suddenly seemed a lot more present, as if just realizing you were on the line. 

“Yea?”

“Y/N!” The smile on his face was probably a lot bigger from the sounds of it, a chuckle slipping from his lips, “I love you, Y/N! I’ve loved you ever since I met you when you picked up my runaway ball for me back in high school. You were so pretty then and you’re super pretty now. Like you get prettier every day I see you-” his speech was quick and slurred, you could almost feel him getting drunker by the second.

“Akaashi-”

“Bokuto keeps telling me that I need to tell you but I dunno if I can because I’m pretty sure you like that dude that lives across from you and-”

“Akaashi-”

“But I guess I wouldn’t know until I told you right? So I’m telling you because I like you. I really like you. I wanted to bring you to that new ice cream place down the road from your place but you always seemed so busy and I don’t want to bug you, plus volleyball takes up so much time, and then there’s school, and I don’t even know how to balance volleyball, school, and a girlfriend-”

“Akaashi!” Your voice was louder this time, biting down on your inner cheek as his name left your lips. You needed him to stop - it had to stop. Your heart was fluttering too much and you couldn’t even tell how much of this was true. You wanted to tell yourself that alcohol could bring out people’s true feelings, but it also made you do dumb shit. And wouldn’t confessing to someone you didn’t actually like be considered dumb shit?

“Ya that’s me,” Akaashi mumbled, clearly a lot more tired than he seemed five seconds ago.

You tried not to laugh, tried to swallow your fears and your feelings, your heart feeling like it was beating a thousand times a minute. “I need you to go sober up, get some rest and drink lots of water okay?”

“But-”

“No but’s! You obviously drank way too much and honestly, I’ve never heard you talk like this before and I can’t even tell if it’s you anymore,” you acted like you were scolding him, putting up that wall again like you had so many other times before. He couldn’t really like you, could he? There was no way.

“Y/N Y/L/N, I fucking love you!” Akaashi yelled into the phone, making you cringe a bit at the volume.

Your chest was tightening, you couldn’t tell if it was fear or hope but whatever it was, it was scaring the shit out of you, “Shut the hell up! If you love me so much tell me when you’re sober, dammit!” You yelled back, immediately hanging up the phone. Your eyes widened as you watched the call screen disappear, your mouth suddenly feeling very dry.

The next few hours were radio silent from both Bokuto and Akaashi. You refused to text either of them in fear that you might accidentally say more than you wanted to.

It’s fine, he was really drunk from the sounds of it so he probably won’t even remember it right? I mean, the last time he got super drunk, he didn’t remember challenging the bartender to a pushup fight so... so he won’t remember.... right?

You paced in your room for a bit, glancing at your phone every five seconds to see if there was any sort of notification from either of your friends. But nothing. 

You barely slept a wink that night, tossing and turning while facing dreams of Akaashi laughing in your face the next time you saw him.

You thought I meant that? It was just a joke, Y/N.

I only see you as a friend, sorry.

Don’t you think you’re reading into our friendship a little too much? That’s all there is. Friendship. 

The idea of Akaashi awkwardly laughing in your face, giving you that half smile while dismissing your feelings haunted you for hours. By the time the sun came up, you gave up on the idea of sleeping and threw your blanket off of you. It was time to figure out how to survive your day without thinking about Akaashi Keiji at all. 

It wasn’t easy. Everything reminded you of him. Half of your Netflix was shows you were watching with him, or movies you’d already seen with him next to you. Your homework wasn’t any help either (though you definitely needed to get it done). Akaashi would normally come over and study with you, his adorable glasses making him look like some young professor, twirling his pencil around in his fingers while nodding along to some song stuck in his head. You couldn’t get used to studying on your own.

Radio silence finally broke when you texted Bokuto, asking if they all made it home safe last night and he responded with a very badly spelled text message saying, “himw safe so tirwd need adcil heaf hurtinh” (aka. home safe so tired need advil head hurting) 

Your lips curled into a small smile - at least Bokuto was alive. And the fact that he wasn’t all up in your face about Akaashi meant that the setter probably hadn’t said anything last night, or at least, it meant that Bokuto was too busy tending to a hangover to think about it.

A knock on your door made you jump, watching it for a moment before slowly approaching.

“Oi, open up, I know you’re in there.”

You calculated the odds and realistically there were only 3 reasons why Akaashi would be at your door right now, while he was still probably very hungover.

A. He was tired of listening to Bokuto complain about being hungover while also hungover and wanted you to help take care of him.

B. He wasn’t actually hungover and wanted to hang out.

C. He remembered your phone call from last night and wanted to confront you about it.

...

There was no way it was B or C so... it had to be A right?

You opened the door with a smile on your face, trying to pretend like this was the first time you spoke to him since you saw him earlier yesterday.

“Hey, what’re you doing here?” You asked, welcoming him in and watching his movements as he shuffled inside. He was wearing his sunglasses and wincing a little so... it definitely wasn’t B. He was definitely still hungover.

“Good morning to you too,” Akaashi chuckled slightly, groaning as he made his way over to your couch and flopped onto it. “God, my head is killing me,” he grumbled.

You felt almost a bit of relief - he wasn’t bringing it up so... it must mean that C wasn’t an option right? “I’ll make you some tea. Want something to eat?”

He made a noise that you assumed was a yes, grabbing some ramen packages that you liked to have whenever you were hungover.

“How’re the boys?” You asked as soon as the tea was finished, handing it to him as he sat up with a huff.

“Fine... I told them I didn’t want to get drunk,” he rolled his eyes. “But Bokuto kept pouring shots and being a little bitch when I didn’t want to have them... something about how he didn’t want to lose his best friend or something.”

You laughed, shaking your head slowly as you moved back to your little kitchen, “You’re always so busy studying. Bokuto probably just misses having you around.”

“We live together.”

“Ya well you’re always either on campus or here with me so I can see why he’d miss you,” you smirked, humming softly to yourself as you let the noodles cook. Things were okay. Things were normal. Things were going to be fine - all your worries were slipping away-

“So are we not going to talk about it?” 

Akaashi’s voice made you jump, turning around to find him standing right behind you and slowly sipping on the tea.

“Fuck, Akaashi, don’t do that,” you glared at him, hitting his arm, “Could’ve made me burn myself.” 

“Sorry,” he gave you a small smile, leaning against the nearby counter. “But we are going to talk about it, aren’t we?”

The ramen so clearly needed stirring and stirring was a full focus kind of job and this was obviously why you were looking into the pot and not looking at Akaashi, even though you could feel his eyes watching you, “Talk about what? Bokuto missing you?”

Akaashi chuckled and lifted his finger to under your chin, tilting your face to look at him, “I drank a lot. But I don’t think any amount of alcohol could make me forget how embarrassing I was.”

“Embarrassing?”

He watched your eyes for a moment before pulling his hand away from you and looking down at his tea, his smile slowly stiffening, “We don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to. I don’t want to make you more uncomfortable. I just thought I should apologize and let you know that you don’t have to reject me or anything. I like being friends with you and that’s enough for me, even if there’s a part of me that wants more.”

You almost dropped your spoon on the floor, staring at him with wide eyes, “S-Sorry what? Apologize? For... for what?”

“For confessing to you while drunk,” Akaashi’s smile was turning more sad now, taking a slow sip from his tea. “I’d been considering telling you how I feel for a while now and I guess I should’ve stopped myself from drinking sooner to save you the embarrassment.”

“Embarrassment? Akaashi, don’t be an idiot,” you ignored the soup still dripping from the spoon and whacked his arm with it.

“Hey!”

“You’re telling me you were drunk enough to confess to me and to remember what you said but not remember what I said at the end?” You huffed, hands on your hips now. 

Akaashi’s eyes lifted to the ceiling in thought, his lips pursing slowly like he did when he was concentrating on getting an answer right on his homework, “I know you seemed mad,” he finally responded, shrugging a bit. “I figured it was cause I put you on the spot like that.”

“No you absolute meathead, it’s because after months and months of pining after you, weeks of Bokuto almost spilling my secret on multiple different occasions to you, him almost screaming to you once about how much I love you, you end up telling me you love me over a drunk phone call and I can’t tell if you’re being serious or just a drunk dummy!” You scold him, hitting his arm again with your hand and shaking your head. God, for a boy with as high of an average as he had, how is it possible that there were no brain cells running around in that head of his?

Akaashi smirked a little, watching your eyes as you ranted, a playful smile on his lips, “So... you love me huh?”

“You better get out of my sight before I dump this ramen on your head,” you glare at him, trying your best not to smile because his smile was just so contagious but ugh that evil little smirk of his-

His lips were suddenly on your cheek, pressing a soft kiss to your skin and letting you feel the smirk still toying on his expression, “Drunk or not. I do love you, Y/N Y/L/N.”

“Y-Yeah yeah whatever,” you avoid his eyes some more, your whole face feeling hot and your cheek tingling where he had kissed you. “Go sit, it’s almost done.”

“Not until you say it back,” he teased, hugging you from behind and peppering your cheeks with some more kisses. “You said you love me, you can’t take it back now. Say it again.”

“Why?” you laughed, trying to pull away from his tight hug.

“Because it’s the best news I’ve ever gotten and I want to hear you say it again and again and again,” he insisted, turning you around to face him and smiling down at you. “Pretty please?”

You sighed with a smile on your face because as annoying as he could be, you really did mean it when you tell him, “I love you too, Akaashi.”

Alone time with Akaashi lasted long enough for him to properly ask you to go on a date with him to that ice cream shop, and was then interrupted by Bokuto showing up at your door and inviting himself in with a grin.

Apparently, the cure to Bokuto’s hangover was just knowing his two best friends had finally confessed to each other.

“God, I thought he’d never get drunk enough,” Bokuto grinned proudly to himself after you had happily explained the details to him. “I thought I’d have to just keep ordering him drinks.”

“What?” Akaashi glared at him, putting the pieces together.

Bokuto just smirked mischievously, “You can’t get mad cause it worked. I figured it would take a miracle to get you two to confess. And getting you drunk is basically a miracle.”

The fact that you were laughing made Akaashi want to kill Bokuto a little less, and even though he glared some more at his best friend, he would secretly thank him later for helping him get the courage to get the girl of his dreams. As much as Bokuto could get on his nerves sometimes, it really would be thanks to him that Akaashi got to take you out on that cute date and tell you just how much he loves you every day.

haikyuu taglist (let me know if you’d like to be added!)

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[johnsbleu]

Hold My Hand: John Wick x Reader Chapter 120

warnings: none! hmh masterlist A/N: I’m sorry about my tagging lately. I don’t know what’s going on with it. Tumblr is being wack, of course. So, I’m sorry if you’re not being tagged or if you’re getting the notification weeks later. It’s just tumblr being tumblr, i guess.

It’s a beautiful day today, and you’re sitting in a lawn chair and watching John as he trims the hedges around the patio. John bought some new plants to compliment the gorgeous tulips, and he also got some new mulch for the garden. You were helping him plant some flowers in pots, but you stopped to take a little break since your back hurts.

The yard has always been gorgeous and well tended to, but since you’ve moved in, John has dismissed the lawn company. He always said he didn’t have the time and energy to do the yard work himself since he was usually helping Helen when she was sick, and when he moved back home after everything happened, he hired them again. Now that you live here and love working in the yard, he’s dismissed them again. The yard is large and would take forever to mow, but you surprised John with a riding lawn mower earlier this month, and you love to make fun of him when you see him riding around the yard on it.

“It’s so beautiful today,” you say, tilting your head back in the sun, then you look at John as he nods his head. You smile when you see a little bit of dirt on his forehead from where he’s tried to wipe away the sweat, and you get up to walk over to him. You kneel down and use your thumb to wipe away the dirt, then you smile at him, “I’ll go get you something to drink.”

John smiles, “Thanks, peach.”

You stand up to walk inside, then you look back at John as he digs a hole for the next plant. You open the door and head to the kitchen to pour some water into a cup for John, and you wince a little when you feel a pain in your stomach. Pushing it aside, you head back outside to John, then you sit down and take a sip of his water before you hand it to him.

“You okay?” he asks as he sits down next to you, and you nod. “Are you sure?”

“Just had a little pain in my stomach,” you say, then you look up at John, “I’m okay.”

John looks at you in concern, “Do we need to go to the hospital? We can go right now.”

“It was just a cramp, baby. Probably just some gas or something. I’m okay.” you reach over and cup his face in your hands, then you kiss him, “I love my protective husband.”

“I love my wife.” he whispers, then he leans over to kiss you again, “If we need to go to the hospital, just let me know.”

You nod your head as you sit back in your chair, then you take the water from John and drink the rest. You place your hand on your belly and smile when John leans down to kiss it, then you watch as he walks back over to finish planting the rest of the flowers.

Closing your eyes, you tilt your head back in the sun and smile to yourself. You’re so happy that the weather has been so nice lately, and there hasn’t been a day this week where you haven’t spent most of it outside.

John looks over his shoulder when he hears a car coming up the driveway, then he stands up, “That’s Jerry -- the guy to fix the pool.”

“We’re swimming tonight.” you say, and John nods as he walks over to greet Jerry. You put your hand up to block the sun as they walk past, then you smile when John winks at you.

Groaning a little, you get up from the chair and walk through the house to the backyard, and you smile when you see John standing near the pool as he talks with Jerry. You smile as you lean over the railing on the patio and look at John, then you look around the backyard, taking in the gorgeous view of colorful flowers and even John’s sweet little garden that he’s so proud of.

“I would say you can probably swim by tonight. Should be good by 5, just gotta let it cycle for a few hours.” Jerry says, and John looks over at you and smiles. “I can leave you a little test kit so you can test the water.”

“So, is the filter just broken or something? We use this pool all year round, but we only noticed how green it had gotten last week.” John says, letting out a small laugh, “My wife wanted to swim the other night, and we came out to find it like this.”

Jerry nods, “Every now and again, parts break on these things.”

“Well, good thing there’s guys like you around to fix it,” you say, and Jerry lets out a small laugh.

“Sorry it took us so long to get out here. Busy time of the year.” Jerry says, then he excuses himself so he can get his tools from his truck.

John walks over to you with his hands in his pockets, then he stands in front of you and smiles when you lean over the railing to kiss him several times. He takes his hands out of his pockets to pull himself up closer to you, and you laugh against his lips when he crawls over the railing to hug you.

“The stairs are right there.”

“I was being romantic, peach.” he laughs, then he smothers your face with kisses. “Mm, mm, mm!”

You lean back and smile at John, “You’re laying it on thick today.”

“I always do.”

“Yeah, true.” you laugh as you hug him, then you look over his shoulder when Jerry comes back into the backyard. “I think I’m gonna go lay down for a bit.”

John nods as he rubs your back, “If you feel that pain again, let me know. I’ll rush up to get you and we can leave.”

“I will, dad.” you smile as he laughs, then you lean up to kiss him before you walk over to the door.

“Hey,” John calls out and you look over your shoulder at him, “I love you more than anything.”

You let out a small laugh as you look at him smiling proudly since he really is being over the top affectionate today, “I love you too.”

__

Mill Neck always has great festivals every season, and you’re super excited to be able to actually go to the summer festival this year. The town square is packed with craft booths and food trucks, and John is practically eating everything in sight. He smiles as he walks over to you with a gyro, then he holds it up so you can take a bite.

“My goodness, look at you!” your mom smiles as she walks over, then she pushes past you and reaches out to hug John as you laugh, “So handsome!”

You playfully roll your eyes when your mom looks at you, “Sure, I’m just lugging around a baby, but let’s all comment on how handsome John is.”

“I’m teasing! You look beautiful, sweetheart.” your mom smiles, then she kisses your cheek, “I see John is already eating his way through the festival.”

John nods with his mouth full, then he hands his lemonade to you, which you decline since it’ll give you heartburn, “I’ve been working in the yard all morning. Worked up an appetite.”

“We got the yard all done, so we’re ready for our pool party tonight!” you smile as you look over your mom’s shoulder at Jimmy and Tess, then you lean down and lift up Finn, kissing his cheek over and over as he giggles, “Oh, got a little ketchup with that one.”

Tess holds up the last of her corndog for Finn, and he leans over so she can hold him, “We still on for our pool party?”

“Of course.” John nods, then he cracks up a bottle of water, “Gonna eat my weight in festival food first though.”

