#turns out I was more comfortable with Sketchbook World than I first thought

[minkkumaz]

DISASTEROLOGY

hyunjin dreamed of you and the things you'd do together, and not one soul knew about it. he finally draws up the courage to show you his intentions

PIERCE THE VEIL series

PAIRING hwang hyunjin x gn!reader WC 1.1k TAGS friends to lovers. lovesick hyunjin. confessions. smooching. slightly angst. fluff. suggestive implications. OMI NOTE i think out of all the members i struggle with writing hyunjin the most. i literally dwelled on this for so long but honestly turned out better than i expected. @skullverse, my ptv twin. this one is for you my schmookum wookums bc ik he's ur fav!!

a single finger traced over hyunjin’s abs, making him take a sharp breath. there were a million different kinds of fun, but that was only a figment of his mind’s eye. when he was tucked in between his sheets, a tainted dream resurfaced every night.

but this wasn’t true, no, it was completely impossible. nobody knew that he dreamt about you, the dates he’d take you on, and the way he’d hold your hand so perfectly that not one person would get a single idea besides ‘they must be together.’

this was his imagination, and when he wasn’t happily rested within it, the world felt like it was at end.

often time’s he’d wake up in a cold sweat. running a hand through his hair to detach the pieces that stuck to his forehead. his shirt clung to his body, lacking the touch of you underneath.

hyunjin sighed, looking over to his blinking alarm clock that had a small sketchbook next to it. you were meant to come over soon to spend some time with him since days like that came rarely. one quick nap later and he was soon reminded of how badly he wanted you, yet couldn’t have you.

it was everything. the way your lips parted slightly when you were confused, how you stabilize yourself by holding onto his shoulders after he teaches you choreography, or maybe when your hand brushed against his as you walked alongside him.

a low groan of annoyance fell from his lips, moving from his spot on the bed to freshen up in the bathroom. looking in the mirror was only a reminder that today was supposed to be the day he’d say something to you; imply that he wanted so much more than to just be friends.

all he saw was his fear looking back at him. out of every drawing he’s ever made, he could never sketch out a coherent idea of how he fell victim to your spell. so instead he settled with drawing you. just you.

it was now or never, right?

picking up his phone from the charger, he sent you a text to let you know that it was okay to come over. it wouldn’t take very long, as you didn’t live too far. in the meantime, he pushed down these possessive thoughts and cleaned himself up.

the clock felt like it was ticking slower than ever, but that was just a misconception when he heard the gentle knock on his door. thousands of butterflies awoke in his stomach, and he had never been more nervous than in that moment.

he walked over to unlock the door and let you inside. you were cozy in some pajamas, with a jacket hugging your body.

“hyun!” you grin, reaching your arms around him in a hug, enabling his hands to snake around your waist.

“hey, i haven’t seen your face in awhile.” he ruffled your hair gently.

“pff, only because you’re too busy with tour.” you tease him, pulling away to follow back to his bedroom.

“okay maybe i was a little busy! but i have a present for you from when i was on tour.” he tells you, grabbing the sketchbook on his night stand and handing it to you.

“for me?” you flipped it open to see an image of yourself laying prettily on the first page. 

every pencil stroke dug into the paper, getting only the finest of details. you lower yourself back on his bed, still admiring the drawing.

“do you like it?” he smiles at you.

“do i like it? i love it oh my gosh!” you bounce slightly on his mattress, giddy with endorphins.

you place the book next to you on the comforter, reaching your hands out to pull him towards you in another embrace. in the midst of this all, he falls against you on the bed.

all you could do was let out quiet giggles with the boy on top of you, his head stuffed in the crook of your neck.

he lifted himself up, leaning up on one of his forearms. his free hand traveled to your face, moving small strands of hair that were blocking your vision. a pink hue played across his cheeks; this position felt too similar to the ones in his imagination.

“i don’t know how you were able to get all those details of me. you even got one of my moles!” you beam from underneath him.

“you’re just on my mind all the time, how could i not?” 

“uh huh, you’re too busy being one of the most desired men on the planet.” you joke with him, failing to realize he was being serious. your expression shifts when he doesn’t laugh.

“did you know that i dream about you, y/n?” he says tenderly, grazing his fingertip over your jawline.

“wh– pardon?” you mutter.

“there’s so much i want to tell you, but i don’t want to scare you off.” he looked intimidating, towering over you. but there was so much care in his words that it confused you.

“hyunjin.. you could never scare me off. i value all of my time with you.” you respond calmly, trying to mask your flusteredness.

the line he drew down your face stopped, instead drifting down your neck and across your collarbones. a shiver travelled down your spine.

“are you sure that you mean that, y/n?” his voice was composed sweetly.

“i mean it.”

“whenever i draw you, i think back to these daydreams i have about you. about us. we did so much together, but none of it was real.” he stopped, “it made me second guess things a lot. but i figured that even if the world was ending, shouldn’t we spend the rest of our time in love?”

“i– i don’t know what to say.” you lay below him with a shocked look on your face, but you were far from scared. you were curious.

“don’t say anything. just imagine us, please?” there were undertones of distress in his words.

“i like you, so much. but i don’t want to ruin things between us. i was so terrified.” you confess, biting back a frown.

“you won’t ruin anything, my muse. you’re anything far from poisonous. things will be okay.” 

“how will i know for sure?”

hyunjin looks into your glazed eyes, you were looking like you were about to cry. this only made him smile more.

he leaned down closer to you, until he was only inches away from your ear. you could feel every inhale and exhale sliding down the side of your neck.

“you’ll know if you stay. i want to create something beautiful,” he whispers, “then destroy it.”

© 2023 minkkumaz, all rights reserved support your writers by reblogging + giving feedback! it is greatly encouraged and appreciated. thank you! → why feedback + reblogging is so important. ~ (´｡• ᵕ •｡`) ♡ if you'd like, donate to minkkumaz ! PIERCE THE VEIL series

[tealin]

Antarcticans

I may not have used my sketchbook as much as I thought I would, with regard to locations, but I did fill a few pages with one of my favourite pastimes back in The World: people sketching.

My biggest anxiety about going to McMurdo was the human factor.  Whether it was school or work, a recurring motif in my life is that I do not do well in a big box full of Americans, and that is, almost literally, exactly what McMurdo is.  Sure, the continent wants to kill you, and every way of getting to and around it comes with risk of serious accident, but the only thing I was actually afraid of was finding myself in a stressful social situation and not having any recourse to escape.  I know how to build a snow cave.  I don't know how to deflect the ire of people who've taken a set against me – and, for whatever reason, I tend to rub people in the States the wrong way.  When I was shortlisted for the placement, the person handling the admin briefed me about the process and asked me if I had any further questions, and I raised this concern.  She responded that, speaking purely from her own experience, she had never felt more comfortable being herself than when she was at McMurdo.  Not knowing who 'herself' was, I took this with a grain of salt, but it was an encouraging answer nonetheless.