You laugh as you look at him, “I sure would love some mini donuts.”

“Then I’ll go get you some.” John smiles, handing the bottle of water to you before he walks away with Jimmy and your dad.

“How’s he holdin’ up?” your mom asks, and you laugh. “Still feeling nervous?”

You nod, “We both are. It’s getting so much closer, and we’re really starting to realize that it won’t just be us anymore. I had a little bit of a cry about it last night if I’m being honest -- still feel a little sad actually.”

“Why’s that?”

Shrugging your shoulders, you walk with your mom through the festival, “John and I have only been together for almost two years, so I think there’s this part of me that just feels like…I don’t know, I feel like it’s stupid, so I don’t want to say it.”

“I always taught you to talk about your feelings, didn’t I?” she says, and you nod your head. “So, talk about them.”

“There’s this part of me that worries that once the baby is here, John will just want to me fuck off or something.” you admit, then you let out a small laugh, “I know how stupid it sounds, trust me, but it’s just the way I’m feeling.”

Your mom wraps her arm around your shoulder and smiles at you, “It’s your feelings, so they’re not stupid.”

“I never realized how selfish I am when it comes to John until now. I don’t want to share him with anyone else. Of course I’m beyond excited to see him as a dad, and I’d never regret having this baby. I already love her to bits, and I’d do anything in this world for her. I just…don’t want John to stop caring about me. I don’t want to lose my best friend.” you look down as you grow sad, but you hear John’s laugh and it causes you to look up at him tossing Finn in the air. A smile spreads across your face when you see John kissing Finn’s cheek, and you give him a small wave when he looks over at you.

“I don’t think you’re selfish, sweetheart. It’ll be a change, it always is when you bring a new member into the house, but…” your mom looks over at John, then she looks back at you with tears in her eyes as you laugh, “I don’t think you ever need to worry about that man not caring about you. I know I’ve told you time and time again, but he is absolutely crazy about you. He still tells me how lucky he is to have you. Hell, he just told me the other night how happy he is to have found you. He just says these things, mind you. He’ll just randomly mention how lucky he is.”

You laugh as you wipe away the tear on your cheek, “He’s corny.”

“He’s in love.” your mom says, reaching over to cup your face, “And I think having this baby is only making him fall even harder for you.”

You smile as you continue walking with your mom, and you watch John as he playfully runs away from Finn chasing him. You look over your shoulder as he runs past, then you laugh when you hear him sneaking up behind you.

“I probably shouldn’t scare you,” he laughs, wrapping his arms around your waist, “Might accidentally push the baby out if I do.”

You laugh as you tilt your head back to look at him, “I’m not that far along.”

“You okay? I saw you talking to your mom.” he whispers in your ear, then he kisses your temple, “I’m always here if you need someone to talk to, though I’m sure you don’t always want to just talk to your husband.”

Tilting your head back, you smile at him, “You’re not just my husband, babe. You’re my best friend.”

The two of you start to laugh loudly since it was fairly corny, and you playfully shove John’s shoulder. His corniness is really rubbing off on you and he knows it.

“It’s true!” you laugh when he walks back over to you and reaches for your hand. “You are my best friend, you know?”

“You’re mine.” he smiles, pressing a kiss to the back of your hand. “You’re okay?”

You nod as you look up at John, “I am, just being a silly pregnant woman!”

“Well,” John laughs as he nods, then he smiles at you, “I love you.”

“I love you.” you smile, tilting your head back to get another kiss from him.

__

After the festival, there’s going to be fireworks, but since that isn’t happening until dusk, you’re having a little pool party with your family. The front lawn will have a perfect view of the fireworks since they’re set off right across the lake, so you’re all just hanging around until then.

Finn is wading around the pool in a little floatie with Jimmy and Tess, and your mom and dad are sitting on the patio furniture watching everyone and chatting.

John is sitting on the edge of the pool with his feet in the water, and you place your hand on his shoulder to help as you sit down next to him. He looks over at you and smiles when he sees you wearing a black swimsuit, and you immediately rest back on your hands when he leans over to kiss your bump.

“Just obsessed.” you laugh, and John nods his head. “I get it. I am too.”

John laughs, then he hops in the pool and stands between your legs, leaning closer to your belly so he can kiss it, “Hey, bug. I hope you’re okay in there.”

“I think she’s pretty good! She ate some good food today, and she’s going to have an amazing smoothie in a bit.” you say, cocking up your eyebrow as John laughs. “I mean, you’ve made them for months now, you can’t just stop.”

“Very true.” John says, then he flinches and puts his hands up when water is splashed at him. He turns around and smiles when Finn giggles and kicks his legs, and John disappears under the water so he can pop out and scare Finn.

You smile when Finn squeals loudly and kicks his legs, and you slip into the pool to help take some pressure off your spine. You float on your back as you look up at the sky to see a few clouds still lingering, then you smile when you feel John putting his arms under you so he can hold you.

“How’s your back?”

“Doesn’t hurt so much right now since I’m in the pool, but I wouldn’t push you away if you wanted to help hold my belly later.”

John nods as he sways you back and forth in the water, “Of course.”

You tilt your head back to get your hair wet, then you look up at John and laugh when you see him staring at your boobs, “My boobs are really popping today.”

“I sure don’t mind,” he laughs, then he leans down to kiss you before walking around the pool with you in his arms.

Laughter is filling the backyard as Jimmy and Tess splash one another, and you smile when you look over at your dad holding your mom’s hand and talking to John. You look up at John for a moment before you get down so you can swim with Finn, then you look over at John again as he leans over the side of the pool to continue talking to your parents.

Your heart always bursts with happiness when you see how well John gets along with your parents. It’s really sweet how John cares about them. Of course he cares about you, but he genuinely just loves your family as well and you know how much it means to him that they’ve really accepted him. The fact that he feels comfortable enough to take his shirt off and allow people to see his scars is huge, and it means a lot to you that no one even bats an eye. They all just love him.

John was always worried that your dad wouldn’t like him since usually dads are so tough on their son-in-laws, but Dan loves John and Jimmy, and they all hang out quite a bit. They have cute little golf days, and you always tease John -- lovingly -- about his two best friends.

Dan has thrown his back out recently since he’s getting older, and John has been going over every couple days to help out around their house. Your mom won’t allow anyone to touch the garden, but she hates mowing, so John and Jimmy have been taking turns doing it so far. On top of John just liking your parents, you know there’s a little part of him that thinks of them as his own parents, which you absolutely love since you know your parents love him. He really just wants to take care of them, and it melts your heart.

“Hey,” John smiles as he swims back over to you, “I think I’m gonna get out soon. Start some smoothies for everyone. Wanna join?”

You nod your head as you smile, then you make sure Finn is back with Jimmy before you get out of the pool. Reaching up for John’s hand, you smile at him and take the towel he’s offering you and laugh when you wrap it around yourself.

“I think I need a bigger towel.” you laugh, looking at the towel just barely wrapped around your body.

“Sweetheart,” your mom furrows her brow and leans closer, “You have something on your left side…”

You scrunch your eyebrows and look at your legs and stomach, then you look at your mom when she gestures to your chest.

“Oh!” you turn to the side and move your arm, “I got it last year. It’s a ‘J’ for John! I know, I know, a tattoo is permanent.”

“I wasn’t going to say that.” your mom smiles, then she gestures to John, “John needs to get something for you now!”

John laughs, “I’m planning on it. We said we’d get something after the baby is born. I already have an idea for what I want for my peach though.”

“My face. Just right across his chest.” you say, placing your hand on John’s chest, “Maybe a couple face tattoos as well.”

John scoffs and playfully rolls his eyes, “Yeah, right.”

You give John a little wink as you look at him, then you laugh as you look at your mom before heading to the house. John holds your hand to help you get up the steps so you don’t slip, then he holds the door open for you. You smile at John when you look over at him, then you bite your lip and blush when he looks at you.

“Mrs. Wick, are you checking me out?”

“Why, yes I am!” you smile proudly, then you walk with him upstairs, “You look so…fit lately.”

John scoffs, “Hardly. I’ve been stuffing my face all week.”

You smirk as you look at him, then you playfully shrug, “You certainly have.”

“And I like it that way,” he smiles, leaning over to kiss you. “Might have to have a little peach tonight.”

“Absolutely.” you smile as you walk over to your closet, then you quickly change into some clean clothes. You head into the bathroom and tie your hair up for now since you’ll shower later before bed, then you smile at John when he stands next to you to fix his shirt.

John stands behind you and places his hands on your stomach, then he looks at you through the mirror, “Ready?”

“Yup!”

You lean back against John’s chest and watch as he positions his hands under your belly, then he gently lifts your stomach up to help relieve some pressure on your spine and pelvis. You lean your head against his chest and close your eyes as a smile spreads across your face, and you feel John pressing a kiss to your head.

“Does that feel good?” he asks, and you nod your head. “Let me know when you’re ready for me to let go.”

“Definitely not yet.” you laugh, and John chuckles softly. You open your eyes to look at John through the mirror, then you laugh tearfully, “How the fuck did I get so lucky?”

John kisses your cheek before he looks at you, “How did I?”

After a few moments of holding your gaze, John kisses your cheek again, then he gently lowers your belly back down. You exhale when you move from in front of John, and you turn around to hug him.

“You have no idea how much relief that gives me.”

“Just here to help.” he whispers, then he reaches for your hand when you start to walk away, “Are you okay?”

You take a deep breath and nod, “Just--”

“Being a silly pregnant woman,” he says, cocking up his eyebrow, “You already tried that on me earlier.”

“Nothing gets past you, Wick.”

John lets out a small laugh, “Just let me know what I can do.”

“We’ll talk later. We always do.”

“You’re not mad at me, are you?”

You walk over to John and cup his face, “Of course not!”

John leans down to kiss you several times, then he takes your hand and walks with you back downstairs. He walks over to the fridge to get out everything he’ll need for smoothies, and you grab a few extra towels for Jimmy and Tess. You hand one over to Jimmy as he walks into the house, then he puts his shoes on.

“I gotta get Finn’s headphones for the fireworks. I’ll be back.” he says, then he stops when he sees John with the blender, “You makin’ smoothies for everyone?”

John laughs as he nods, “Yeah.”

“Hell yeah!” Jimmy pumps his fist, then he quickly leaves the house.

You laugh as you look over at John, “My husband, the smoothie maker.”

__

“How the hell does one fall asleep during fireworks?” John laughs as he stands next to the bed and lifts up the blankets to get in, then he sits down, “I know he’s a baby, but that was amazing.”

You smile as you lean against the wall, “It was so cute seeing him crawl over to you and just falling asleep in your lap. Made my heart melt.”

“He’s a cute kid.” John says, and you nod before you start to brush your teeth.

You mumble with your toothbrush in your mouth as John raises his eyebrows and laughs, then you roll your eyes and put your finger up before you walk into the bathroom to spit out the toothpaste. You wipe your mouth off and pull your wet hair up into a bun, then you head back into the bedroom.

“I said that he always looks so cute when he scrunches up his nose when he laughs like Tess.” you say as you walk over to the bed, “Tess always scrunches up her nose when she talks and laughs, and I think it’s cute that Finn does it. He looks so much like Jimmy sometimes, so I love when I see Tess in him.”

“I see Tess in him,” John says, and you look over at him, “When he’s bawling his brains out or when he’s being naughty.”

You playfully shove John’s shoulder, “Be nice.”

“I’m kidding, of course. Finn’s a great kid.” John inhales deeply and looks over at you as you get yourself comfortable by stuffing pillows around you to support your belly, and he smiles when you look up at him, “You comfortable?”

“I am,” you laugh as you nod, “For once. I just wanna crash.”

John smiles as he leans down to kiss you several times, then he holds your gaze, “I love you.”

“I love you too.” you whisper to him, then you lean up to kiss him again before you close your eyes and wrap your right arm around his waist.

“I’m gonna watch some TV, okay?” he says, and you nod your head as your eyes slowly flutter shut.

__

It only started raining about 15 minutes ago, so you assume John will be home soon. He went over to your parents’ house to mow for them, but now that it’s raining he’ll probably be home soon.

You grab a blanket off the couch as you walk past, then you head to the back patio so you can enjoy the rain. You smile at Bleu when you walk past him, and he hops up and follows you outside. He plops down on the deck and lays near the loveseat, then he perks his head up when he hears the garage door opening.

“Oh, your dad is home.” you say, and Bleu gets up and whimpers as he looks through the patio door, his tail wagging faster when he hears the front door open. You look over your shoulder into the kitchen window and watch as John walks in, and you perk up when you see flowers in his hand.

John sets the flowers down on the counter and rubs his hand over his beard, then he furrows his brow and walks into the living room. You peek through the window and watch him walk past the kitchen, then he stands in the doorway and looks around. A flash a lightning lights up the house for a quick moment, and John immediately looks over at the kitchen window and smiles when you wave at him. He waves back at you as he walks out onto the patio, then he laughs and pets Bleu for a moment.

“Knew you’d be out here as soon as I saw the lightning. Scoot over, lemme hold you.” John smiles as he sits down next to you, then he wraps his arm around you to pull you closer, “Gimme a kiss.”

You laugh quietly as you lean up to kiss John, cupping his face in your hand, “I love how you always say ‘gimme a kiss’, it’s so cute.”

“Keep kissing me!” he says against your lips, and you laugh even harder, “I missed my peach.”

“You were gone for three hours.”

John leans back and nods, “I know, I didn’t think I’d be gone for so long.”

You scoff quietly, “Three hours is not a long time, John.”

“I think so,” he pouts as he leans down to kiss you again. “Way too long. Hate being away from you.”

A smile tugs at your lips as you look up at John, “Really?”

“Of course. I’d rather be with you than anyone else.” he pulls you closer to him and kisses the top of your head, “You’re my girl.”

You lean your head against John’s shoulder as you look out at the rain falling in the backyard, and you smile to yourself when John kisses the top of your head over and over. He inhales the smell of your shampoo as he leans his head against yours, then he rubs your arm to warm you up.

“How long have you been out here?”

“Literally 30 seconds before you got here.” you laugh, then you look up at him, “How’s dad doing?”

John nods, “Good. He told me that he wants to be able to mow his own lawn, so he did mow the front. Your mom cheered him on, it was sweet.”

“I’m sure it’s hard for him to just suddenly not be able to do things. He’s taken care of his own lawn and ours since my mom met him.” you say as you shrug, “I’m sure next year when you’re an old man, you’ll be the same.”

“Oh, don’t even start with old man jokes!” John laughs, then he holds your gaze when you cock up your eyebrow. He tickles your stomach as you laugh loudly, then he leans down and tickles the crook of your neck with his beard. “You think I’m old?”

You laugh as you grab John’s wrists and push his hands away to keep him from tickling you, “No! Of course not! You’re my hunky hot husband, who literally has not aged a day since I met him. Seriously! You look exactly the same! No grays in your beard or hair, no wrinkles. Tell me your secret!”

“Happiness,” he whispers, and you playfully gag as you cross your eyes. “It’s true, peach.”

The rain is still coming down as you sit in John’s arms, and there’s a strike of lightning that’s so bright it lights up the entire backyard. Thunder rumbles a few moments later causing Bleu to sit by the door to be let inside.

“You want inside?” John asks, then he gets up and opens the door for Bleu before he sits back down. He groans a little as he sits back down, then he props his feet up on the table and looks over at you, “Can you believe it’s been a year since we were in Italy?”

“Oh my god,” you look over at him and gasp, “That’s true! One year ago, wow. One year since you scared the shit out of me. Twice, might I add!”

John lets out a small laugh, then he looks over at you, “I’m still so sorry about that. I can’t imagine how hard it must have been for you, seeing me like that.”

“Yeah,” you nod as you look at him, then you shrug, “I was just so worried about you. I finally met this amazing man who was everything I wanted, and I was scared I was going to lose him.”

“I wasn’t dying, peach.”

You roll your eyes playfully, “I know that, Wick. I think…there was always this part of me that thought after it happened, you’d get this…urge to go back to that life. Like maybe our life wasn’t enough since you got a taste of that other world again.”

John nods his head as he turns to face you, then he smiles and reaches for your hand, waiting for you to continue.