It turned out that the best thing about McMurdo was, in fact, those very people I had been afraid of.  Everyone I met was absolutely splendid.  In my first days there, my supervisor joked that if you shake the world, all the best people end up at the bottom; the remainder of my time there proved how right she was.  One of the main things that attracted me to the Terra Nova story, and has kept me committed to it for so long, was how wonderful the people were – far outside what I had come to expect from humanity.  Warm, genuine, accepting of and attentive to each other, a wide range of personalities and dispositions that nevertheless got on and functioned together as a society, in the face of environmental and emotional extremes ... I needed to know such people were possible, and clung to them as an ideal.  It was a wonderful surprise to discover that they would not be out of place amongst their modern counterparts.

Is it because they're scientists, as someone theorised? But they're not – most of the people at McMurdo are support staff, working in the kitchen or waste disposal or shuttle fleet; helping the science happen, yes, but that's not necessarily why they're there, personally.  Is it because a harsh environment triggers something in the human psyche to support each other, rather than compete?  Maybe, but these people seem like they'd be solid wherever they are, and were like that before going South.  

I suspect there is an element of self-selection – something about the sort of person who would want to go to Antarctica correlates with a certain mindset, one that gels extremely well with others who share it, however different they may be in other respects.  There is no denying that everyone there is a bit odd.  They tend to be types that exist on the fringes back in The World and, like me, may struggle to conform to its values.  A few years ago, I came across this adage from an Antarctic veteran: "You go the first time for the adventure.  You go the second time to relive the first time.  You go the third time because you don't belong anywhere else."  Many of them live in remote places, or travel, or do itinerant work when not on the Ice.  There is a bit of a running gag in Where'd You Go, Bernadette? that everyone doing a mundane job in Antarctica is a high achiever in something amazing, who left it all behind – and that's not exactly untrue.  Perhaps what unites Antarcticans is an awareness of what really matters, when you get right down to it: they've played the game enough to see through it, and are done with it.  "Glory? He knew it for a bubble: he had proved himself to himself. He was not worrying about glory. Power? He had power." So Cherry wrote about Wilson in 1948, but many modern Antarcticans might sympathise.  When you come out the other side of self-aggrandisement and jockeying for status, and are happy just to be yourself and let others be themselves, you get a happy, harmonious society.  Or so it would seem.

At midnight on my last day there, I had a deep conversation with someone I'd only met in passing before, but who was totally down to have a long talk with a random stranger on a footbridge in the middle of the night. I presented her my hypothesis that no one at McMurdo was popular in high school.  No, she replied; there may be a handful who were popular in high school ... but they're not popular at McMurdo.  Maybe the secret is in there somewhere.

Anyway, I didn't do nearly as much people sketching as I'd have liked, given that the base was populated entirely by Characters, but these are the pages I did manage to get. 

Two pages of random McMurdites, likely in the Galley:

These last four are from a meeting where team leaders were presenting their projects to some high muckymucks visiting from the NSF. I was only there because my project was allotted a space in the presentation, but the main focus was the massive Thwaites Glacier project, a collaboration between the US Antarctic Program and the British Antarctic Survey to study one of the most unstable regions in Antarctica.  They quite rightly took up the whole meeting time, and the privilege of being there meant I learned a lot about the project.  My longstanding habit is to draw during meetings, so I captured some of them in my sketchbook while absorbing the science into my head.

Notable characters in my sketches include: - David Vaughan, heading up the British contingent of the Thwaites team, was quite an engaging and affable guy but had a concentration scowl that puts mine in the shade. I was shocked when I heard he died of cancer earlier this year (2023) – a great loss to BAS, glaciology, and Antarctic science generally. - When Erin Pettit isn't studying glaciers with an eye to climate change, she's taking girls on wilderness adventures to foster an interest in science and art, as well as self-confidence. - Britney Schmidt, Queen of Icefin, not only earned my profound respect but has a whole episode of PBS's Terra dedicated to her work developing sub-ice autonomous robots with the aim of exploring Europa. (Seriously, so cool.)

I could go on about Antarctic people, but there's nothing so good as showing you, and luckily I can do just that. PBS sent a small team down in 2018 to do a YouTube series, and one of their episodes is all about the cool people who call McMurdo home.  It might make my point better than all my whittering, and is certainly more fun. If you'd like to see more, Werner Herzog's film Encounters at the End of the World is much of the same, but more so.  It had been recommended to me several times, but I hadn't managed to get my hands on it until a week before I left, when it turned out a Cambridge friend had a copy and lent it to me.  'I don't know how true it is,' he said, 'but I want it to be.'  When I got back, I was happy to confirm to him that it was, indeed, exactly like that.  And I miss it so much.

[vidjausers-fable]

Pen Pals(Veneer X OC)Chapter 7

Author’s Note: This would have been posted earlier but with the storms my power went out for a few hours. I had attempted to drive my friend home and a tree had fallen down near her home, knocking the power lines down. We turned around immediately and went back to my home. Stay safe and stay warm out there! I want to give thanks to my bestie and beta reader, @tinalbion <3

Previous chapter

***

Veneer settled in the chair across the table. The atmosphere was uncomfortable, and his brain kept telling him that he wanted to run away from the situation. He could feel Avery’s eyes staring at him, and it didn’t make him feel any better. When he shifted in his chair and made himself as comfortable as he could in this type of situation, he looked up and read Avery’s grim expression. Her face was that of disapproval. He knew this wouldn’t work out. None of it would. 

“So yeah…I guess you know who I am then if you’re looking at me like that…” He drummed his fingers nervously into his lap. “And I guess you’re not very happy about it.”

Avery couldn’t believe it. Veneer couldn’t recognize her? Of course he wouldn’t…Why would he memorize a single fan over the thousands he had back then? Had Avery been the same as she was before that night, then maybe she would feel more disappointed than she felt right now. But also…Veneer was a fraud and had scammed everyone. He had fooled everyone in Mount Rageous along with his sister into believing that they could sing because of a Troll they very nearly killed in the process. Avery remembered seeing the speech where Veneer had exposed themselves at their own concert, but also remembered that she was at work that night and didn’t care too much about what happened to the two. 

“Yeah, uh…I remember who you are. I’m just a little speechless seeing you right now. You’re not a Samson. You’re Veneer, ex superstar. This isn’t a joke, is it?”

Veneer raised his hands defensively. “No! No! I swear. I’m Samson. I just used a pseudonym so I wouldn’t be rejected because of my name…But I regret it so much.” He rambled, “I didn’t lie about anything else, just my name. I swear it, Avery.” He held a hand over his chest.

He still couldn’t tell who she was. 

“So everything else you told me was real?” Avery questioned suspiciously, unsure if she should believe him. “Every single thing that you sent me in those letters was absolutely one hundred percent true?”

Veneer nodded. “Yeah…So the interest in fashion, the sketchbooks, doing good here…That’s all real. I made a huge mistake listening to my sister and I’ve been working really hard to right the wrongs I committed against Mount Rageous. I’ve been learning a lot here, and Dr. Graham thought it would be good for me to join the Pen Pal Program to help me get back into the real world. I fell in love talking to you, and the last thing I’ve ever wanted to do was disappoint you. That’s why I wanted to confront you in person and let you see me before I told you my real name. I was feeling really guilty about using a fake name in the first place. I hope you can give me a chance, Avery…I have been loving to get to know someone as a person again and be myself…” He rubbed his hand. 

Avery saw the remorse on his face and how truly he meant these words as he said them. If he was a man of lies, he wouldn’t have exposed himself and his sister to the world and would keep manipulating people. She thought hard and realized that she…she didn’t feel manipulated at all. Sure, she would have loved to know the person she had been talking to in the first place, but she understood why he had done what he did. She knew that if she saw she was writing to Veneer in the first place, then she probably wouldn’t have given him the second chance he had been craving. He didn’t deserve that.

“...I think I still need a moment to process this…” Avery pressed her fingers against her temples. “But I can see why you didn’t tell me right away. It must be scary being on the other side of things.” She slowly began to unwrap the food she had brought for the two of them, Veneer watching her closely. “I think I would do the same thing if I were in your shoes. I want to give you—Veneer—a chance, but you have to promise me that you’ve got to tell me things from now on. I fell in love with talking to Samson too, not because of his name but his personality and actions. Samson is you, and I think that maybe you do deserve a chance.” She slid the sandwich over to Veneer and smiled warmly at him. “But I don’t want to be lied to anymore. OK?”

Veneer couldn’t believe his ears. Avery…Avery didn’t reject him! He gratefully took a bite out of his sandwich, which tasted a little like freedom, making him want to cry. “I really appreciate that, Avery…More than you think.”

“Can…Can I ask you something though? If you don’t mind?”

Veneer nodded. “Yeah, you can ask me anything. I think I owe that to you at least.”

“You probably don’t but…do you recognize me? We met a while back when you were—uh famous? I was at one of your concerts at the Boom Box and I met you personally when I caught your t-shirt in the crowd. You had been so nice to me, and that’s why I really admired you. You always seemed nicer than your sister. I can see why you’re doing so well here.”

Veneer blinked once and then twice. He took a long look at her face before he noticed the features and realized they had been familiar. “Oh yeah! I remember you…But I had never caught your name. I remember looking out in the hallway for you but you had already gone…You never sent me those pictures, though.” He slowly ate at the chips Avery brought him. He got chips here, but it was the cheap healthy kind. 

Avery nodded solemnly, trying to push those memories out of her mind. “Yeah, I had accidentally forgotten my phone when I took a last trip to the bar. I think someone stole it. It was long gone when I went back to look for it.” Avery felt a small pang of guilt. She was technically lying to Veneer, as if she hadn’t just made him promise to never lie to her again. Then again, she didn’t want to get in trouble with Rivers if a little rumor about her lip syncing made its way around. She knew that the fraud would come after her first and she dreaded having to deal with her again. Maybe that’s also why she was okay with jumping on and taking another chance with Veneer, too…It’s not like she was perfect either. 

“Are you alright?” Veneer waved a hand in front of her face, snapping her out of her thoughts. “You look like you’re far away in thought right now.”

Avery nodded. “Yeah, a lot happened that night and I wish I hadn’t lost my phone.” She smiled, but it was a sad smile. “Otherwise I would have sent you those photos. Despite what happened with you and Velvet—I think we looked cute in those.”

Veneer blushed. “How do you…feel about all of that? Knowing what I did?”

“I wouldn’t say I was exactly happy. I did spend a lot of money going to those concerts.” As she said those words, she hated the sad expression that came across Veneer’s face, even if what she said needed to be brought up, “But there had been a huge refund to everyone who had proof of old concert tickets, and I eventually got mine. I’m just glad that you owned up to your mistake, even if it was a huge one. You said your sister was here with you, didn’t you? Velvet’s here in this facility?”

“Uh huh.” Veneer groaned and leaned back in his chair, his arms crossed, “And she drives me absolutely INSANE, I’ll be honest. She was really bad coming here at first. She destroyed stuff, and made others feel like crap, me included. She was a full-on entitled brat. I was totally embarrassed to be her twin, especially since I’m basically the female equivalent of her. We’re the total opposites.”

“What’s she up to now?” Avery leaned back in her chair, comfortable though wishing they were sitting in bean bags right now. That would be peak comfort. “Has she been behaving better than when you guys were first sent here?”

“Actually, yeah. But I can’t tell if it’s an act or not. She pretty much forced me to be in on her therapy appointments with my counselor by saying she’d only do it if I was there. It’s been not fun lately.” Avery noticed as his hands made silly gestures as he talked, pretty much expressive with his body as he spoke, “And now she’s in Anger Management class. But I think she’s doing better at least. She doesn’t yell as much as she used to.” 

Avery had no clue Velvet would be acting the way she was. There was a pang of empathy in her chest, and she felt for the male even more. He probably dealt with a lot with himself alone, but also to carry the burdens of his sister. That sounded like a lot…

“Well, I hope that you’re putting yourself first.” Reaching across the table, she linked her fingers with Veneers. The male’s eyes widened and his cheeks blushed as he saw how perfectly their fingers linked together on the table. It had been a long time since he had felt a kind touch and this…It was perfect. He loved it. Secretly. 

Veneer stuttered as he responded, “I, well, uh…I am. I’m trying at least. It gets hard some days, but my journal is my best friend. The one you got me! I draft my letters there and also my thoughts. It helps me collect myself so I can feel better.”

“That’s great, Veneer!” Avery cheered for him, her free hand raised confidently, “I should do the same thing. Sometimes it just gets hard. When I’m feeling things in the moment, I just get more frustrated and tear the pages out…” 

“Have you tried to breathe first? I know those breathing exercises sound stupid and cheesy, but Dr. Graham tells me that they help regulate your nervous system, enough to calm down and think properly. Or even chewing on ice. When you’re calmed down, that’s when you should start writing your thoughts. It’s helped me a lot when I learned about that, especially at my lowest…What’s that…look for?” He saw how wide her eyes were on him. 