“But I think that night really changed it for me. I saw the way you looked at me when I saw you -- I saw your heart break.” you look over at him and shrug, “I think that was the moment I realized that you were truly ready to leave it all behind.”

“I’m still not even sure why I took the job there.” John admits, playing with your fingers, “Guess I just…thought it was what I was meant to do. At the beginning, it was really hard to turn off that switch, you know? But I think a lot changed for you and I after Italy. We finally decided on getting married that fall, you decided to come off your birth control, we wanted to start a family. I think Italy was exactly what we needed. Just the two of us away from all distractions. It was exactly what I needed as well because I realized that I just wanted to be with you. I didn’t care about that old life that I had.”

You smile softly as you look at him, “You don’t miss it?”

“Not at all.” John shakes his head as he looks out at the rain, “My life with you is so important and special to me, you know this. Putting myself at risk all the time isn’t worth it anymore.”

“It never was, Jonathan.”

John chuckles, “Agree to disagree. But I have a baby on the way with my favorite person in the world, a person who I couldn’t imagine my life without now, and I think that’s what is the most important thing now.”

You never got to have your conversation with John last night since you fell asleep and John has been gone for most of the day, so you figure you might as well have it now.

“You ready to talk now?” John asks, and you look up at him and smile. “Did I read your mind?”

“You always do,” you laugh, then you inhale deeply, “Obviously I’m beyond excited to start this new chapter with you, to be parents! I feel so lucky that I get to do it alongside you. We both have a lot of the same values, and I know we’ll both put her above anything.”

John reaches over and cups your face, “Just say what you’re feeling, mouse.”

You take a deep breath and sigh as you look at him, “I’m selfish because I still just want you to myself. It won’t be long now until we’ll have another person under the roof, and I feel so selfish because I’m going to miss the times when it was just us. I’m gonna miss having you to myself. We haven’t been together for that long, so it sucks that now I have to share you. I just want you to myself forever.”

“Do you really think I don’t feel that way too?” he asks, and you shrug as you nod. “I feel the exact same way. I love having you to myself, but I know I’m going to have to share you soon. I actually have been afraid to tell you about it, but I talked to Jimmy about it.”

“Really?”

John nods as he laughs, “Yeah, and he said he felt the same way too when they first had Finn. He said he felt a little jealous about not having time with just Tess, then he felt guilty about it because he thought that meant he didn’t love Finn, which we both know he absolutely does. Think about their relationship. They’ve never really had any time to just themselves since she got pregnant right after they got together.”

“That’s true, I shouldn’t complain.”

“Baby, that’s not what I’m saying,” John whispers, and you bite your cheek as you look up at him, “I feel the same way as you, and I know that she’s going to need you more than she needs me, that’s just a fact. I’ll miss when we could just do whatever we wanted, whenever we wanted, but I also don’t want a baby to hold us back from doing things. I want us to still go out and have fun, and that’s not something that should ever change just because we have a baby.”

You nod as you look at him, “We can have date nights.”

“Absolutely! Your mom wanted to be here so she could be near her daughters and her grandchildren, you know that she’d be more than happy to take the baby for us so we could have a date night. I absolutely love taking you out on dates and showering you with love, and I don’t plan on stopping.”

You shrug, “I just don’t want…ugh, never mind, it sounds so stupid.”

John smiles softly as you look at him, “You know that I am absolutely crazy about you. You are the most important person in my life, and you always will be. Every morning I wake up and think to myself how fucking lucky I am to have you. You know my past, you know what I’ve done, and when I told you, you didn’t bat an eye. Do you know how lucky I am to have that, to have someone truly accept me and love me?”

“I just love you a lot,” you laugh tearfully as you wipe away your tears, “I don’t want us to lose what we have.”

“You can’t lose something this special,” John smiles, and you lean up to kiss him, “I made a promise to you that I would do everything in my power to make you happy and to show you every day how important you are to me, and I don’t plan on breaking that promise. It’ll be different with a baby, but I’m still going to be just as crazy about you. I love you more than anything, I really do.”

“I love you too, Wick.”

John smiles as he kisses you, then he leans back and laughs, “Anyone would be crazy about you, and I’d be an idiot to not be in love with you. I would be a massive idiot to fuck up what we have as well, especially since this is something so rare. I’m always going to be crazy about you -- in fact, I’m even more crazy about you now.”

You cup John’s face as you lean up to kiss him, then you rest your forehead against his and close your eyes,”I’m sorry I’ve been so crazy.”

“You haven’t been.” John whispers against your forehead, “This is so new to us, of course we’re going to be having some different emotions and feelings about things. But what’s important is you coming to me so we can talk through it. I don’t want that to change.”

Letting out a small laugh, you lean back and smile at him, “How are you always so level-headed?”

“One of us has to be,” he jokes as you laugh, then he rubs his thumb over your cheek, “Is there anything else bothering you?”

You shake your head as you smile at him, “Nope.”

“Okay, well, if you think of something later on, don’t ever hesitate to talk to me. I’m your husband, it’s what I’m here for.”

“I love you,” you scoot closer to John, then you raise your eyebrows and smile at him, “I know you’ve purposefully avoided talking to Bug…”

John laughs, “I didn’t want you to think I don’t care about you, so I wanted to talk to you first and make sure that you were feeling better.”

“But now…”

John laughs as he pulls the blanket off of you and kisses your belly, “Now I gotta talk to our baby girl.”

You smile as you watch John whispering softly to your belly, and you rub his back as he leans down and kisses your stomach over and over.

“Is she sleeping? Usually she’s kicking when she-- never mind,” John laughs when he sees your stomach move, “There she is. Hi, baby.”

“She was stomping on my bladder earlier today for about 15 minutes when I was trying to lay down, so I never got to take a nap.”

John chuckles as he sits up, still keeping his hand on your stomach, “Well, how rude of her.”

“She’s probably kicking now because she’s hungry.” you say as a smile spreads across your face, and John lets out a small laugh. “I was waiting for you to get home so we could go get something.”

“What are you in the mood for?” John asks as he gets up and reaches for your hands, and you shrug and gesture to him, “Oh, you’re in the mood for me? Mrs. Wick…”

You laugh as you playfully shove his shoulder, “What are you in the mood for?”

“Well, now that I know you want me…” he teases, then he laughs as he leans down to kiss you, “I’m in the mood for anything. It’s up to you, peach.”

“I kind of want pancakes.” you say, and John nods, “But not your pancakes.”

John scoffs as he backs away, “Ouch!”

“I really want pancakes from the cafe, which is perfect because you can get a burger!”

“That does sound good.” John nods, then he wraps his arms around you and kisses you several times, “You don’t like my pancakes anymore?”

You laugh as you look at him, “I love your pancakes, but you gotta admit, the cafe makes amazing pancakes.”

“They do.” John nods, then he pecks you again before he walks over to the door to open it.

Wrapping the blanket around you, you walk into the kitchen and smile when you see the flowers on the counter, “What are these for?”

“Oh, I ran to the store and grabbed a few things for your parents and I saw these beautiful flowers, so I got them for you.” he says, and you smile at him as he leans down to get a vase under the sink. He fills it with water and starts to laugh when he realizes you’re just staring at him, “I bought your mom some flowers too, and I’ve bought you flowers before, this isn’t new.”

“I know!” you laugh as you walk over to help him put the flowers in the vase, “It’s just sweet.”

John wraps his left arm around your waist and kisses your forehead, “You’re very cute, you know that? Still get butterflies coming home to you.”

“Stop! You’re gonna make me cry again.” you laugh, then you huff when your eyes fill with tears.

“Best thing that’s ever happened to me.” John whispers as he moves closer, “Waking up next to you every morning is indescribable.”

You put your hands over his mouth and laugh, “Stop it, Wick! I’m already a mess! I’m gonna make you cry one of these days, though I’m not as romantic as you.”

“Yes, you are,” John laughs, and you roll your eyes as he wraps his arms around you and kisses your forehead, “I love you. If you ever feel like I’m slacking, just let me know.”

You scoff as you move out of John’s arms, “You slacking on being a good husband? Highly unlikely.”

“You’ll let me know?”

Looking back at John, you shake your head for a moment, then you nod, “Of course, but I know it won’t happen.”

“If it did, it certainly wouldn’t be intentional.” he says, and you smile at him.

You hold his gaze as you walk back over to him, and you reach for his hand and press a warm kiss to the palm of it. You place it on your cheek as you look up at him, then you close your eyes and smile, leaning into the warmth of his hand.

John shakes his head when you look at him, then he smiles, “You’re trying to get me to cry?”

“Maybe…” you say softly, then you laugh when John cups your face in his hands and kisses your forehead. You take his left hand and look down as you press it to your belly, then you laugh quietly. You tilt your head back as you hold his gaze, and you smile when John blinks a few times. You perk up and smile when you see his eyes growing glassy, and he lets go of you and turns around to hide from you. “Oh, my god! It worked!”

Keeping his back to you, John lets out a small laugh, “I’m not crying. Something flew into my eyes.”

“Oh, yeah, both of them?” you scoff, then you walk over to him and smile when he faces you, “You got a little teary eyed, don’t lie.”

“I did,” he laughs, and you raise your eyebrows in curiosity, “I genuinely didn’t mean for it to happen.”

You throw your hands up in victory as John laughs, then you dance in place, “I did it! I did it!”

John chuckles as he pulls you back to him, then he hugs you tight as you wrap your arms around his waist, “Can’t tell you how happy I am to have met you.”

“Oh, no, we’re not doing this again.” you laugh as you push yourself out of his arms, but he tightens his grip on you and smiles. “I’ve cried enough tonight.”

John hugs you tight in his arms as the two of you share a sweet kiss, then he kisses your cheek several times before burying his face in the crook of your neck. You hug him tight in your arms when he lifts you up to sit on the counter, then he kisses your nose before he walks over to the freezer.

“I ate all the ice cream last night.” you say, looking over your shoulder as he opens the freezer. “I woke up at like 2 and came down to eat it.”

“Without me?” John laughs, and you let out a small laugh as you nod. He walks over to you and helps you off the counter, then he kisses your forehead, “I made my girl cry a few too many times, so I think you deserve some ice cream.”

You nod, then you shrug, “They were happy tears though.”

“Oh, so you don’t want ice cream? Okay.” John jokes, letting go of your hand as he walks into the living room, and you run after him as you grab his hand.

“Hey! I still want some ice cream!”

John grabs his keys off the table and smiles when you look at him, “God, you’re so cute today. Come here!”

You laugh as John pulls you closer to him so he can kiss you, and you hug him tight around his waist. You tilt your head back to catch your breath for a moment, then you kiss him again and smile when he shakes his head.

“How the hell are you my wife? My wife?” he asks, and you playfully shrug, “So damn lucky.”

“What is going on with you today?”

John chuckles, “I don’t know. I think being around your parents made me…realize that that’ll be us someday. Your mom cheering on your dad, just like you cheer for me. Your dad is so in love with your mom, just like I am with you. It was nice.”

“They’re pretty cute.”

“They are,” John nods before leaning down to leave a sweet kiss on your lips, “I’ll tone it down for now, but just know that when we get home, it’s gonna get cranked up to ten.”

You laugh, “Oh, this isn’t ten?”

“You know this isn’t ten.” he laughs, and you smile as you look up at him.

__

“Hey,” you smile as you get to the bottom of the stairs, then you walk over and sit down when John pats the stool next to him. You lean over to see the book he’s working on, then you set your phone aside and prop your head up on your fist, “I love this cover, baby. It looks great.”

John takes a deep breath and nods as he sits back, “Yeah, it’s been fun to work on. A bit tedious with the gold flakes on the spine, but it’s a good one.”

You reach over to carefully move the book so you can see the gold on the spine, then you gasp, “This is gorgeous. They’re gonna love this.”

“Thank you. Got quite a few books done for clients. Some live not far from here, I thought you could ride along when I drop them off.” he says, and you nod your head and smile. John pats your thigh, then he leans over to kiss you, “How was lunch with Amanda? Kid-free?”

“Nope, Harper tagged along, but it was good!” you lean back and rub your belly, “Baby Wick is very happy because she got some amazing chicken -- a chicken salad. I ate like shit this morning so I figured I should eat a salad for lunch.”

John chuckles, “Balance.”

“Balance, yes. Balance because I…” you grimace as you look at John, “I so badly am craving a cheeseburger. I feel like these days all I can think about is food.”

“Hey, you and me both, and I’m not even pregnant.” John laughs, then he leans down to kiss your belly. “I’m glad you had a good lunch, baby.”

“Have you been outside today?”

John shakes his head and looks over, “No, I haven’t. Is it hot?”

“It’s like 100 degrees out,” you say as you grab your phone and look at the temperature, “Okay, not really, but it is like 80 something and there’s no breeze.”

“Wow, you must be dying.” he laughs as he gestures to your belly.

Nodding your head, you exhale loudly, “I’m certainly not thriving. Tess called me while I was out and wondered if she could come over and swim. I said yeah and told her I’d text her when I was home.”

“She knows that she can just come over and let herself in, right? I don’t mind. She even has a key to our front door. No sense in having a pool if we can’t share it with our family.”

“I told her that, but I don’t think she believes me when I say that you’re okay with her just coming over and using the pool without your permission.” you smile as John looks over at you and laughs, “As if anyone needs your permission. I’m the boss of this house.”

John leans over and kisses you several times, then he pats your cheek, “Yes, you are, baby. Hey, have you checked out the tank lately?”

“Ooh, I have not.” you get up from the stool and walk over to look at the fish tank, then you kneel down a little and look at all the bright colored fish swimming around. You grab the fish food and sprinkle a few flakes in, then you look at John to see him watching you, “They look good.”

“Yeah, I think we should get some more. How many do we have in there?”

You purse your lips and bend over to look in the tank, “Uh, I’ve counted 6.”

“Yeah, we definitely need some more.” he says, and you walk back over to sit next to him, “Maybe get some this weekend.”

John turns back to continue working on his book, then he glances up and smiles when he realizes you’re watching him. He gently brushes away the remaining gold flakes on the book and smiles as he looks at it, then he looks back at you again.

“Sorry,” you laugh as you shake your head, “I just love watching you work. I forget how…calming it is.”

“I don’t mind.” he smiles, then he leans over to kiss your cheek.

You watch John for a few more minutes as he finishes up the gold on the book, then you smile when he presses his stamp to the inside of the book. It’s always been one of your favorite parts, and you’re unsure as to why. It’s just really cute.

“Do you remember the other day when you were making me cry over everything?” you ask, and John laughs as he looks up at you.

“And you were trying to get me to cry, yes, I remember.”

You smile and grab your phone, “Well, when you were at work yesterday, I thought to myself ‘why don’t you vocalize more to John how much he means to you?’ So, I opened up my notes on my phone to write everything that came to mind. We both know that you’re good with words. You’ve always been honest with me and always told me that I make you so happy--”

“You do that too.” John says, furrowing his brow, “Baby, I know how much you love me. You tell me every day.”

“But I feel like I don’t say it enough.” you hold his gaze and smile, “I want to start being more open and vocal about it, saying cute things like you say to me. You deserve it. You deserve to hear it.”

John puts his utensils down and turns to face you, “Okay…”

“Look, you and I are number one when it comes to having our deep conversations and talking about how important we are to one another, and I love that. I truly think it’s what keeps us close.” you nod, then you laugh, “But when I opened my notes yesterday to write something to you. I noticed a note that I had written. We met in September; I wrote this about a month after we met. I didn’t even remember that I wrote it, and I hadn’t read it since I wrote it. Until yesterday.”

John sits up a little as a smile grows on his face, “Oh, I’m intrigued.”

“Keep in mind, I didn’t know everything at this point. You and I hadn’t even told each other that we loved each other yet.” you laugh, and John widens his eyes jokingly. “Yeah. Also keep in mind, I am not a poet. You wanna hear it?”

“I do. I absolutely do.”

You take a deep breath as you look down at your phone and unlock it, then you smile when John places his hand on your knee. You exhale nervously and prepare to read the note to John, and you let out a small laugh over how corny it is.