“Not-Nothing!” Avery pulled both her hands away, waving them defensively as she did so, “Sorry I was just…amazed because I would have never thought of that. I’m just admiring you. That’s all. Sorry if it came off as rude.” She rubbed the back of her neck. 

The two of them were blushing messes. Avery looked at Veneer first and smiled. “Speaking of journals…Did you bring your sketchbook, like promised?” She bounced excitedly, scooting closer to the table. The way she leaned both her hands on her cheeks and eyed him in wonder made Veneer aware of how really cute this woman was. 

Veneer swallowed the lump in his throat. He reached beside him and picked his sketchbook up from next to his foot and put it on the table. He laid his hands on top of the cover of the sketchbook defensively. “I…I’ve been drawing a lot. It’s clothes, but also sometimes I go back and sketch the photos you sent to me. It really helps me feel better and it’s a great distraction for me here. I’m not the best—”

Avery interrupted him, “Are you KIDDING me?” She huffed, “I’ve seen your artwork before and I’m so in love with it. Every sketch just gets better and your passion is just blinding.” Avery smiled at him, reaching her hand back out to him, her palm facing up this time. Veneer blushed when his hand touched hers again, sending jitters down his spine. Avery led his hand away from the sketchbook, his other one opening to the first page, which he used to test out different supplies directly onto the paper. It helped him with the first-page perfectionism. He closed his hand around hers, holding her hand once again. 

The two of them held hands as he flipped through the pages and explained each one. Avery started memorizing the sketches of clothes and imagined what they would look like on real-life models. The man clearly didn’t recognize his own skill or potential. She wished she could do something to help him realize that potential.

“Oh Veneer, these are so good! Can I see them closer?” She asked for his consent before she took the sketchbook into her hands, flipping back through the pages he had shown her. The smile on her face was infectious. “They’re amazing and it’s like I can actually see these being made.”

“Real…Really?” he asked and copied her smile, “I told you once, but I hope that somewhere will accept me into fashion school…I always loved picking the outfits for Velvet and me when we were famous, but I didn’t realize how much deeper it was than that.” He smiled and took the sketchbook when Avery gave it back. 

“I think I should get you some colored pencils. These would look so much better with color.”

“Sometimes, I get to color them, but I don’t have my own colored pencils to take back to my cell. Depending on who’s out in the rec room, we’re not allowed to have sharp objects. So, if you could, I wouldn’t say no, but I won’t ask you.”

“Don’t worry, you don’t have to ask! Colored pencils can be cheap. I don’t mind getting you some.”

“I’ll draw you lots of things then.” Veneer grinned.

The door cracked open and Veneer’s guard poked his body in. There was a surge of fear in his stomach, thinking that their time together was up, until the guard said, “You have thirty more minutes, just to warn you.” Then he left. 

Avery’s shoulders slumped. Had that much time passed already? “Damn…The time really flew by…I don’t want to go.”

“Trust me, girl, I want you to take me with you.” Veneer laughed nervously, “But I would rather not ruin this good streak I’ve been on. I get out faster that way.”

“How much longer do you have here? Is there any way to get out on good behavior?” Avery took the sandwich leftovers and put them into her back, wiping crumbs off her black shirt. 

Veneer nodded. “Actually, yeah, but it can still take a bit. There’s a rule though: You have to have a home lined up for you before you. I…I haven’t heard from my parents, and I don’t blame them, so I’m not sure where I’ll go. I have some money, but not a lot. I could get a small apartment.”

As if there was a draft in the room, Avery shuddered. The night she had been kicked out by Rivers, it had been so cold. Avery couldn’t imagine Veneer leaving this place, cold and unsure of what to do. She didn’t want that to happen. So, there was an idea in her head: would it be weird to offer Veneer her own home? There she went again, thinking too far ahead. Veneer still had some things to prove to her before she could even think about letting him move in with her. So, she chose to not bring it up for now.

“Awh, well you’ll let me know if they contact you back, will you? I would hate for you to be stuck here just because you don’t have somewhere to go.”

“Yeah, I have maybe two months, especially if I don’t screw up. I don’t imagine that happening though. I just hope to hear back from my parents sometime soon…We’ve talked A LOT about me today though, I want to hear a bit about you before you have to go.”

“Well, I think it’s because I’ve already told you so much about me in the letters. I did bring these for you.” She smiled as she slid pictures of her babies across the table.

“Awe, the big hammies…Are these photos for me?”

“Yeah! To keep. I wish you could see them in real life though. They’re so cute and fluffy. When they beg for treats, they’re just adorable.”

“I can’t wait to sketch some of these photos. Did you bring any photos of the place you work at?” 

Avery shook her head. “No, but I can’t bring some for next time…” She offered. 

The two spent the rest of the time talking, laughing, and generally enjoying each other’s presence. For the first time in a long time, Veneer felt normal, and that things would be alright. That he would be able to make it out of the facility alive, and maybe even be happy. Thanks to Avery. 

Veneer stood. “Hey, is it okay if I hug you?” He opened his arms, in case she wanted to. When she stood from her chair, he didn’t realize how short she really was. She only reached his chest as she stepped forward and hugged him. He wrapped his long arms around her, not wanting to let go of her for a single second. This visit far exceeded his expectations and he was glad he followed through and didn’t chicken out. 

“Thanks for being my friend…” he whispered to Avery, his cheek pressed against her hair. 

Avery smiled as she pulled away from him. Her hands were still wrapped around him, her hands resting against his sides. “And thank you for being my friend. I was wondering if maybe we can make a small arrangement—?”

“An arrangement? Like what?”

“Like…” Her nose wrinkled as she took a moment to think about it, “I still want to send letters, but I want to be able to SEE you and talk to you too. So, we send letters with art and pictures now and then, and maybe every week if we can, and then visit now and then?”

Oh, Veneer wanted to cry hearing that. “I would LOVE that, Avery. I think I can do it every week, as long as you can.” He smiled down at her, finally pulling away when the door opened again, showing the guard from earlier. Both of them felt disappointed and didn’t want to leave. 

“Time’s up, kids. I hope the meeting went well.” He looked the two of them up and down, then stepped out of the way, allowing for them to step out, “Veneer, you first.” 

Veneer stepped out and gave a final look at Avery, “Oh, and Avery…I just wanted to let you know…I want to pay you back, no matter what. I don’t care if they gave you all your money back, but I want to do it too. Mark my words, I’ll give you back everything…”

“Oh Veneer…”

Avery watched as the guard put his hand on Veneer’s shoulder and guided him away from the door. Avery poked her head out the door and watched as they turned the corner and out of sight. She didn’t know where to go, so she waited for someone to come fetch her. That same guard returned and guided her out the door. Stacie was still at the desk and read a magazine now, not giving the young woman a glance as she left. 

Avery’s heart was pumping wildly, and there was adrenaline going through her. She took out her phone and her first instinct was to call Rivers. She shrugged that thought away and pulled up Gracie, texting her instead. 

Girl! Something interesting just happened. Can I come to talk to you?

***

Veneer was taken back to his cell, where the guard led him back in. He was breathless as he dropped onto his bed, flopping onto his back. He stared up at the stripped mattress above him, his cheeks redder than tomatoes. He still memorized Avery’s scent. It was strange, but it wasn’t that he hated it. It was the smell of a floral presume covering up the scent of grease and pizza. He wished he could play the lunch over, not to change anything but to experience it for a second time. Avery was making him go through these feelings that he had never experienced before. Suddenly, he felt as though he needed to talk to someone—anyone. Maybe he could catch his sister at dinner. 

Veneer had a few hours to kill before dinner, so he sat at his desk, looking through the latest magazine Avery had bought for him, just filled to the brim with inspiration as he sketched away, not realizing he was planning matching outfits for himself and her. As he looked at his sketches, he realized that yes—she was right. He needed more colors in his drawings! Maybe he wouldn’t feel so bad about letting Avery buy him the colored pencils as a gift, though wanted to make sure that she didn’t feel obligated to buy him anything ever. 

Many thoughts circulated in his mind. He couldn’t believe that she had been the one who wanted to call and visit him now. Since they had met and probably felt more comfortable with each other, he wouldn’t hesitate to ask her if she wanted to join him on his supervised outing. It wasn’t required for her to be there, but he wanted to have the experience with her, and now he felt confident that she would say yes. With their next visit or call, he would ask her. Dr. Graham would be thrilled to hear the news, and he wondered if his sister would too, or if she would blow up at him. If her anger management classes were working correctly, then maybe he didn’t have much to worry about. 

When it was closer to time for dinner, Veneer held onto the bars of the cell, waiting for the guard to come back up the hallway with the others to take them all the dinner. He leaned his head against the bars to angle himself and see down the hallway better, trying to catch a glimpse of the guard. Sure enough, he caught a glimpse and stepped back so he wouldn’t appear desperate to get out that day, even though he really was. 

Veneer contained his excitement all the way to the cafeteria. He grabbed a tray of some sort of processed salisbury steak meal and scanned the room for his sister. He always looked toward the back at the window. His sister liked to sit there the most because she enjoyed looking out the window. It was her way of tasting freedom. She was alone, per usual, and he came to sit across from her. 

Velvet barely glanced at him for five seconds, eating some cheesy mashed potatoes on her plate, hardly touching the obviously fake meat. “So, did you get rejected or not? Go on, tell me.”

Veneer squirmed excitedly and anxiously. He held his hands together, trying to contain the excitement to avoid getting his sister all flustered. “It actually…WENT REALLY WELL! Of course, Avery was very disappointed at first, but I think she warmed right up to me! She brought me these delicious sandwiches, and we talked the whole two hours though it didn’t really feel that long. She promised to stay in contact and try to visit me more.” He waited and watched his sister closely, ready but also not ready for whatever reaction she was about to display. 

Velvet put her spork down and slowly looked up to her brother. At first, Veneer was unable to gauge her reaction and worried she was about to have a meltdown. Velvet instead glumly leaned on her fist, casting her eyes down at the table. “Is there a way…you can help me get to that point?” 

Veneer was taken aback. “Point…? What point?’ he asked. 

“That I can have someone to talk to as well. This dump is annoying and I don’t have anyone else but you to talk to.” 

Blinking in shock, Veneer’s mouth hung ajar slightly. “I mean…Yeah, I can try. I got mine with good behavior.” He smiled fondly at his sister, watching as she pushed around the food on her plate as though she was trying to hide her true feelings. “But I know you’ll get there, Velvet. I’ll help you through it, I promise.” For the first time since they had been arrested, Veneer truly felt connected to his sister.

Finally, Velvet met his gaze. “Do you still want to watch Desperate Housewives with me after dinner?”

Veneer reached across the table and put his hand over his sister’s. “Of course! I love watching that with you, Velvet…”

The siblings shared the last few bites of their food together. Something felt different for the two of them that day, and it was a good and welcoming sensation. 

[writers-requiem]

Okay, so this is for me personally since I still cannot get that day out of my head. For context, Saturday, April 6th, I went to the Gem State Comic Con and met Spencer Wilding, the stunt actor for Benicio Del Toro in "The Wolfman (2010)" I even took a picture and got a signed photo by him. Since then I've been having dreams of werewolf Lawrence that don't seem to show any signs of going away so I thought I'd share one of them with you all. Also as a bit of added context, since it's a dream, it doesn't follow the canon of the film, so expect that.

A Night of Thrills, Drinks & Cuddles With The Wolfman

(The Wolfman x Author)

Genere: Kissing, Fluff, Small Thriller, Comfort

Pairing: The Wolfman (2010 version) x Author (me)

Rating: E 10+ for Everyone 10 and up

Warnings: Slight thriller

I was in the middle of the forest, sitting on a ravine by a rushing waterfall, just enjoying the moment. A calm from the chaos of everything going on in the world. I had a sketchbook out and a pencil in hand, just doodling away. The sound of rushing water and rustling leaves helped me to center myself so I could remain focused on the task I was doing. Overall, not a bad time really. I looked to see that it was a full moon tonight. I didn't think anything of it and thought I 'd be safe. After all, werewolves or horrible creatures of the night don't truly exist do they?

But then I heard a twig snap. It sounded rather far away and so I assumed that it was probably a bear or wolf. Dangerous creatures yes, but usually only if they feel threatened. So I just went back to my sketches and listened to the wind blowing in the trees and the sound of wolves howling to the moon herself. Then I heard footsteps and they were, closing in, on my position. I brushed it off as an animal, curious about a human being in their territory. But out of a mix of my own curiosity and paranoia, I turned around to see who or what was behind me. To my surprise I saw the silhouette of a man in the distance, in this foggy night forest. I assumed someone was trying to play some kind of prank on me and I had caught them before they could make their move. So I just waved to them, acknowledging that they were indeed there and went back to drawing again.

That's when I heard a wolfish growl coming from, behind me. I turned to see the man closing in. I gave him a nervous laugh and told him "The prank's over. You can stop now." But he continued his approach. I immediately packed up all my stuff, put it in my bag, and the first chance I got I bolted. Running as fast as I could, weaving out of the way of obstacles in my path as I attempted to find a police station or a ranger outpost to seek help. A crazed man was chasing me, for what reason I did not know. But what I did know was that he somehow was able to catch up with me in a matter of seconds. Unless this man was built like Usan Bolt, nobody is that fast. I decided to make sure he wasn't actually following me by taking a series of right turns through intervals of about two to three trees. And he was still on my tail. That's when he paused for some reason. I knew I could use that moment of pause to gain at least a few extra feet of distance from him so I ran faster than my body would've been able to handle.