“I hung out with John again today. He’s incredible. I can’t quite put my finger on it and I can’t quite read him yet, but I like him. I like him a lot. When I’m with him, I feel…different. It’s a feeling that I’ve never felt before, it’s butterflies in my stomach from just a little glance or the softest touch, it’s my cheeks burning red when he smiles at me, it’s feeling my heart bursting in my chest when I hear his laugh. It’s…terrifying. I cannot breathe until I’m with him, and I’m quickly realizing how important this man is becoming to me. I want this feeling to last forever, and I have a feeling it will.” you look up at John and laugh when you see his eyes glassy with tears, then you look back to read it again, “I’m terrified and excited all at once, and I already know…that he is absolutely the man I am going to marry.”

John smiles when you set your phone aside, and you shrug bashfully as you hold his gaze. He leans forward and cups your face in his hands, then he shakes his head before he kisses you repeatedly.

“You wrote that about me after knowing me for a month?” he laughs, nodding his head, “Soulmates.”

“Soulmates.” you smile as you nod, then you kiss him again. “After reading that, I decided to have another little moment when I just write what comes to my head, so I gave it another go.”

John immediately nods his head and smiles, “I’d love to hear it.”

You grab your phone again, then you look up at John, “I feel like so many times we focus on whether or not I’m happy and whether I know that I’m loved, and sometimes we overlook you and whether or not you’re happy and know that you’re loved. It’s something I really need to work on, because you should always know how much I love you and how much I appreciate you and how happy you make me. Making you happy is all I truly care about, so if sometimes I don’t do a great job, just know that it’s not intentional. Just like I know you would never intentionally slack on being a good husband. We’re so lucky to have one another, and the flame that we have is never gonna fizzle out because we constantly-- sorry.”

John reaches over for a tissue and hands it to you so you can wipe away the tears on your face, and he smiles when you look up at him. He places his hands on your thighs and smiles, just waiting for you to keep going.

“The flame that we have, this love that we have, it’s never gonna fizzle out because you and I are constantly doing things to keep it lit. We’re lucky that both of us want to put in the work and both of us want to be with one another and make one another happy. Jonathan Charles Wick, you are my absolute best friend in the world, and I am so fucking lucky that I get to wake up and be loved by you, but I am even luckier because I get to wake up every day and love you.”

“Wow,” John laughs as he sits up, then he reaches over for a tissue, “Yeah, you got me.”

You smile proudly, “Yes!”

“Can I see?” he asks as he takes your phone, and you smile when he looks up at you, “It’s gone…”

Shrugging bashfully, you tap your temple and smile, “Maybe it just came off the top of my head.”

John wraps his arms around you to pull you close to his chest, then he kisses your cheek repeatedly before he sighs contently with you in his arms.

“Was all of it off the top of your head?”

You nod, then you shake your head, “Well, not the first thing I read. That really was in my notes. Along with a grocery list where I wrote that I needed condoms, which is weird since we’ve never used condoms, so the grocery list must have been before we slept together for the first time.”

John smooths your hair away from your face as he kisses you, then he smiles, “See what I mean? I am so damn lucky to have you.”

“We’re lucky to have each other.”

Nodding his head, John leans forward and presses a kiss to your lips, then he smiles softly, “No doubt about that.”

__

taglist: @aragornswife | @angie-20000 | @youusunshineyoutemptress | @sanctuarygirl | @n0ffitar | @purrrple-cat | @callmeglenncoco | @ficsnroses @that-one-writer | @tnu-ree | @midnightwhirlpool | @star017​

[wing-ed-thing]

Senioritis: Table 4 (Hidan x Reader, Chapter IV)

Synopsis: You were officially stuck with Hidan for the last semester of your senior year of high school. You’re determined to spend as little time with the obnoxious flirt as possible.

Word Count: 3k

Tags/Warnings: Language, Sexual Innuendo (and no, I still don’t do NSFW), Characters are Legal Adults, Non-Graphic References to Sexual Themes, Crude Humor, American!High School AU, Jock!Hidan, Nerd!Reader, Modern AU, 99% Sure that Reader is Gender Neutral, Reader is Referred to as a “Bitch” (non-derogatory) 

Part I Part II Part III Part IV Part V Part VI

Notes: 

You proceeded to quickly and disastrously implode. But on the plus side, you had never received so many notifications before. Messages covered the whole of your lock screen, even from apps that you used so little you forgot you had them downloaded. Numbers sat next to the names of acquaintances with notifications piled on top of each other, a testament to the sheer volume of text that had been sent. But as you opened them, the positives quickly exited your mind. You started at the bottom.

Deidara sent you a series of messages the day before. You knew he tended to be busy after school so you wondered how he found the time to message you. Perhaps all the times he complained about how busy the musical kept him were an exaggeration after all.

“Umm,” he started, “Were you going to tell me that you and Hidan were a thing or did I have to eavesdrop?” A side eye emoji. Your chest pounded at his words. A missed call, something not atypical of Deidara who always seemed to have too much to say to text. With your schoolwork and your surprise date (you cringed at the phrase), you didn’t even notice. He messaged again twenty minutes later. “I won’t forget this... May your coffee forever be the wrong order.” Later that evening. “But... get it lmao.” You frowned.

“Hidan and I aren’t a thing,” you typed back and moved on to the next notification.

A picture overtook your phone screen along with three big question marks at the bottom. The sky was dark, but the colored lights cast a light glow over the crowd of people. And highlighted in a sloppy, green, drawn-in circle was you and Hidan. The two of you were facing away from the camera: you laughed, looking up at him as his arm draped over your shoulders. You didn’t even see Deidara’s cousin there and she easily could have come up to you to chat, but then again, you supposed that Ino had always been one for the dramatics. You didn’t know what to type back, so you ignored the photo.

“Obi_Tobi requested to follow you,” Instagram read, “OrigamiAngel requested to follow you.” You accepted the requests without another thought and requested to follow each of them in turn. Neither Obito nor Konan had ever really spoken to you before, but you supposed that you didn’t have to know someone closely in order to be connected online.

Obito’s photos immediately came up in your feed. He posed in the gym mirror, a particularly large weight in his right hand and his phone in his left. Konan’s story blinked up at the top of your timeline. You clicked and a complicated origami project sat in front of a serene background.

“Sixty hours of work,” said the caption. A pink heart emoticon sat next to it. You shook your head to yourself, closing out the app. You had become distracted. A message from Deidara swooped down at the top of your screen and you dismissed it quickly, moving on to clear out your next cache notifications.

“I’ve got the last section done, so all that we need is polish. How does it feel to have the biggest project of the year done early?” You couldn’t help but crack a smile at the news. Kabuto was always, consistently, the best project partner that you could ever ask for. Your thumbs moved across the keyboard.

“Have I ever told you that you’re the best? Because you’re the best,” you praised, “I’ll look it over. Sorry I’ve been busy lately.” The response came immediately.

“Don’t worry about it. Get to it when you can we’re a week early after all. I know you’re busy—” A new text. —“Say hi to Hidan for me. He stole my Pokemon cards in third grade.”

You gritted your teeth and once again made an attempt to ignore discourse about Hidan. Because you’d say it once, and you’d no doubt have to say it again; you did not have feelings for Hidan.

A notification, but this time it was from Obito.

“Obi_Tobi accepted your request. You are now following Obi_Tobi. Obi_Tobi sent you a message.”

“Hey,” it said, “It was nice seeing you at the carnival the other night! We should all hang out together sometime.” It felt odd engaging in a conversation with someone that you had known for years and spoken to zero times. You didn’t know what to make of it but concluded that the gesture was nice.

“You too!” You typed back, trying to match some of his enthusiasm. “I know we don’t get to chat a whole lot so let me know when you all are doing something.” You weren’t exactly enthusiastic about hanging around a group of people who were practically strangers to you, but you wanted to acknowledge his offer at the very least.

“For sure! I’m glad that Hidan found you—” You frowned down at the message, but didn’t have time to deny anything before the second text had your blood stopping in your veins. —“We never thought he’d be able to get over Konan. Guess he wanted an easier challenge.”

The last part made your blood boil, but for some reason, the first part made you just as upset and you had no idea why.

Hidan’s string of messages were left unanswered.

***

You dreaded returning to school the following Monday. It felt like everyone was staring at you. Granted they weren’t, but your rising anxiety sure made it feel that way. You sat back in your chair, burying your face in the front of your jacket as you attempted to mentally prepare yourself for your next period in senior seminar. Your heart pounded in your chest and you wished that you had chosen a different seat harder than you had ever wished for anything before. The dismissal bell rang and you were in no hurry to gather your things. Perhaps, you reasoned, if you packed up slowly, your next class would come slowly as well. It didn’t work.

You were making your way down the hall when a hand gripped your shoulder. You tensed up under the touch, but when you turned, you only found Deidara. He balanced a cardboard tray of coffee in his left hand. His hand retracted from you to politely and wordlessly hand you a small drink.

“What did I do?” he asked, eyes lidded and tired. You stood to the side of the hallway, confused.

“What?”

“You’ve been acting weird and you haven’t answered any of my texts.” He sighed and shifted his weight to his back leg. Deidara was never good with confrontations, but the very idea of an issue with others bothered him too much for him to ignore. So in times like these, he forced himself to talk it out. “Is this because I accidentally gave you bad milk last time you came into the cafe? Because that was an accident that you shouldn’t hold against me!” You looked down at the drink he just handed to you.

“You gave me bad milk?” Deidara opened his mouth only to close it once again in acute frustration. Your voice sounded small and more puzzled than anything else. “Why would you bring me another drink if you’re apologizing for serving me bad milk?”

“If you’re not mad about the milk, then what did I do?”

“Deidara, I’m not upset about anything—” The bell rang and you both walked into the classroom. —“I’ve just been, I don’t know, feeling a lot— Holy shit!”

Sitting in your seat was the large, red-ribboned stuffed bear from the carnival. The memory of the prize left in Hidan’s back seat came flooding back to you and you nearly winced. Hidan sat in his regular spot with a big grin on his face, waving over at you. He held his arms out in a grand fashion. You slowly handed your drink back to Deidara with a nod, a silent thank you and promise to retrieve it when you were finished. Hidan babbled about something as you grew closer. You tuned him out for the most part, sheer panic setting into your chest. Since you came in late, everyone else was seated. You plucked the bear out of your chair, ignoring Hidan as you immediately asked your teacher,

“Can I bring this to my locker?” Your voice came out louder and higher than usual, but your teacher nodded if not to simply get the stuffed animal out of the classroom. You set your bag down with haste and bolted out the door. The seat in front of Deidara sat empty.

You shuffled down the now empty hallway, the limbs of the bear hitting your legs as you walked. Luckily, your locker wasn’t too far away and you could get back to class quickly. People glanced out at you as you walked by the open doors of their classrooms. A few teachers turned, following the distracted gazes of their students. You heard your name called from down the hall and you almost stopped walking. You faced forward and continued on despite the sound of footsteps echoing behind you.

“Cute idea, huh?” Hidan said when he finally caught up with you. You didn’t even face him and instead kept walking. “I couldn’t find you before first period this morning but it was kinda a blast carrying that guy around all day. It’s like having a little buddy. And by ‘little buddy’, I mean the bear, not my—”

“Hidan—” You frowned up at him, unfortunately having already arrived at your locker. “Aren’t you supposed to be in class?” He offered you nothing but a slow blink. You jiggled open your narrow locker and attempted to shove the bear inside. It wouldn’t fit without a fight.

“Well, yeah, but I wanted to come with you.” Hidan hardly paused before barreling into another topic completely. He leaned against the locker next to yours, forearm up above his head as he towered over you. “So, are you free this weekend, baby?” You stopped short, putting in just enough effort to ensure that the stuffed animal didn’t topple over onto your head.

“You know we’re not a couple, right?” You resumed your struggle and Hidan attempted to help you. You shooed his hand away and he returned to his leaning spot. You pulled out a few books and odd items, setting them on the floor and tried the bear once again.

“Well, yeah,” he shrugged, “But that doesn’t mean we can’t be something, you know, later.” You finally got the door shut. Your back met the cold metal as you studied him, exasperated.

“Something?” you asked. He shrugged again.

“Yeah, I mean, I know people like to, you know, hook up and stuff—”

“Mhm.” Your eyes narrowed and your lips pursed.

—“But I’ve always wanted to know what it was like to have my own bitch—”

“Excuse you?” You crossed your arms over your chest. The genuine look of confusion on Hidan’s features was lost on you completely. You looked upset, annoyed at the very least. That expression wasn’t a new one. In fact, it was one that Hidan knew very well. Why you were so annoyed today completely escaped him.

“I said, that I’ve always wanted to know—” You shook your head, skin slowly heating up.

“I heard what you said, I was giving you a chance to choose your words differently.” You gritted your teeth, glancing around to the open doors in the hall. You adjusted your voice. The last thing you needed was for someone to catch you talking to Hidan and spread some odd rumor on top of the ones that were already flying around. “I’m not sleeping with you or otherwise, Hidan. I-I-I...” You stammered in sheer frustration. “I’m not a challenge.”

“I never asked you to and I never said you were.” His tone was devoid of bite or defensiveness. You were left to process his words which hung in the air around your head. You shook it as you tried to think to yourself.

The tension left your shoulders for a split second. He was right, after all. Hidan never asked you to do anything inappropriate. Despite his loud mouth and crude sense of humor, he always respected your boundaries when it mattered. He flirted with you to no end, but for once you actually considered the prospect that he might actually like you. And if Hidan had genuine feelings for you, maybe it wouldn’t really be such a horrible thi—

“But I mean…” He waggled his brows at you suggestively. “If you want to. It’s one of those yes but no things. What can I say, you’re just hot.” A pressure coiled around your lungs. Your pulse beat loudly in your ears. Something split between anger and hurt bubbled in your chest.

“And?” you questioned. He scrunched up his face.

“And what?”

“Hey!” You turned to look at a teacher sticking her head out of a nearby classroom. “You two should be in class. Move along, this isn’t a place to chit-chat.” You walked away wordlessly and continued to ignore your loquacious counterpart.

“Just leave me alone, Hidan.”

***

Hidan had a different tutor from then on. You emailed Mr. Nara as soon as the dismissal bell rang and luckily, with an organized honors roster, he found someone right away. Hidan couldn’t say that he was necessarily pleased when, instead of you, Sasori met him in your usual spot in the library. Sasori didn’t seem to be happy about the arrangement either, snipping something about having a place to be after school and not having time to deal with nonsense. Sasori tapped, and if he and Hidan were on the same wavelength, they could have produced a nice rhythm.

“Stop that.” Hidan grumbled as Sasori’s pen once again knocked against the table. Sasori sat back in his chair with a blank expression, pen in hand.

“Maybe if you didn’t have your face practically on the table, it wouldn’t bother you so much.” Hidan couldn’t do much more than continue to grumble. He tried his best to get through his worksheet as quickly as he could, for once not wanting to be tutored after school. Sasori rested his foot against the spindle of the chair across from him as he slumped in his seat. His thumb traveled up to the top of his pen and he gave it a click. Hidan stopped completely and glared up at him.

“You’re fuckin’ with me.” Sasori gestured to the questions in front of his student.

“Get your shit done.”

Meanwhile, you were down in the theater department, sitting amongst Sasori’s costumes with Deidara. After what happened in senior seminar, you promised that you would talk to him, leaving briefly to pick up lunch before coming back. Deidara, as it turned out, was never as busy as he claimed to be. He chuckled over his sandwich, mouth still full as he snorted to himself.

“I’m sorry, but it’s just really funny.” You frowned at him, drink to your lips.

“It really isn’t.”

“Oh I think so!” He swallowed and went to take another bite. “So you have it bad for Hidan, so what?” His words were muffled around his Italian bread. He shrugged, spilling lettuce down onto the paper wrap on his lap.

“I don’t have anything for Hidan, just to be straight. He’s so gross and over the top and we’re known each other since elementary school—” Deidara lifted his energy drink to his lips, mumbling into the lip of the can.

“Which is why you find it so hard to admit to yourself that you might want a piece of that…”

—“He’s just absolutely infuriating. I’m so pissed that I fell for it, you know? I swear, I’m switching groups if I can help it, there’s no way I’m working with him for the rest of the semester.” A silence overtook the art room and you angrily munched on the last of your chips. Deidara stayed quiet for the most part until he cleared his throat.

“So, let me know if I’ve got it right...” A smile broke out across his lips once more. “You kissed Hidan, yelled at him, and ran?” Your scowl deepened.