My legs were on fire, my body was sore and I was sweating up a storm. This was more adrenaline than I was used to in my life and I thought it was over, but then I heard the man again. Sounded like he was running. He was still on my ass. So even though it hurt me, I kept running to stay away from him. I was out of breath, my heart was pounding in my ears, my legs were ready to break down completely, but I still. Kept. Running. I had no choice but to run. If I didn't, who knows what could happen? But after forever of running, I was back at the ravine where this whole misadventure started.

The man closed in on me, his form dwarfing my own as he loomed over me. My legs had given out completely and I was about to fall onto the ground and possibly get knocked out, ready to be possibly eaten by him, but he caught me and set me down gently. "Don't worry." He said in a gruff yet soothing voice. "I gotcha, I gotcha." He carefully lifted me up and held me over his shoulder like I was a piece of livestock. He then walked over to a cottage and let us right in. He carefully sat me in a rather comfy red velvet couch. "I'll be right back." He said. "I'll make you a drink. Hot chocolate? Or tea?" I replied with "Hot chocolate, please." In a slightly meek voice. He nodded and left for the kitchen, but he stopped and looked back at me. "Whipped cream on top?" I just nodded and he went into the kitchen. I just laid back and relaxed a bit. It was still kinda crazy to think about it though, and I still didn't have a clear enough head to get a good look at him. Once he comes back that is.

Shortly after about a minute or two, he walked back into the front room and handed me a mug of hot chocolate topped with whipped cream in one hand while holding a cup of tea in the other. He walked up and sat next to me on the couch as we stared into the flames of the fireplace. He then wrapped an arm around my shoulder and pulled me in closer. We took a sip of our drinks and snuggled into each other. His fur being surprisingly warm and cooling at the same time. I was kinda drowsy, so I leaned in a little closer and he seemed to get the message. He took the mug from my hand and set it and his own drink down on the coffee table, he then gently laid me down on the couch and laid on top of me, cradling me in his arms. He proceeded to plant a kiss on top of my head and nuzzle me to sleep. But not before I gave him a kiss on the cheek in return. And together, we slept the night away, just enjoying each other's company and warmth.

[mellophase]

Post-Mortem: My Heart Bled Out At Prudential Center (A True Story of Music and Human Connection)

I went to MCR’s first show in Newark a few weeks ago. I travelled over six hundred miles (something I didn’t really realize until after the fact, somehow, and I was appalled at myself for doing it) to see them in their home state. I’ve had some time to process the experience and recover from flying there and back and being awake for thirty-two hours because EWR was way too cold to sleep in, and I want to just write down the experience and some things I came away with because I’m not quite sure it was all real. This is super fucking long so I’m including a break. Hope you enjoy!

It was quiet the morning I left. No one besides I, my partner, Ticketmaster, and God knew where I was going that morning. My brother knew I had tickets, but didn’t know when I was going. It was stupid in hindsight-- Newark isn’t necessarily the kindest city in New Jersey nor the US, and I’d never been there on my own before. My mother knew I would be out of town, but she thought I’d be a two hour drive away, not a two hour flight. I’m old enough to make my own decisions, of course, but even at 20 years old, she’d never be comfortable with me going to Jersey. I went down to my car and couldn’t even manage to turn the radio on. It was 4:30 in the morning. The sun hadn’t even risen yet. I felt anxiety swell as I pulled into the economy lot at the airport and killed the engine. My headlights stayed on for a minute, illuminating the empty spot in front of me. I had passing thoughts about who I would call if I somehow locked my keys in my car or I left my headlights on by mistake and my car battery died. I dismissed them quickly, “keys, wallet, phone-ing” myself till I felt sure that I actually remembered and then it was dark except for the streetlights. 

The shuttle ride to my terminal was quiet other than a man across from me making jokes with the driver (he and his wife were going to Savannah, to a beach, and told me I’d like Newark if I was a city bird. I am not, but it was sweet of them to say.) TSA was unremarkable and uneventful, and I sat in concourse B to do my makeup. I had a little drawstring bag with all the essentials someone could need-- eyeshadow, liner, phone charger, ear buds, a sketchbook, granola bars, and my wallet. I had flown alone so many times before, made some little excursions across a few tri-states, but even I could tell this one was different. I texted my partner the whole two hours before my flight took off, trying hard not to chew my nails and chip the shockingly even black polish I’d so carefully put on while watching the Georgia livestreams Sunday night. I held my breath through the entire taxi process until we took off in the air, a solid 7:00 in the morning, Eastern Standard Time. The sun was just starting to rise, and I was enjoying the soft pinks and purples of the sky. The photos could never do it justice. Nor could it do the bright pink of the sun justice when the man in the seat next to me (14 B, a sweet guy whose wife and son were a couple rows ahead of us) drew my attention to it. I spent most of my time looking out the window. It was the first time I’d flown on a clear day and could actually see the world pass by. There was nothing below me I recognized besides the Appalachian Mountains as we passed them, and it made me smile to see them, knowing I’d be leaving them behind for a day. It was quickly replaced by awe once I saw the familiar landscape of New York City, a sight I hadn’t beheld with my own eyes since I was 16. Then Newark appeared soon after. I held my breath again as we landed at 9:38 AM, and a swiftly turned off Airplane Mode to text my partner to let them know I was safe. 

The walk after that was a blur-- departing terminal B, a very kind staff member helping me figure out exactly where I’d have to transfer to get to Newark Penn Station (and texting my partner a quick “Fuck Chicago” because everyone in EWR was more helpful than anyone in O’Hare ever was in all the times I’ve been), and then I was finally on the train to Newark. I could see Prudential Center out the window as we passed, and I felt my heart in my throat. It was so large it was like a beacon.

I stepped off into Penn station, and was immediately hit with the smell that only large cities seem to have-- the smell of exhaust, sewage, and grit. It was such a difference from where I grew up: clean mountain breezes, humidity, and honeysuckle permeating the air so thickly it was sickening. I remember murmuring to myself as soon as I got off the train: “This is insane.” 

Then again as I stepped out of the station: “This is insane.” 

Again as I walked down Market Street: “This is insane.” 

And once more as I saw Prudential Center across the street: “This is insane.”

To this day, I don’t think I’ve uttered those three words more than I did that day.

I was horrendously early, especially for someone with a seated ticket, so I grabbed a coffee before I headed over toward the venue. I met a girl who was also attending the show (she was from Georgia, and she was so kind). We walked over to the venue together, but she was waiting in the GA line, so I bid her farewell. I sat at the benches by Ford Tower, watching hockey players enter and exit the building and drew little nonsense drawings in my sketchbooks (Frank in his outfit from Revenge, Lunchbox (the dog), and Gerard with iced coffee) before tweeting The Homeless Gospel Choir asking for drawing ideas. They asked me to draw their band, and I did in about 40 minutes. I’d only brought pencils with me, so it was sketchy and a little rough, but they loved it anyway. I found out they edited the drawing to make the lines stand out more, and posted it to their Twitter account. By this point, it wasn’t even noon. Still six hours and some change to kill before doors opened.

It was then someone I had seen sitting by the corner came up to me. Dorian|Kate. He was one of the people I remember the most that day because we spent around five hours together just chatting. She was kind. Asked if I minded him smoking around me, I didn’t but I didn’t smoke (but totally asked for a cigarette hours later, and she made sure it wasn’t my first because “I refuse to give someone their first one”). He drove three hours to be there, and they were an artist. We talked about our favorite albums, how we found MCR, the people important to us, and all sorts of things. (She follows me here now and if you’re reading this-- hello! I hope you made it home safe). He drew ‘Very Much Alive’ on my neck for me and laughed when I made a joke about how that was the most homoerotic experience I’d had. I wrote on her arms too, but I don’t remember what she asked me to do. He gave a homeless woman (who we found out was named Tammy) money for her birthday, and spoke to her in the most kind and understanding way I have ever seen. I was fascinated. I am always nervous around strangers for the most part, and I know she is a kinder person that I ever could have been. I wouldn’t have helped (partially because I wasn’t able to), but she didn’t hesitate in the slightest.

I waited with him in the GA line for a while, making sure I wasn’t numbered. I was there to have fun. I met a couple of girls, friends from out of the country (one from London who was just there to drop off and support her friend who was born in Egypt, but now lives in the UAE. They met at a music festival in 2016, and have been friends ever since!), a girl from Newark, and another from New York. I said hi to someone I knew from Twitter. The hours passed quickly, and when I was able to find the energy to speak, I was able to make some wonderful connections with the lovely people around me. I even got to meet three members of The Homeless Gospel Choir: Derek, Maura, and Megan! I gave them my drawing, and they gave me a sticker (and a hug. Derek asked if he could before he did it, which I greatly appreciate because I don’t usually like being touched) in turn. I learned they were from my hometown, and Derek jokingly said I should meet them for wings when they were back in town, and I told them they knew how to reach me now, so just say the word.

As lines tend to do, GA had to move, and so did my friends. It was still another hour until doors opened, so I said goodbye for the time being, and went to go wait by the doors. There was a small group of people sitting by the steps who let me join in on their little circle (who I found out later were Jo, Joy, Lizard, and KJ-- artists I had long admired and appreciated for how they captured the band. Though I’d been following KJ for a lot longer for a piece of Hozier art they’d made years ago. There were also a couple of people I don’t remember the names of because I was very nervous and overwhelmed. I was only able to remember everyone else’s names because I had known of them before I barely heard their names because I'm a little hard of hearing and couldn't focus fast enough to lip read). We chatted back and forth, and I was so nervous I could have thrown up because I was around people I admired a fair bit. I met another man, Brian, who they were all familiar with, and he was kind to me as well. We didn’t speak much, but his eyes were as kind as the people I sat in out little circle with. I was gifted a pin, and they let me take an extra one for my partner who couldn’t attend the concert due to them living overseas. Every one of them was all gentle smiles and kind hearts.

A staff member for Prudential Center announcing that backpacks would not be allowed in the center made my blood run cold, and my heart weigh heavy in my chest. What money I had on me (I had been budgeting before the concert. Saving what I could to buy a shirt, my train tickets, parking at the airport, and some small food items to keep me from having a blood sugar crash. I’d only been able to go to the concert due to a Delta gift card I’d been given for my 20th birthday and the ‘Buy Now, Pay Later’ option with Ticketmaster) was all in cash, and it was $8 compared to the ten I needed to buy a locker. This was it. The show was over before it had even started. I very, very quietly asked if anyone in the group intended to get a locker, but already was pulling up the NJ Transit app to pull up my return ticket to EWR and check the train schedules. There had been no intention to, but Jo offered to get one. That kindness was the whole reason I get to write about this experience now, and I don’t think they will ever understand just how much that means to me.

We stood in line once they started directing us to line up at the doors, and we chattered for a little longer, though I was mostly listening at this point. We said quick goodbyes when they opened, and I agreed to meet them outside the center after the concert, and then it was just another hour before the show.

I found my seat quickly enough (Section 20, row 14, seat 13), and some kind strangers took my photo in front of the stage before the show. I was texting my partner again, though it was on and off as it was well past 11PM in the UK, and they were exhausted. Once they were safely asleep, I meet my seat neighbor, Julianna. She was local, and this was her first time seeing MCR. Her fiancé was in the pit that night, and she got tickets a lot later than he did, so she was running solo that night in her own way, the same as me. Again, there was back and forth conversation, and I learned that she was a speech therapist, she loved Anthony Green and Circa Survive, and that her fiancé had a band at one point in time and was touring, but was now working in music management. I told her about my partner, how I got back into My Chem (DM’ing my now partner on Twitter back in July of last year when I barely knew them asking “You talk about this DILF [Cherri Cola] a lot. What is he from?”), and about my experiences so far that day. 

As The Homeless Gospel Choir took the stage, I let myself get lost in the music. Half their set was introduced with “this is a protest song” and I couldn’t help but smile. I couldn’t hear all the words clearly, the unfamiliarity of them making it a little hard for me to understand, but I could feel their energy, even though I wasn’t right in front of them. Then that little fifteen minute break before Thursday took the stage. I’d seen Thursday two weeks before at a tiny little venue a state over from mine. Same as last time I saw them, I didn’t know a single word, but I still enjoyed everything they brought to the stage. I was familiar with them though digging deeper into the origins of MCR as well as learning about LS Dunes and The Future Violents. I was enjoying the set, and then I felt my heart cinch as I heard the dedication Geoff made before a song:

“This song is for the human rights of everyone in this arena. This song is for reproductive rights. This song is for the right to express your gender and sexuality in a safe way.” 

I was never a part of the punk scene in my city. I did so many extracurriculars in high school I never left. I spent 13 hours a day in that building five days a week, and spent weekends there or on the road for band, theater, and speech and debate. But I wondered, had I been involved, if I would have met people like him. People who were so relentlessly strange, and honest, and good. Pepple who had more compassion for their fellow humans than I have ever seen.