“Eat your fuckin’ sandwich, Deidara.”

Senioritis (each character series interweaves with the others, but they can be read alone or in any order)

Table Four (Hidan x Reader), Part I Part II Part III Part IV Part V Part VI

Table Two (Deidara x Reader), Part I 

Senioritis: Lab (Sasori x Reader) Part I Part II

Notes: Hidan sucks as communication, but when he said ‘it’s one of those yes but no things’ he meant, yes he wanted to but he didn’t if Reader didn’t want to. Consent is sexy, y’all

I still don’t do NSFW so please don’t read this chapter and ask me or I will cry. It’s like a little secret since this isn’t really one of my more popular series. So shhh it’ll be between us.

Thank you to all who liked, reblogged, followed and otherwise supported. Your support means so much and is greatly appreciated.

[midnightcrusader]

tangerine sunset (1)

dazai osamu x oc

SERIES MASTERLIST

chapter one: bottled time

↳ word count: 6k

↳ spoiler warning: starts from s01e03 bits of ep04, 01&02 mentioned

↳ other warnings: cursing, smoking, su!cide jokes cuz hey! it’s Dazai after all…

↳ a/n: christmas came early this year! second chapter is going to air on Saturday (as I continue posting in my usual schema Wednesday&Saturday). if you’d like to be added to the permanent tag list and get the notification when the new chapter is up — dm me! and of course, have fun reading!!

There weren't many things Aira Razuki was biased towards; the stench of dead fishes present in the whole port city of Yokohama didn't bothered her. The overpriced coffee she tend to buy every single morning was bearable. Annoying people were just something she had to cope with.

And yet, Aira Razuki found herself in the sudden state of fury each time someone mentioned the meaning of her first name. For unbeknownst reason to her, the choice of her parents was utterly abominable. Odious, even. After all, they could have chosen a different, definitely more suitable name — Kori, per say. Aira would've much likely preferred being referred to as ice, rather than love and affection, hence that was the exact meaning of the word. Unsurprisingly, those two things were also something Aira lacked through her whole life; she was cold, insensible...

...or maybe that was only something she liked others to think of her. Maybe that was the easiest way for her not to get anyone too attached to her.

"Why do missions always get me like that," she hissed, regarding her current state of the sudden self-reflection.

Frowning once again, she entered the red brick building, taking the stairs instead of the elevator. It was a very specific habit of hers, mostly connected to the subconscious fear of being trapped in a place she couldn't possibly escape from.

Through the wooden door of her workplace, Aira could hear the sudden rumble going on inside. Knowing that it's probably her coworkers arguing, she dismissed the thought of joining the conversation, planning on getting the coffee the Armed Detective Agency was providing their employees with. Yet, she couldn't help but roll her eyes at the sight of Doppo Kunikida strangling Osamu Dazai.

"Children. Literal children," she spoke, taking off her squared sunglasses.

It was like a lighting striking the two men when they heard the familiar voice. Both of them immediately straightened up, acting like nothing particular had been happening just a moment ago.

"Oh, Razuki-chan!" the brown-haired detective called cheerfully as he saw Aira entering the room.

"What did he do?" the woman asked the other man, entirely skipping the greetings.

"Hey! Why do you assume I did something? You're so prejudiced, Razuki-chan!" he argued, childishly pouting.

"Because you always do something, Dazai," she scuffled, furrowing her brow at the sight of a face she didn't recognize. "Who's that?" She pointed at the boy sitting in one of the office's dining boots.

"I-I'm Atsushi Nakajima," he introduced himself, glancing over the woman that had just made rather a... dramatic appearance.

Her burgundy coat looked like it was almost moved by the wind when she came in. The ruffles of the collar of her shirt were adding a pinch of authority and dignity, she obviously was emanating with. Her golden hair were tied in a low bun, making her face features appear sharper than they already were. But most importantly — she was wearing pants. And something inside Atsushi was telling him that women in pants were to be feared of.

"Doesn't ring a bell," Aira spoke evasively, sitting in one of the bar seats, just beside the blonde man.

"He's the new member of the Agency," Kunikida started to explain, turning his head towards his coworker. "Dazai had found him when... Well, he was trying to drown himself," he shrugged, noticing small wrinkles appearing on Aira's face.

"Dazai or the kid?" she asked, fully curious about the person, who had been supposedly drowning.

"That's a rhetorical question, my dear," Osamu stated with a wide grin on his face, closing his eyes as he spoke.

"You should've let him be, kiddo," Aira whispered theatrically, just so everyone in the room could've hear her.

"Oh, thank you, Razuki-chan!" Dazai exclaimed, clapping his hands.

"Shut up," she frowned, realizing what she had just said.

Of course he took the suggestion of his death as a compliment, how couldn't he?

"How did the mission go?" Doppo interfered in hopes of ending the immature exchange of words the two of the fellow investigators were having.

"Lots of blood, lots of bullets. As usual," Aira answered, sipping on her coffee. "You know, sometimes I wonder when I won't walk out this alive," she laughed with a grim tone.

"But you've promised to commit double suicide with me!" Dazai argued once again, theatrically putting a hand over his heart.

"I've never promised you anything, you idiot," she sighed angrily.

"Come on, Razuki-chan!"

"Goddamnit! Which part of shut up did you not understand, Dazai?" Aira called loudly, completely loosing her temper.

It wasn't easy for someone to annoy her. Dazai, however, managed to do it every single time they spoke.

"By the way, what were you guys doing before you joined the Agency...? Uh, not real meaning behind that question," Atsushi shyly interrupted the argument, smiling innocently.

"Take a guess. It's a game we play often," Dazai answered calmly, just as Aira wasn't arguing with him a moment ago.

And just like nothing ever happened, the newbie started guessing everyone's former occupation. Firstly, he started with the Tanizaki siblings — the deduction wasn't a hard one, since the both of them looked like typical students. The first surprise struck the boy as he found out Doppo was previously a math teacher. The second, when Aira tensed up as he looked at her.

"Nah, I'm not doing that." Razuki shook her head vigorously.

"Why not?" Atsushi furrowed his brow, a look of the pure innocence painted all over his face.

"It's just... not important," she added, gripping the coffee cup a bit tighter.

But then she glanced over the boy, who was looking at her with curiosity. And something in her not entirely rotten soul caused to sigh and answer with a plain:

"Okay. Go on."

"I'd say you were a business woman," the boy continued, causing a sad smile appear on Aira's face.

"I wish."

"A fashion designer?" Atsushi took another guess.

"What makes you think that?" the woman laughed softly, perplexed by his answer.

"Your coat... it's just very... stylish?" the boy answered hesitantly.

"She failed her Med School's exam," Dazai interrupted the game, causing Aira's jaw to clench. "And then she went on picking up small jobs around town," he explained further.

"R-really? I wouldn't have guessed," Atsushi wondered.

Aira Razuki looked like a woman of success; everything about her - her appearance, the way she spoke, her aura. Every single detail made him thing of her as some sort of a higher-up.

"Okay, that's it," Aira stated firmly, not wanting to throw a fit around the new employee. "I'm going to give a report of my mission to the President," she added reluctantly, getting up from her barstool.

"Dazai, you idiot." She heard Doppo whispered angrily to the dark-haired man as she speeded off to the hallway leading to the President's office.

Of course, she wasn't planning on going there. Her report was made a day prior, just as she returned to the Agency's dorms. Her sudden exit, however, was caused by one of the most unpleasant memories she held within herself. As well as the feeling of utter disappointment towards her own self.

Leaning on the wall of the hallway, she sighed loudly. She hated herself for reacting like that every time someone brought up her former dreams.

But she couldn't act otherwise. They were ruined. And she was the one responsible for her setback.

"Hey, Aira," the soft voice of Kunikida called as he closed the door behind him. "It's okay, Dazai is just a arrogant idiot," he added, standing right in front of her.

"He is," she confirmed with a sorrowful laugh, looking directly at her boots to avoid the glance of her friend. "But he's telling the truth. I'm a goddamn failure," she whispered, hearing Doppo frown.

"We've talked about it, Aira. Numerous times," he spoke, placing a hand on her forearm. "It's the past and it doesn't define you," he continued, wanting to comfort her.

They had known each other for two years now. It was his unspoken duty to make sure she was okay. No matter how many times he needed to say those confirmations to her.

Kunikida firstly met Razuki on the day of her entrance exam on which he played a crucial role. During the first couple of months of her job at the Agency, their relationship consisted of mere greetings and small-talks. As the time went on, Doppo, Aira and Osamu became drinking buddies, what meant they had a space to talk to about their past some more. At first, the woman was resistant; she was always trying to avoid the topics of her previous life by changing the subject to her work.

And Doppo wasn't opposed to it. He understood that she probably went through a lot, hence the trauma of the past wasn't something she was keen on discussing with them. Yet her cold persona turned out to be quite shallow as she started opening up to him on the span of following year. Kunikida became not only her coworker, but also a friend on whom she could rely on. He was here for her, even if sometimes their conversation would turn out to be simply scolding each other.

But on top of that, the two of them quickly realized they were quite alike; they shared similar traits, they were loners, and most importantly — they were equally annoyed by a certain coworker of theirs.

The coworker that made Aira throw the current fit.

"But it follows me, Doppo," she mumbled, trying her best to stop her voice from shaking. "No matter what I'd do I'm just a girl, who failed her entrance exam. I'm introduced as one and I always will be!"

"Jesus Christ, woman," Kunikida murmured, rolling his eyes. "You haven't failed our entrance exam. You're hardworking, quick-witted..."

"Stop it, I don't need you to sing me praises," she scoffed, interrupting her friend's efforts to make her feel better.

"Then don't act like a toddler," he replied, causing a smirk to appear on her face.

The last thing Aira wanted was to dig up in her past. She appreciated Kunikida's efforts, yet she couldn't bring herself to fully open up to him. It wasn't because she didn't like him; to be frank it was the exact opposite - she wanted him to see her as the person she was now, not one she used to be. And so, her only option now was to play it safe - simply shrug off the situation she had found herself in.

"I won't, mom," she teased, gaining a punch in the arm from her coworker.

"You're so annoying."

"Sorry," she grinned. "A moment of weakness," she added, nonchalantly putting her hands behind her head as she walked back to the main area of the Agency's headquarters.

Leaving Doppo dumbfounded, a certain question occupied her mind — why did her missions were always making her feel the way she was feeling now? So childish, so vulnerable. And her sudden outburst of anger weren't helping her in any shape or form. In fact, they were only making the matters worse, letting the people around her know that she wasn't feeling well.

And Aira despised that feeling.

Before sitting in one of the boots, she took of her coat and asked the bartender (which also happened to be another woman Dazai notoriously flirted with) for a second coffee. It was certainly going to be a long day, and caffeine was the only thing that could have saved her from the depths of further disgrace. Peacefully sipping her brew, she sighed as she felt the weight of a very specific individual sinking into the seat next to her.

"Razuki-chaaan, I haven't made you angry, have I?"

Sighing, Aira glanced at the detective, who was desperately trying to get her attention.

"I'm having a bad day, Dazai. Leave me alone," she mumbled, putting the now-empty cup on the table.

"How could I ever leave a beautiful woman alone? After all, a lady like you certainly needs company of someone like me," he continued in a cheesy manner, making Aira sigh.

"Oh!" he exclaimed loudly as a blonde woman walked through the door of the office. "A lady like her needs company of someone like me, too!" he added hectically, quickly approaching the visitor.

Aira shook her head with a resigned smirk, taking her time to finish the coffee. It was always like that; Dazai complained about not having a woman to commit a double suicide with, which caused him to flirt with every person of the opposite sex on daily basis. Yet, Aira didn't complain - as long as he was trying to seduce anyone but her, she was going to carry on with her daily tasks. She'd learned ignoring his antics, after all Dazai was definitely not going to abandon his flirtatious persona any time soon.

Approaching the table the woman and the rest of the detectives were currently sitting at, Aira listened to Tanizaki's question, which was followed by Dazai exclamation as he kneeled in front of their customer. Noticing Kunikida twitch, she made her way to grab his hand, sending him a quick warning glance.

"He's an idiot but he's smart," she whispered quietly, watching the motion of Dazai's hands as he complimented the blonde lady.

"No, he's just an idiot," Doppo responded, and was quick to approach Osamu to punch him straight into his face. "Apologies for the disturbance," he spoke to the woman, making his way towards the computer room, opposite of the table.

"Please disregard what just happened. Continue," he added as the door behind him ad Dazai closed.

Aira only managed to roll her eyes at Osamu's muffled screams coming from the room.

"So? How may we help you?" Razuki asked, returning to the topic of the conversation.

It was just a normal day at the Agency. Nothing, comparing to her entrance exam.

~.~

Nothing ever went right in Aira Razuki's life. Firstly, she failed her Med School's exams, then her parents threw her out of the house. Next thing she knew, she was out on the streets, desperately trying to make her ends meet. With no coins in her pockets, no reassurance given, Aira found herself struggling with debt and low self-esteem.

But that was only the top of the iceberg. Her life was soon to be crushed when she discovered her parents' dead bodies during one of August's nights.

The nightmare that had been haunting her ever since that day.

But then, just as a single ray of the sun, her hopes were given back to her. After being thrown out of the flat she was renting, she met a gray-haired man, who told her he knew about what happened to her parents. He also was aware of the abilities she had. On the span of two days he offered her a job at Armed Detective Agency...

...then he went quiet for a week.

Aira cursed out her fate, her abilities, her failures. Why did another person leave her? Was she not good enough?

Strolling around Yokohama's warehouses, she lit up her cigarette after being fully consumed by self pity. She hated the thought of keeping on living like that; she had nothing. She was alone.

"Help! Please, help!" the screams of a woman interrupted her walk, making her body completely stiff.

The woman sound entirely panicked and Aira immediately knew the importance of the matter.

But was she going to help?

She believed there was no good or bad. The concepts were merely a human creation. Life went on, only to be followed by death. And after all, her life was already miserable. She didn't need to risk dying prematurely by interfering in something that wasn't supposed to involved her.

"Help!"

Her body went stiff again.

Of course she didn't need to get involved. Yet, the certain urge in her mind told her she should do something.

No.

She needed to do something.

Her live might haven’t been be worth living, but that didn't mean lives of others hadn’t. That was not how people should end their existence. They should die of old age with their close ones present. And that was exactly the thing that Aira believed in to be right.

"Yeah, sure, I guess I'll just die then. I have nothing better to do anyway," she murmured to herself, patting her jacket to see if she had brought her pocket knife with her.

Creating as little noise as she possibly could, she entered the warehouse the screams were coming from, only to see a teenage girl being held at gunpoint by a man in a beige suit.

"Hey! What the hell do you think you're doing?!" she yelled, stepping between the girl and the attacker.

"It's either you or her," the man spoke with a grim tone.

Aira had never imagined herself being in that situation. It was certainly the first time someone was threatening her to kill her. For her whole life she imagined she would be petrified. Unable to move. Yet, her own reaction indisputably surprised her…

She chuckled.

She could've sworn the man had just furrowed his brow. Almost like he wasn't used to the situation he had found himself in.

"How about none of us?" Aira answered with nothing but seriousness, taking out her pocket knife.

"Huh—?" the man only managed to say.

Next thing he knew Aira was standing right behind him, holding her knife to his throat. Almost like she had teleported. Little did he know it was far from it — Aira's ability allowed her to fool time, which she pleasantly decided to use.

"It's eith—," the attacker stopped himself, realizing he had already said the line he had rehearsed. "What the..?"

"Say anything more and I'll slash your throat wide open," she threatened him, her hands still on the knife.

"Hey! Hey! Stop!" Aira tilted her head at the sounds of panicked screaming of a man, who had just jumped off of one of the containers.

"That's enough, it was a test!" he explained, approaching her and the other person...

...who turned out not to be the attacker?

"What test?" Aira furrowed her brow, fully confused about what was going on.

"Does she pass?" the man in the beige suit asked, massaging his throat after having a knife next to it a moment ago.

"I mean, she didn't sacrifice herself. She was trying to kill me," he continued, his brow furrowed.

"Well, I don't know, Kunikida-kun. I think that was quite hot," the dark-haired man answered, nonchalantly shrugging.

"It's not about her being hot, you moron! I can't believe how stupid you are!" the other man shouted, shooting his hands in the air.

"Hi! I'm Naomi!" the girl that was supposedly held hostage exclaimed.

"Can someone tell me what the hell is going on?!" Aira yelled, tilting her head towards the noise that was coming from the entrance of the warehouse.

"Congratulations, Miss Razuki. You pass the exam," the gray-haired man Aira recognized from offering her a job spoke, causing everyone in the room to be quiet.

"What?"

~.~

"With two, you can! Double suicide..! Double suicide..!"

"Your taste in music terrifies me," Aira sighed, sitting opposite of Dazai, who had been singing along to the song he was listening to on his headphones.

"Ooh, I knew I'll summon you with those lyrics!" Osamu laughed, placing his cheek on the palm of his hand.

"Whatever you say," she replied, adjusting the coat she had just put on.

"So do we go on a bridge or do we just swallow some pills here?" He childishly smiled, watching her movements.

"What?" Aira furrowed her brow as she shook her head.

"You're getting dressed. It fits with my idea," he explained, waving his feet in the air.

"Lord, give me strength," she exhaled loudly, causing Dazai to chuckle. "The kids won't deal with the trap themselves," she added.

"I've always loved how clever you are," Dazai clapped his hands, beginning to stand up. "What gave it away?" he asked, putting on his own coat.

"You're a flirt… but you won't do anything inappropriate. This time you've put your hand a bit too close to her hip," she simply explained, opening the door as she waited for Dazai to follow up. "Kunikida-kun! We're leaving!" she exclaimed.

"Was it your sign from above?" Doppo called to Osamu.

"Not entirely but Razuki-chan is fair enough," he replied, holding the door that she had just opened.

"What is it? Another inside joke I'm not aware of?" Aira scuffed, watching Osamu joining her side.

"You can say that. Yes," Dazai smirked. "I have a question," he added as they found themselves on one of Yokohama's streets.

"I'm not committing—!"

"No, not that," he interrupted her, smiling softly.

"Good, 'cause I swear I'd punch you," she responded, putting on her sunglasses.

"Why are you always like that with our newbies?" he finally asked, his glance meeting Aira's expression of confusion. "If it was me or Kunikida-kun, you'll just keep on drinking your coffee... Could it be you're actually concerned, Razuki-chan?" he teased, the pitch of his tone going up.

"Shut up."

"Oh, don't be so afraid to admit your actually nice and caring," he continued, his smile widening.

"I'm not. I'm just concerned about the rookie. It's his first mission," she explained, wanting to end this conversation as soon as possible.

"Yeah, you've admitted it," Dazai murmured to himself, placing his hands behind his neck as he continued walking. "Con-cerned," he sang, separating the syllables.

"He's a child, Dazai!" Aira argued, wanting to prove her point. However, she couldn't see she was miserably failing to do so.

"He's eighteen," he corrected her nonchalantly.

"Yes. Still a child," she confirmed, taking the next turn left.

"That doesn't change anything," he chuckled, already knowing she had lost the argument.

"Look, Razuki-chan," Dazai stopped walking, placing his hands on Aira's shoulders. "Caring is better than self-pitying. You're old enough to understand that," he added, fully knowing he would only make her more angry.

"I hate you," she growled, taking his hands off of her shoulders. "I knew I should've walked alone," she murmured, resuming the walk.

"So why didn't you do it?" Dazai asked with false concern in his voice.

"Because I—," Aira stopped herself in the middle of her sentence.

She had no idea what she wanted to say. She had no idea why she actually didn't walk alone. And she had no idea why she wanted to go with Dazai.

"Because you like spending time with me. Knew it," Osamu teased, tilting his head to the side.

"Not in the slightest bit," she finally responded.

"Sure you do," he chuckled, putting his arm around her.

"I'll break it if you don't move," she threatened, trying to took of his hand from her shoulder. "Go away," she added, unable to move his arm.

"Then use your ability. It's not that hard," he smirked.

"You know I can't! It needs a minute to regenerate and I don't know when we'll need to help the kids!" she argued, only now realizing that he fully understood what he was doing.

"How sad. I guess you'll just have to accept it," he pouted, patting her arm.

Aira growled, still trying to get rid of his hand slandering her. Her efforts, however, were quickly interrupted when she heard a familiar scream.

A scream belonging to Atsushi.

With a reprimanding look she gave Dazai, he took the hand off of her, turning his head towards the location of the noise. Instead of running towards it, he just shrugged, patting the top of Aira's head.

"Don't worry, you haven't seen him fight," he said, just as nothing important was happening at that moment.

"I don't care. Let's go," she responded, making her way towards the alley the screams were coming from.

Just as spoken, Aira found herself at the spot of the fight, only to see a white tiger attacking a criminal she was familiar with — Akutagawa. Just on the span of the next few seconds, he used his strength to punch the weretiger, who Aira quickly connected to being Atsushi's ability. Blue and red aura merged together as the attacks continued, and Aira knew it was the best time to use her gift — Time-master.

Her ability allowed her to turn back time by four seconds every one minute, so it had to be used carefully in combat. As perfect as it may seemed, Time-master was suitable during fights — it allowed Aira to undo the things that were done, giving her the space of fixing her failures.

Quite poetic, when it came to her past.

As Akutagawa and Atsushi returned to their previous places, the mafia member's attacks were yet to begun again, Aira noticed Dazai sending her a smirk, just before he walked in between the two fighters, using No Longer Human.

"Okay, that's enough," he calmly spoke, separating the two of them.

As the space was filling up with light-blue beams, Aira found herself covering her face from the sharp light. Minding the fact that she was also wearing her sunglasses.

And just like that — everything went quiet. Atsushi returned to his human form, falling unconscious to the ground. The two mafia members were standing still, the woman from earlier that day shooting a confused look at Aira and Osamu.

"You're the two of the detectives..." the blonde lady wondered, the tone of her voice getting more angrier with every word she spoke. "Why are you here?"

"I'm the type who can't stop thinking about what a beautiful lady may be up to," Dazai answered nonchalantly, his hands finding their way to the pockets of his coat. "I decided to secretly listen in," he explained further, pulling out a small detective device.

"Impossible!"

"What did you expect from a Detective Agency?" Aira sighed, watching as the woman was trying to find the second part of the device in her pocket.

"You had already seen through my plans!" The woman shouted, yet both Aira and Osamu ignored her.

Dazai went to check on Atsushi, telling him to wake up because he didn't want to carry three unconscious people back, meanwhile Aira passed by the two mafia members to check the pulse of the Tanizaki siblings.

"You think we'll let you go alive?!" the woman yelled, pointing the gun at Dazai's back.

Aira only managed to shake her head as Akutagawa started chuckling under his breath.

"Don't, Higuchi. You can't win," he spoke, causing the woman to lower her gun.

He continued on saying that he and the woman, who supposedly was called Higuchi were going to retreat, he didn't fail to threat that the Port Mafia was going to recruit Atsushi. As Aira had learnt — the weretiger had a bounty on himself.

A bounty worth seven billion yen.

~.~

"You know, Razuki-chan, we should work together more often," Dazai cheerfully exclaimed, sitting beside Aira.

"I've only decided to come here because you've promised to pay for my coffee. Don't get your hopes too high up," she responded, waiting for the waitress to bring them their brews.

It was two days after the mafia incident. To be completely frank, Aira was a bit unsteady, considering the threat of the Port Mafia suggesting a possibility of war with their Agency.

She didn't fear it, however. It was just that tiny voice in her head, telling her to be prepared for something that was about to come.

And yet now, she accepted Dazai's offer to come with him to a coffee shop, only because she felt like there was something he wasn't telling her.

Or anyone in the Agency.

"Don't be so cold to me, my dear. It shatters my heart to pieces," he complained, covering his eyes with the palm of his hand.

"And Kunikida tells me I'm the one who's dramatic," she scoffed, tapping her fingers on surface of the wooden table.

"What's your biggest secret, Razuki-chan?" Dazai splattered without hesitation.

"Like I'd tell you that," she mumbled, looking out of the window.

"Come on, we're friends," he smiled childishly.

"Since when, huh?" Aira asked, toying with the frame of her sunglasses that she had previously put down on the table.

"Mean," he pouted, taking the square glasses out of her hand. "How do I look?" he asked, right after them putting on.

"Like an idiot. Give it back," she responded quickly, handing out her hand.

"No, no. I think I quite like them," Osamu smirked, tilting his head to the side.

"Dazai..." Aira murmured angrily, getting impatient with his antics.

"I'll give them back if you tell me your biggest secret," he stated firmly.

Aira shook her head, only to burry it in her hands.

"You're so annoying," she replied with resignation in her tone. "Fine," she finally agreed, exhaling loudly. "I use honey as a conditioner for my hair."

"Hey!" Dazai objected quickly, taking off the sunglasses he had stolen from her. "That's not the biggest secret I was talking about!"

"But it is my biggest secret, my dear," she replied with a devilish smirk. "I mean, how else could I keep my hair looking so flawless? You could use my tips, you know? Your hair is dry as hell," she giggled, fully knowing that this time she was the one who was teasing the other person.

"You know that's not what I meant," Osamu continued, wanting to be the one who was in charge of the situation once again.

"Yeah," Aira wondered, imitating his usual childish smirk. "Thank you," she added full of victory as she snatched her sunglasses from Dazai's hand, using the right moment.

"That's cheati—!" he interrupted himself, noticing the waitress that was bringing them their coffee. "I have finally found a reason to live!" he exclaimed, cupping the waitress' hands into his own.

"Some things never change," Aira murmured, taking a sip of her coffee.

~.~

"What the hell happened when I was out?" Aira asked loudly, taking a look at the Agency's office, which was, to say at least...

...fully destroyed.

"Black Lizard," Kunikida answered, rapidly writing something in his notebook.

"Yeah, that I've noticed," Aira sighed, glancing at the beaten up bodies of the members of the group.

"Why are you all so calm?" Atsushi asked quietly, glancing at the woman, who simply went on to pick up the drawer that had fallen.

"You'll get used to it, kiddo," she replied, placing the furniture on its place. "Hey! Ranpo! Care to help me out with that sofa?" she called out to the detective, who looked like he was best-dressed when it came to his job.

"Nope! Not really!" he answered, taking a sip out of his water bottle.

"Men these days are trash," Yosano spoke, helping Aira picking up the fallen couch.

"Thanks," Aira responded. Despite that short of a sentence, Yosano could have heard the tone of her voice being distant and cold.

It was something she took pride of. Doctor Yosano hadn't recalled the time when she was rude, or even unintentionally mean towards Aira. To be completely honest, Yosano was even nicer to her than to her other coworkers. Yet for some unbeknownst to her reason, Razuki hated her. Yosano was fully aware of that fact, yet she couldn't quite pinpoint why. Why was Aira always avoiding talking with her? Why was she always telling her how unprofessional her skills were? Why was she always leaving the room as soon as she saw her?

At first, Yosano was concerned. Then she realized that her younger coworker had been simply delusional when it came to their interactions.

What Doctor Yosano couldn't see, however, was that Aira didn't hate her for being Yosano. All in all, Aira didn't even hate her.

She was jealous of her being a doctor.

Yosano was living her dream life; she seemed to be having it all — the smarts, the brains, the title. Comparing to her, Aira was nothing but a failure.

And it was going to take some time for her to see that the titles didn't mean anything. Just as a long, hard path back to home, Aira needed to reconsider her previous choices and misfortunes only to come to terms with them.

"Why are you crying?" Kunikida's voice interrupted everyone's work.

"I... I... I'm not crying!" Atsushi objected, turning on his heel to hide his face, which, in fact, was completely covered in tears.

"Oh, that's exactly what we were lacking today," Aira sighed, approaching the two.

"Just look at you. Your so typical for your generation. Even when given a job you just go off and play without permission. You cry if anyone gives so much as a word of criticism," Kunikida stated on one breath, purposely not meeting with Aira's sharp stare.

"That's not it!" Atsushi objected. "That's not what is it about!"

And only now Aira understood Doppo's plan. By scolding him, he made the boy stop crying. Yet, did it solve the problem? Aira wasn't so sure of it.

"Hey, can I talk to him?" She grabbed Kunikida's arm. The tone of her voice was completely differing from his.

"Just don't tell him it's okay to throw fits," Doppo sighed, returning to out-planning the costs of the repairs.

"Hey, Atsushi-kun," she started, placing a hand on his shoulder. "You're not worried about the criticism, are you?" she asked, her voice sounding almost motherly.

"No," he responded, wiping the tears from his face.

"You're worried that your bounty may have caused this, right?" she continued, watching him nod his head. "Then let me tell you one thing, boy. You're the part of the Agency now. And you know what we do if someone is targeting our employee?"

"You throw them out of the window?" he joked through the tears, pointing at Kenji, who had been just doing spoken thing.

"Exactly," Aira confirmed with a soft laugh. "My point is — you're safe here, Atsushi-kun. Moderately, but you are."

"I'm not worried about myself," he interrupted shyly.

Not long after his sentence, his brow furrowed as he heard Aira burst in laugh.

"Have-have I said something funny?" he wondered quietly, glancing at his feet.

"Yes... I mean, no!" Aira said through the laughter. "Have you seen us?" She pointed at the coworkers, who were busy putting the office back together. "We're like, super-strong. Not immortal, but we can defend ourselves," she added, comforting him.

Aira had the tendency of self-pitying and crying over her own failures. However, when it came to others, she didn't want them to experience the exact same things as she did.

Pity, jealousy, worry. They were just a fragments of human's imagination. She fully understood that allowing those emotions to overcome one's own self made them only focus on their more, instead of truly experiencing the life.

But Aira Razuki was also hypocritical. She wanted to prevent others from feeling those things, yet was unable to follow her own instructions.

It was just like a bottle with time, which was sealed with the heat of fear and anger. And inside this bottle there was her — drowning in her own sorrow and pity, yet seeing the world in front of her through the glass of the closed bottle. She was trapped there. Alone.

But she didn't fully realized that she needed someone from the outside to open up the bottle to let her, and all of her past free.

She had no idea that it was the only way to feel alive once again. After all, had no idea she was trapped — the glass was see-through.

She experienced life. But not how life should have been experienced.

"I'll give you another advice, Atsushi-kun," Aira smiled, pointing at Kunikida. "Don't cry near to him ever again. The only emotion he's comfortable with is anger," she added, watching a small smile appearing on Atsushi's face.

"I won't, Razuki-san," he smiled back, his tears now fully dried.

"Come on, we have to help them with cleaning," she added, rolling up the sleeves of her shirt.

[canyouhearthelight]

The Miys, Ch. 151

This chapter has been one that I have been dying to write for a while. I was worried that @baelpenrose would resist the idea, but he very much thought it was hilarious. As always, his input and riffing on this chapter has very much made it better and better.

However, it also made the chapter longer, lol. But there is just no way to trim it down without losing something that makes it all work, so this week is nearly double my normal length... break everyone’s heart, right? ;)

“I don’t like these numbers,” Parvati grumbled - as much as she was capable of grumbling - as she scrolled through the final counts of approval ratings on her and Hannah’s inaugural Food Festival.

The statistics had been dropped into our inboxes that morning, in the static of about a thousand other notifications now that Derek had finished the stress-test. Also included were the results of the last three invasion-prep drills, which I was in the process of scanning over.

“How bad are they?” I asked, half listening for a number. The drills were trending better, which was a good sign that the moves were effective.

Dismissing her display with a gesture of disgust, she sighed. “Seventy-four percent approval rating.”

I arched a brow and glanced over. “Did you adjust for those who did not attend?”

The glare she sent me wasn’t seen so much as felt. “Of course I did. First thing I ran…”

“Are you filtering by the day the comments came in?”

“I -” Bingo. She huffed. “No! These are intended to be ratings for the entirety of the event!”

I started scrolling through my own statistics. “Chart them out by the date the ratings came in, filtering out everyone who didn’t actually attend.”

A pause. “Oh… Oh! It’s showing ninety-three-point-four now!”

“Et voila,” I murmured. Louder, I clarified, “People like to weigh in early, and those who object in general tend to speak first.”

“I see that… how’s it going over there?” she asked, smoothing her braid over her shoulder as she turned to look at me directly.

“We are improving with every drill, marked upticks since the relocations. Arthur should be here in about - “ I glanced at a clock, “Seven minutes to go over next steps.”

Alistair breezed over to swap my empty bulb of cold coffee for a fresh one of water. “The appointment is in fifteen minutes.”

Parvati beat me to the punch.  “He is also compulsively early, meaning…. Six minutes now.”

He rolled his eyes hard enough that I wanted to giggle. “He doesn’t even have the decency to be fashionably late. Appalling.”

Surely enough, Arthur paged at the entrance - out of some sort of manners I accidentally instilled in him - exactly five minutes prior to our scheduled appointment. As he breezed into my office, he managed a half-assed glare at Alistair for abruptly turning away and focusing on my schedule rather than his usual tendency to get a beverage for any newcomers. “Okay, updated data on drills isn’t what I want it to be.”

I laughed. “You’re joking, right? Your team and Michael’s haven’t gotten past deck four by more than three percent in the last seven exercises.”

“Any percent above zero is unacceptable,” he grumbled. I chalked it up to the indignity of being forced to get his own tea from the console.

Almost as though to spite Arthur, Alistair made a point to set a refreshed water bulb in front of everyone except the professor. “There are guards on the other levels for a reason,” he suggested drily.

“And I would rather those guards be idle, thank you,” Arthur threw back in a near-venomous tone.

“Us guards would rather be prepared for any eventuality, which you may do well to plan for in your petty drills.”

I didn’t even try to intervene. Clearly there was some blatantly disagreement between my  admin and my friend, and I was exhausted from trying to make them cooperate.

“If I’m doing my job, you should be so grateful as to be idle,” Arthur drawled.

Alistair scoffed. “As if being left to rest and get fatter than a Christmas goose is a blessing…”

“You’ll live longer!”

“And get lax in my duties, which I will not stand for!”

“Get fat! Get lazy! LIVE! I don’t care! I’m not going to be lax in my duties to allow you the opportunity of getting practice at fighting.” Standing, Arthur buried both hands in his hair, but it looked less like he was running his fingers through it than pulling on it. “Are we really discussing this when we are training to fight in living body condoms?”

“I need to defend the Archives!”

“And Michael and I need to defend everyone! Us doing our job means you don’t need to do yours.”

My neck snapped back at the vehemence in his tone. This wasn’t their normal sparring… they may have never truly gotten along, but even in the beginning it was never so vicious.

To my further alarm, Alistair took a long stride forward and stared down his nose at Arthur. “We both know that she - “ his hand flung out to point at me “is either the luckiest or unluckiest person in existence. You can’t really believe that, in an actual assault on this ship, that she won’t be in danger. Which will place Tyche, the Archives, Derek Okafor, and Samuel Richardson in equal danger. You aren’t an idiot, you know this.” The hand pointing toward me turned, and time seemed to slow down as he stabbed Arthur in the sternum with it, punctuating each of his next words. “Stop lying to yourself.”

“Poke me again, and the finger comes off.”

“I would dearly love to see you try.”

Hannah and Parvati had jumped to their feet when Alistair approached Arthur, but were now slowly moving around to my position, safely behind my desk. Hannah hissed at me through clenched teeth, “You had to tell them to fight it out.”

“I thought they would use a gym, not the damned office,” I hissed back.

Before she could respond, Alistair spoke again. “You aren’t the only one on the Ark who wants to protect everyone. You need to trust us to do our bloody jobs.”

“The last time I trusted anyone else to protect people, I lost fourteen students,” came the ground out response. “I’m not backing down on this.”

“You will, or I will sedate you and strap you to a medical berth for the next four months.” Alistair stepped back and crossed his arms with finality.

A trickle of nerves ran down my spine as I watched Arthur clench his fists and release them. “You think the solution to everything is to tie it up, I swear.”

“Stop changing the topic. I am deadly serious, Farro.”

Arthur turned away from him, waving him off. “Try something else, you would never just sedate me for months on end.” Before we could stop anything, Alistair leapt forward and put Arthur in a headlock, only to be immediately flipped over the other man’s shoulder and onto the table. “Tch. Sloppy. I know you can do better.”

“I thought you wanted me to get fat and lazy,” Alistair grunted as he sucker-punched Arthur in the stomach and rolled for the other side.  Once on his feet, he eyed Arthur carefully as he circled the table. “You stubborn ass, you know I am right.  You are putting everyone in the lower levels at risk by not running preparedness drills with them, because you don’t want to factor in the fact that one of the offensive teams could fail.”

“We don’t have the luxury of failing, so no. If we do our jobs correctly, everyone who matters will be safe at the other end of the Ark.”

They didn’t seem to be at each other’s throats anymore, but the arguing wasn’t getting anywhere. “Guys - “ I tried.

Both men turned and practically screamed at me with their glares to stop talking.  Oookay. I held up my hands in surrender and decided to let them sort it out their way.

Damned if the console wasn’t on the other side of them, though. I couldn’t even get popcorn and a drink.

Alistair blew a harsh breath through his nose. “If you won’t include the lower decks in your drills, I will start sparring with Jokul.”

“He would kill you,” Arthur barked in the most miserable laugh I’ve ever heard.

“God forbid,” Alistair mocked. “If I were gone, who would make your tea in the morning.”

“The same person who picks up the socks that magically appear all over my quarters every day, obviously. Worthington, I’m serious, he could really hurt you. He has really hurt me. And Charly.”

That last part was dismissed with a wave. “Madam Charles the First put the fear of herself into him.”

“And you haven’t. He could kill you by accident, and he’d never forgive himself.”

“Maybe that wouldn’t be the case if you would let me train more!”

Arthur groaned and ran a hand down his face. “You are an adult, we’ve talked about this. Train all you want, with whoever you want - Charly, Sophia, Tyche… hell, train with Evan or Michael, I don’t care. Just, not Jokul.”

When did they talk about this? I wondered. It had to be during a sparring session or something, because it definitely wasn’t in my office during one of our meetings. A glance at Hannah showed she was watching everything unfold like it was the most riveting show she had ever seen, and Parvati’s squint of consideration wasn’t much better.

“As you said, I’m an adult. Perhaps I should take your advice, and train with Charly - “

“See - “

“- and Jokul. She will make sure I don’t get hurt.”

Arthur flung his hands up in frustration. “You are so stubborn, I swear!” Growling, he paced in a circle. “Fine! Train with Charly and Jokul. IN the bivouac suit, though! And I don’t want to hear a word when you end up confined in a med bay yourself.”

Alistair’s smug grin showed just how much he seemed to care. “At least I would be spared of picking up the trail of dishes that seem to follow you around.”

“For the love of - they are my quarters! Mine! And I don’t want to hear about it when your bloody socks are constantly getting lost behind my sofa!”

Oh. Oh no. Nonononononono.

“My socks can go wherever they fucking want to, when I am constantly cleaning your disgusting whiskers out of the sink!”

“You know what would fix you having to clean whiskers out of the sink? I could just stop shaving altogether. How about...that…” Arthur trailed off and very slowly turned toward the three of us behind my desk with a look of dawning horror.

And I tried. I really, really tried not to laugh.  I could feel my face reddening, my chest aching with the effort of holding it in.  

Hannah’s snort was my undoing. As soon as that tiny noise escaped her, all three of us erupted into hysterical, stomach-cramping, tearful laughter.  I felt stabbing in my arm as Parvati dug her nails in, trying desperately not to fall.  Unfortunately for her, Hannah grabbed me at the same time and all three of us toppled to the floor. The sight of Arthur rolling his eyes and crossing his arms only made me escalate from laughing to shrieking in hysterics and relief.

I couldn’t speak for the other two ladies, but I thought the two men were going to end up killing each other… At no point did I think they took the other option when I told them to either fight it out or….

I gasped for breath, trying to get myself under control. Wobbling to my feet with the help of my trusty desk and a couple yanks to free my shirt from Parvati’s desperate clutching, I pointed between them. “This… how long? Can’t believe… didn’t figure it out.”

“Not everyone is as… public… as you, Conor, and Maverick are,” Arthur snarked at me. “You know, private lives should be private and all that?”

“Must be for you,” I confided in Alistair’s direction, where he had turned his back to our fit.  “He’s never not told me when he was dating someone. Or thinking of dating someone. Or potentially interested in seeing if he was interested in dating someone… Best friend privileges and all that.”  While I waited for Alistair to respond, my mind whirled through all the things I had brushed off before but were very obvious in retrospect.

Glancing at Arthur for a hint yielded nothing but a flat stare that all but declared in flashing lights You Aren’t Stupid.

I tilted my head at that, and kept thinking. There had been genuine animosity on Alistair’s side in the beginning, and not a small amount of needling on Arthur’s.  So I knew it wasn’t something that had always been going on. My mind came to a screeching halt, however, when I remembered something - the day Alistair, Tyche, and I decided that, when I vacated my position on the Council, they would vacate roles as well to leave behind a ‘clean slate’. “Four years, holy shit,” I gasped. “Four years!?”

Finally, Alistair moved. His back was still to us, but his arms went limp by his sides, and his head dropped down toward the floor. “It would be unseemly to have the new Councilor of Education in a relationship with the attache to the Councilor for Resources and Engagement. Or formerly in a relationship, should things not end well.”

“And since he won’t be taking his position until we are on Von,” I put together, “You are okay to serve out the rest of my term, just not Hannah’s or Parvati’s.”

“Correct.”

“Huh. That makes sense,” I admitted before hopping up to sit on my desk, the chair being a lost cause on the other side of two women who were still sniffling and giggling on the floor. “I learned a lot today.”

“Uh huh,” Arthur confirmed drily. “And it had better stay in this office.”

“What?” I managed a pretty convincing confused face before pretending to realize what he meant. “Oh! The relationship thing. Yeah, cool, whatever. That’s not what I was talking about, but you’re good.”

“Dare I even ask what you meant?” Alistair ventured, finally turning around so that he could give me a warning look.

“Uh, isn’t it obvious?” I asked, shaking my head and spreading my hands, palms up. When they both just stared at me, I finally broke and grinned. “Dude. You two are freaking slobs.”

The squeaking noises coming from the vicinity of my feet told me that no further work would be getting done for the rest of the day.

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[plaggclawsin]

the stars say we’re made for each other

I’ve been trying to get back into the swing of writing for a bit now and found myself with a lot of free time on my hands, so I thought writing these two might help! ao3 link if anyone wants it :) x 

—

The way she sees it, Marinette’s own luck hasn’t been getting her anywhere in confessing her feelings to Adrien. She’s tried several times, the efforts ranging from small to vastly complicated. There was the birthday gift and Valentine’s day card she accidentally left unsigned, the flower scheme she concocted with her friends, the constipation prescription she accidentally gave him, the time she thought she was talking to his statue and it turned out to be him playing a prank on her. (She barely recovered from the sheer mortification of those last two.)

She’s willing to resort to other methods, however. . . unusual they might be. Her Lucky Charms tend to be more convoluted than her current strategy, anyway.

“Wait, so what’s your plan, girl?” Alya asks, sitting beside the magazine that’s currently on Marinette’s pink chaise. It’s open to a page featuring one of those silly quizzes that are a staple of teen magazines, except this one is titled “Are You Astrologically Compatible With Adrien Agreste?”

“I need to find out Adrien’s birth chart,” Marinette says, pulling out Adrien’s extensive schedule and glancing at it with a frown. None of her knowledge of his extracurriculars will help her in this particular area. “And then, after I see how compatible we are, it’ll help me understand him better and figure out the best way to confess.”

“Right,” Alya says skeptically, drawing out the word. “Do you actually believe in that stuff?"

“Not really, but we live in a world where magic actually exists, so I figure there’s no harm in trying other methods.”

Alya shrugs. “Point taken. But what do you mean by birth chart? We have his sign right here.” She holds up the magazine, pointing to his smiling picture on the page. “It says he’s a Libra.”

“That’s just his sun sign,” Marinette says dismissively, closing Adrien’s schedule. “It’s not the most important aspect in determining compatibility. The moon and venus signs are particularly important in this case, since they rule emotions and how you love, but other planets have an impact too. Mercury, for example, rules how you communicate.”

“Okay, we’ll pretend I understand what you just said,” Alya replies easily. “How are you going to get this birth chart?”

“Well, to do that, I need his time and location of birth,” Marinette answers, touching her pointer fingers together with her thumbs up. “So I was hoping we could enlist Nino in this mission. . .?”

“You want Nino to ask Adrien where and when he was born without giving away what we’re doing? Do we both remember what happened the last time Nino tried to help with one of your plans?”

Marinette cringes. She's tried her hardest to forget. “Please don’t remind me of the Musée Grévin.” She starts walking around her room thoughtfully. “Okay. What if we use one of the miraculous—”

“Marinette,” Tikki admonishes from the corner where she and Trixx have been resting. Her round, blue eyes shoot Marinette a disappointed look. “You know you aren’t supposed to use a miraculous for selfish purposes.”

Trixx grins deviously. “I say let her. What’s life without a little mischief?”

Tikki sighs, shaking her head. “You’re as bad an influence as Plagg.”

Under the weight of her kwami’s chiding stare, Marinette relents. “Okay, okay, no miraculous. . . Oh, I know! Do you still have Wayem’s number, Alya?”

“Uh, probably. Why?”

“If anyone would know this information or how to get it, it’d be him.” Marinette pauses. “Or Nathalie or his father, but I’m not that desperate.” Another pregnant pause. “Yet.”

“Okay, I’ll text him now.”

Barely two minutes after Alya sends the text, her phone chimes with a notification. She holds her phone out for her and Marinette to read together. Wayem sent them the time and location, and even took the liberty of going one step further to add a few websites they could use to look up Adrien’s birth chart.

“Even I don’t know how he got this information,” Alya says, her tone one of bewildered amazement. “I’m a little impressed, actually. And kind of concerned.”

“I’m impressed by the fact that he knew we were trying to get Adrien’s birth chart. Do you think he’s already looked it up?” At Alya’s flat look, Marinette continues, “Okay, yeah, dumb question.”

Marinette heads over to her computer, typing in the information Wayem gave them on one of the websites he recommended. Within seconds, an intimidating amount of information pops up on the screen. There’s a wheel with a bunch of lines and symbols on it, in addition to a chart with a list of planets. Marinette and Alya glance at each other, each of them a bit overwhelmed. Time to get to work.

—

“Okay, the fact that he’s a Libra mercury makes so much sense,” Marinette says, flipping through her notes. “He’s always trying to play diplomat and make everybody happy. His Pisces moon also makes sense to me, because he’s compassionate and idealistic. But I’m not so sure about Gemini rising or Leo venus. Are you sure Wayem gave us good intel?”

Alya chuckles. Marinette looks up from where she’s hunched over the desk, a stack of handwritten notes in front of her. Even Tikki and Trixx seem to be interested in the proceedings now, flitting around and reading everything that Marinette’s compiled. “I didn’t realize you knew so much about astrology.”

“Alya. You of all people know that when I get into a new project, I go full out.”

“That’s very true,” Alya concedes, looking at her own notes. Most of it is gibberish that she doesn’t quite understand, but she’s nothing if not thorough. She glances back up at Marinette. “But the only way to know whether Wayem gave us good intel is to ask Adrien himself, and then we’re back at square one.”

Marinette groans, tilting her head back exasperatedly. “I don’t want to continue onto phase two until we’re sure that this is his actual chart.” She gets up and paces around her room, flicking a pencil onto her chin repeatedly. “Can you ask Nino for his time and location of birth, actually? Operation Astrology is on pause right now and I’m curious to see what Nino’s chart is.” 

“You’re going to become a complete astrology girl, aren’t you?” Alya asks with amusement, taking her phone out of her pocket and calling Nino. Marinette doesn’t answer, too busy looking back and forth between the screen and her notes. 

Nino picks up on the fourth ring, his tan face lighting up Alya’s phone. “Hey, babe,” he says with a smile. “What’s up?” 

“Marinette wants to know where and when you were born,” Alya says. Marinette looks up at the sound of her name, walking over to the screen and waving at Nino. 

Alya was expecting Nino to give her a weird look that eventually led into somewhat befuddled acquiescence. She was not expecting Nino to freeze, sigh deeply, and hang his head. “Uh, Nino?” Alya asks, sharing a confused glance with Marinette. 

“My mother warned me about this,” he mutters. The screen suddenly pauses, and a moment later, a text from Nino comes through. “I just sent over my birth chart. Please don’t break up with me.” With that, he hangs up the phone. 

The two girls look at each other once again, and Marinette bursts into laughter. “I can’t see Nino having any placements that would make you want to break up with him,” Marinette says with a reassuring tone, still giggling a little. “I’m betting he’s earth dominant. And anyway, there aren’t really bad placements. Some are in detriment or exile, yes, but it doesn’t automatically mean they’re bad, just more difficult to have than others. . .”

Alya looks over at Tikki and Trixx, who stare back at her with the eyes of gods who have lived for centuries and seen more than a mortal mind could possibly fathom. “She doesn’t actually expect me to understand what she’s saying, right?”

“I doubt it,” Trixx replies. Tikki nods her head solemnly in agreement. 

—

Marinette wasn’t kidding when she said that she puts her everything into a project. She’s already compiled a compatibility report for Alya and Nino, citing notes in the margin about which aspects of their chart work well together and which areas aren’t as naturally strong. She also asked the kwamis for their time and location of birth since she was on a roll, but there wasn’t an option for “The Big Bang” and “the Cosmos” on any of the websites she visited. 

Right now, though, she and Alya are sitting at their shared desk, just waiting for class to begin. Marinette’s currently walking Alya through her and Nino’s compatibility chart. 

“Okay, so for the most part you guys are compatible astrologically, but there are a few aspects that aren’t perfect,” Marinette says, pointing at the page with her pencil. “For one thing, you have a Sagittarius moon while Nino has a Capricorn moon. Fire and earth aren’t super compatible, but that just means you guys won’t naturally get how the other processes emotions. 

“However, you guys both have a water venus and earth sun! Signs of the same element are compatible, and then fire also goes with air while water goes with earth. You have a Capricorn sun that goes well with his Taurus sun, and your Pisces venus pairs well with his Cancer venus.”

“How long did you spend writing all this up?” Alya asks, taking the four-page report and flipping through the pages. 

Marinette doesn’t get the chance to answer, as Nino slides into his seat at that moment. He slides his ever-present orange headphones down around his neck. “What are we talking about, ladies?” he asks easily. 

“Marinette wrote us an astrological compatibility chart,” Alya answers. 

Nino’s face turns gravely serious, and he locks eyes with the aforementioned girl. “Did I pass, Marinette?” 

“You and Alya are fairly compatible,” Marintte says with a nod of her head, as if placing the seal of Astrological Approval on their relationship. Nino breathes a sigh of relief. 

“Hey, guys! What are you looking at?” Adrien asks, walking over to take his spot next to Nino. Marinette smiles at him dreamily. Leo venus seems like such a romantic placement; it’d be amazing if Wayem happened to be right and that was actually Adrien’s. . .

“Marinette’s gotten into astrology lately and she decided to show me how compatible Nino and I are,” she hears Alya respond. Marinette tunes back into the conversation as Alya continues, “Apparently everyone has a whole birth chart as opposed to one sign.” 

“That sounds cool! How do you figure out your birth chart?” 

“Marinette can do it for you,” Alya says, nudging the girl with her shoulder.

Marinette silently thanks the stars that she has such a good best friend. “You, um—you need to know where and when you were born, though.” 

“Oh, I can ask Nathalie, I’m sure she’d know. I’ll tell her it’s for a project we’re doing at school,” Adrien says, pulling out his phone and texting his father’s assistant. Sure enough, within minutes, he gets a text listing the information. He shows it to Marinette, who promptly enters the information into the same website she used for her and Alya’s charts. 

After a cursory glance, she gives a subtle nod to Alya to let her know that Wayem had the right information after all. (She’s still not sure how he managed to get it, and at this point, she’s afraid to ask.) “Okay, class, settle down,” Miss Bustier says good-naturedly as she walks in. “Time to begin our lesson.”

“I—I can text you your chart, if you want,” Marinette whispers to Adrien. Adrien grins at her, melting her insides.

“Thanks, Marinette, that’d be great,” he whispers back, beaming that Famous Sunshine Smile that so many girls have fallen in love with him for. 

Marinette’s on cloud nine for the rest of the period. 

—

Marinette has been fighting alongside Chat Noir for about a year now, and it’s safe to say he’s one of her best friends. She may not know his real name—or a substantial amount about his civilian identity—but she trusts him implicitly, with everything she’s got. 

She has to know his chart. 

She’s already calculated the risk in her head. If she directs him to the website, he can put in the information himself and then send just the chart to her so she doesn’t know more than is necessary. Placements alone wouldn’t be enough to identify a person, so she doesn’t need to worry about those accidentally revealing who he is.

Of course, there is the slight chance that she’ll recognize his chart if it’s one she’s already seen. However, she’s only asked Alya, Nino, and Adrien, and Paris is a city full of how many people? The odds that Chat Noir is one of her friends is pretty slim. Exceedingly slim, actually, considering Alya and Nino are Rena Rouge and Carapace. And anyway, there’s always the—albeit extremely rare—possibility that if she does happen to recognize the chart, he just has the exact same placements as Adrien.

The chances of that happening are so low that Marinette barely gives it a thought.

“Chaton, do you know what a birth chart is?” Marinette asks when they’ve finished patrol that night. 

The two of them are sitting on a rooftop that gives them a view of the Eiffel Tower, lit up in all its glory against the night sky.

“Actually, I just learned about it recently!” Chat replies, grinning. “One of my friends told me about it.” 

How coincidental, Marinette thinks. “Okay, perfect, can you put in your time and location of birth on this website?” She hands over her yoyo, which is already set to the website she used for everybody else’s chart. “Then take a screenshot, crop out everything but the placements, and hand it back to me.”

“Meticulous as always, my Lady,” Chat says, taking the yoyo and typing. It’s quiet between the two while they’re waiting, the only sound being the slight tapping of Chat Noir’s claws on the screen. Eventually, he hands back the yoyo. 

The first thing Marinette sees is Leo venus. “Oh my god, Leo venus makes so much sense for you,” she says emphatically, glancing at Chat. He tilts his head inquisitively, his green eyes contrasting brightly with the dark of the night. “You’re all about those grand romantic gestures, and you’re always very expressive with your love.” 

“Oh, is that what that means? My friend sent me my chart, but I hadn’t gotten the chance to ask her what everything meant.” Chat scoots closer, leaning over her shoulder as she reads.

The next thing she sees is Gemini rising, and she’s starting to get a strange sense of deja vu. “Honestly, Gemini rising makes a lot of sense too. You come off as bright, curious, and talkative, and since you’re Mercury-ruled, you have a way with words.” 

“Buginette, are you saying my puns are actually clever?” Chat asks, making puppy eyes and placing his hands over his heart dramatically. Marinette laughs, the sound reverberating through the night air. 

“Dream on, Chaton,” she replies, glancing down at the chart again. The sense of deja vu becomes even stronger. She starts to look at the chart as a whole as opposed to just individual placements. 

And the more she looks, the more the chart looks. . . familiar. Extremely familiar. As in, she has this exact chart in a binder labeled “Operation Astrology” and she’s already created a compatibility report for theirs together familiar.

But there’s no way that. . . But the probability of. . . But blonde hair and green eyes. . . But Pisces moon and Leo venus and. . . “Uh, LB? Are you okay?” Chat asks, waving his hand in front of her face. She turns to look at him, her mind superimposing Adrien over Chat’s mask. It’s there and gone in a flash. 

“A—Adrien?” she asks before she can think any better of it.

Chat—Adrien—Chat blanches, his eyes widening. He laughs nervously, a hand coming up to the back of his neck, and the move is so Adrien that she wonders how she never noticed it before. “What—what are you talking about?” 

She still has plausible deniability. There’s always the extremely rare chance that the placements are just the exact same. She doesn’t know the time and location of Chat’s birth; she’d need to see that in order to confirm it’s really Adrien. She could laugh it off, dismiss it as coincidence, and nothing would have to change.

Except, in her heart, she already knows. Besides Chat’s horrible acting just now, she can just feel it in her gut. The partner sitting next to her, her other half, the one she trusts with her life time and time again—that’s Adrien Agreste. 

And that’s what makes her scramble up, yell “Bug out!” and fling her yo-yo out to swing away. 

—

She drops her transformation as soon as she lands on her bed. Tikki immediately flits up to eye-level, her round blue eyes worried. “Marinette, are you okay?” 

“He’s Adrien,” Marinette says in a monotone, her eyes unfocused. “Chat—Adrien—they’re the same person.” 

“That’s correct,” Tikki says slowly and steadily. She reaches out a red paw to rest on Marinette’s shoulder. 

At the light touch, Marinette jolts with a renewed sense of urgency. “Oh my god! Tikki, they’re the same person!” 

She quickly jumps down from her bed, grabbing the large Operation Astrology binder from where it was resting on her chaise. It makes a loud, distinct thump as she drops it onto her desk and flops into her computer chair.

“All of Adrien’s placements made sense to me except for his Leo venus and Gemini rising,” Marinette says, swiftly flipping to the page with Adrien’s chart. “I thought it was just because I didn’t know how he’d act in a romantic setting, but. . .” 

The knowledge that Adrien is Chat Noir gives her new insight into old memories, and they run through her head with a speed she normally reserves for trying to figure out her Lucky Charm.

The romantic picnic by candlelight that ended with her blushing, holding a rose in her hand? That was Adrien. 

Every term of endearment that she’s ever been called by her partner? That’s Adrien.

The sincerity with which Chat compliments her and always tells her how much she means to him? That’s Adrien. 

Even the Gemini rising makes so much sense with the context of Adrien being Chat Noir. Marinette’s always thought that the two were completely different people, with Adrien coming off more reserved, much less of a jokester.

Except she remembers Adrien punning “What a knightmare!” exaggeratedly after Darkblade was defeated. 

She remembers him trying to pull a prank on her at the Musée Grévin, much to both of their dismay. 

Aspik and Chat Noir had even made the same joke when they were planning how to defeat Desperada, for crying out loud! 

As soon as she remembers that, it’s like every missing puzzle piece slides into place. Once she starts, she can’t stop seeing parts of Adrien in Chat Noir, parts of Chat Noir in Adrien. Rather than being two discrete personas, they blend together until she can finally see them as the whole they are. She sees Chat Noir’s playfulness and bravado in Adrien, Adrien’s kindness and vulnerability in Chat.

And then she realizes something very important. “I left Adrien with no explanation,” Marinette says in horror. She flips the binder closed and yells, “Tikki, spots on!” 

She swings from building to building with the same sense of urgency required for akuma attacks. When she gets close enough to their rooftop, she sees Adrien, detransformed and pacing around. His mouth moves like he’s talking to somebody, and she sees a black blur nearby that has to be Plagg.

She lands on the rooftop, and Adrien startles. “Ladybug!” he says, instinctively moving to cover up Plagg before he realizes. He sighs and aborts the movement, his body tense. “I guess I should be apologizing. I don’t know how you found me out, but I know you never wanted us to know.” 

He starts to take off his ring, and Marinette lets out a strangled cry of fear. “What are you doing?!” 

“The rules say I have to give up my miraculous, right?” Adrien asks dejectedly, though his fingers do freeze. Plagg flies in front of Adrien as if to shield him, his cat-like green eyes narrowed. 

“I’m the Guardian. I rake the mules,” Marinette says firmly, her heart just beginning to settle down. She shakes her head, trying to get her bearings. This is Chat Noir. She’s never been nervous around him, and there’s no need to be now. “I make the rules. And there’s—there’s no one else I’d rather have as my partner, Adrien.” 

“Then why did you leave?” he whispers, his hands dropping to his sides. In front of him, Plagg’s glare has softened slightly, but his defensive pose never wavers. “Are you disappointed it’s me?” 

“Oh, mon minou,” Marinette whispers back. Adrien’s eyes slowly light up with hope. Plagg, seemingly sensing that everything will be fine, disappears from Marinette’s vision. “No, I could never be disappointed that it’s you. If anything, I’m afraid of the opposite.” 

“That would never happen, my Lady,” Adrien reassures, his eyes so sincere in the moonlight. His next words come out shyly, complete with his hand behind his neck. “But. . . will you—will you tell me who you are?”

“I. . . Okay,” Marinette says, trying to find her resolve. She takes a deep breath, closing her eyes. “Spots off.”

She sees the pink light of her detransformation against her closed eyelids, and she hears Adrien draw in a gasp. When she opens her eyes, he’s blushing. “Marinette.” 

She’s heard him say her name countless times, replays it in her mind before she goes to sleep occasionally. But the way he says it right then—the absolute awe and reverence evident in his voice—is enough to leave her wonderstruck. He cradles her name in his mouth like it’s precious to him. Any lingering fear she felt at him knowing her identity vanishes.

“I’m so glad it’s you,” Adrien whispers, wrapping her up in a hug before she’s even had time to process him moving closer. 

She closes her eyes once again, her arms coming up to wrap around him tightly. “Me too, Chaton.”

They still have to figure out how to deal with this change in their dynamic, how to adjust to the fact that their friend is the one they’ve been working with this entire time. But Marinette isn’t concerned. From the first battle they fought, Adrien has always encouraged her to overcome her fears and face any obstacle. He’s bolstered her confidence, seen her insecurities, and loved her for them still.

No matter what, she knows they’ll be okay.

—

A knock on Marinette’s window startles her from her work, almost causing her to mess up the design she’d been sewing onto a T-shirt. She glances at her window and finds Adrien, suited up and grinning widely. She smiles, rolling her eyes as she gets up to open the frame for him.

“What, is the door not good enough for you?” she teases, flicking his bell. She walks back to her desk, resuming her project. 

“It’s easier to get around like this,” Adrien replies. She vaguely registers him looking around her room, but she mostly ignores it. When she gets in the zone, she gets in the zone. “You know, you never told me how you figured out who I was. I’m guessing it was the birth chart that gave me away?” 

“You got it,” Marinette says, distracted by a stitch that she messed up on. She hears rustling in the background.

“Hey, what’s this? Operation Astrology?” Adrien asks, and those two words immediately make Marinette abandon her project, bolting upright. 

Adrien’s lounging on her chaise, careful to let his boots dangle over the sides rather than putting them on the piece of furniture. In his hands is the Operation Astrology binder, open to a page that she immediately knows is the compatibility report she made.

“Nope,” Marinette says with feeling, immediately rushing over to try and grab the binder out of his hands. Of course, his reflexes in the suit are much faster than hers at the moment, and he easily avoids her grasp, sliding off the chaise in the blink of an eye.

“Buginette,” he drawls, his grin turning mischievous. The two of them slowly circle the pink piece of furniture. “What's in here that you don’t want me to see?” 

“I’m not telling you,” she says, debating the pros and cons of suiting up to even the playing field. Pro: she might be able to avoid giving Adrien any more ammunition than he already has. Con: Tikki will probably be annoyed that she transformed just for this.

“Could it be the fact that this binder—that you made, might I add—says we’re extremely compatible, just like I’ve always said?” Adrien grins, pointing to a spot on the page. “‘A match made in Heaven.’ See, my Lady? Even the stars think we’re made for each other.”

While he’s distracted, Marinette takes the opportunity to leap over the chaise and tackle Adrien to the floor. “Shut up, Chaton.” 

Adrien laughs, calling upon his detransformation.

“Don’t be embarrassed, Buginette. I’m not the kind to say I told you so.” He tilts his head, smirking. It still takes her a moment to get used to Chat Noir’s smirk on Adrien’s boyish features. “Not too often, at least.”

“Remind me why I like you again?” 

“I’ve heard that I’m an extremely good kisser.” 

Marinette blushes, shaking her head fondly. “I think that’s an exaggeration.”

“Care to test that theory, my Lady?” 

The two spend an hour of their afternoon doing just that.

—

(“I just don’t understand how this happened,” Alya says at lunch one day. “I mean, it’s like, overnight, you and Adrien went from, you know, to—well, whatever this is.”

She gestures over to Adrien and Nino, then back to Marinette. The two boys are walking towards the girls, and the second Marinette makes eye contact with him, Adrien’s face softens into a besotted smile. 

“I don’t know what to tell you, Al,” Marinette says, turning back to Alya. A wide grin splits her features. “I guess Operation Astrology worked after all.”)