The set continued on, they were beautiful— and then they hit me with two more gut punches. One was bringing our Gerard for Jet Black New Year, followed by Anthony Green joining then toward the end of their set. I watched in awe, and my hands were shaking. Not only was awe present, but a distinct feeling of warmth (and a tinge of jealousy— getting to play in a band with your best friends is always something I've ached for, and now they get to play with each other and I felt a little sick). I wasn't inconsolable, but I was quiet during thay half hour before MCR took the stage. I talked to Julianna, cheered for vacuum guy, but I hardly remember it all.

When the static started, I felt my gut heave. I had barely anything left in my stomach, but I felt like I was going to loose everything I had in my body regardless. Bones. Blood. Internal organs. Everything was going good. be ripped out of me. Even as I heard the opening riff of Foundations I felt that tug. I felt a pull so deep inside of me. I had a distinct remembrance of telling people how much performing with a group meant to me. How connected I felt to this group of people. It was overwhelming to feel that not only with the group performing, but the entire arena itself. Everyone was cheering, crying, waiting with bated breath to see what they would do next, singing, screaming— it was breathtaking. I was hit with one moment of sheer joy after another as the songs shifted, even though I'd heard them all before, seeing them in this light was heaven.

Once more, I felt myself choking up as Gerard invited a friend to the stage. Geoff entering for Best Day Ever made that deep, longing ache settle in my chest again. It wasn't a song I knew well, but it was beautiful all the same to watch him and Gerard interact. Men who had known each other longer than I'd been alive. How much that affection and admiration was so very clear even after all this time. By the time they reached the encore, I was a mess. I was silent through Demolition Lovers, and cried my way through The Kids From Yesterday ("This is a song that we play just for us"). Ray's solo had me entirely entranced, and I could feel every emotion from the past day pour out of me. I was so deathly convinced that I was dying. The weight in my chest and the pounding of my skull from my screaming could have been enough to knock me to the floor. I envisioned the blood pouring from my hands, my eyes, my stomach. All because of the way I felt my heart and view had been ripped away and rearranged in the span of an hour and a half. I was silent as I left the center, giving Jo only several quiet thank you's as they returned my bag to me, and then walking to the station. I talked once I got to my platform. A lot. I talked the whole 45 minutes, and I listened in turn. I met some students from New York. A parent who said they received the ticket as a gift, and who said they were so thankful to be able to see them live and listen to them again after a period of trauma where they weren't able to.

Then the train home. Trying to sleep in EWR despite how cold it was. Silence for hours upon hours until TSA opened. I walked through, and just sat at my gate, getting up occasionally to make sure I didn't loose blood flow. Then called my partner once they woke up for the day. The flight home was equally as uneventful, but I had time to think. A lot. I thought about everyone I had met. Everyone who had shown kindness to me and others. Everyone who experienced what I had.

The spell was broken for a little while as I returned to my home state. Especially because I saw the mother of one of my acquaintances from high school. She'd known me since I was a soft, round 12 year old, and here she was seeing me covered in makeup and a Mikey Fuckin Way shirt looking like I hadn't slept in days. She gave me a smile and told me "I thought that was you". The pleasantries we exchanged were brief, but the haze returned as soon as I was behind the wheel of my car and alone with my thoughts again.

I walked out of that concert with more motivation than ever. I wanted to connect. To create. To bring someone solace when they need it and touch the hearts and minds of everyone I could. Even though I was exhausted, the first thing I did when I got home was pick up my guitar and wail. It wasn't good. It wasn't about being good, though, it was about the fact that if I didn't create something right that second, it would all be worth nothing. Every ounce of energy and goodness that had been pushed my way in the past 48 hours was for nothing. I finally collapsed on my bed after a while, too exhausted to do anything but succumb to the exhaustion. But it was still everything I'd ever wanted. It was my secret. One that was between me, my partner, all those strangers, MCR, and whatever god had chosen to smile down upon me enough to let me experience it all.

[victorluvsalice]

Forgotten Vows Friday: A Few Creatures Featured

Keeping on the topic of Victor’s Otherland for the moment, I decided to go poking around my old LibreOffice document on the subject to see if I had anything to share. Most of the info in it is sorely outdated these days, and/or stuff I’ve already discussed, but it turns out I did have a few ideas for creatures for the Magic Tower and Sketchbook World realms! So I might as well share, right? So yes, have four representative examples of enemies you might find in a “Victor: Madness Returns” video game:

Booksnaps:   Angry tomes that have been kept on the Wizard’s shelves for too long and are quite bitter about not being read. They attack by flying through the air on their covers, then hurling themselves at Victor’s face and attempting to chew on it with their pages. They can also shoot blasts of magical energy. Probably best to take them on with a ranged weapon. (I’m pretty sure the inspiration here was those books you have to find in the Skool’s library in the original American McGee’s Alice that form a bridge to the big book that you find the shrinking potion recipe in.)

Wayward Runes:   Magical symbols that have escaped the confines of the mystical tomes and eldritch circles the Wizard uses in his work. They can freeze Victor in a cloud of mystical energy, requiring him to dodge to break free. They can also hit Victor with a magically summoned blast from above, or simply stab him with whatever pointy bits they possess. Again, ranged weapons are best for combating them. (Visuals I believe were inspired by the runes you gather for Eternal Darkness: Sanity’s Requiem, while the freezing attack is clearly from the Ice Snark (the bastard).)

Thinner Squirts:   Bulbous purple blobs that scurry around on little legs, squirting thinner from a spout on their top. They attack by spraying Victor with the liquid, or by surrounding themselves with thinner, creating an unsafe “melted” area Victor can’t enter until it evaporates. Fortunately, they’re weak, and a shot from the Quill Bow or a stab with the Grim Scythe usually takes care of them. (Huh -- I don’t remember any specific inspiration for this one! They’re an interesting design though.)

Inksplots:  A large inkwell with hands and feet which wields a fountain pen. They can either be capped or uncapped. Capped ones attack by simply slashing or stabbing with their pen; uncapped ones can also fill the pen with ink and shoot a painful stream of it. Victor can counter with the Wedding Wine or Quill Bow best. (Definitely inspired by the Madcaps, complete with two variations -- I just went with a more offensive variant rather than a more defensive one.)

[owlsbride]

MODEL, DRAW ME, LOVE ME.

KAKASHI X FEM READER, KAKASHI X YOU.

SUMMARY: Your day has been terrible as well as the last year of your life, you don’t have money and you are in really need of it, because you need to pay the rent. Is that or coming back to your parents house. But not everything is that terrible in your life, you count with your extremely handsome and likeble roommate Hatake Kakashi, who is always there to give you a hand or two.

Aun, Modern Days.

Minors don’t interact.

My first fic Kakashi x reader/you. Be nice! Share and let me know what you think.

————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————

MODEL, DRAW ME, LOVE ME.

Your day had been terrible. Actually, it was not only the day but the week, the month and if you had to be very strict about it, even your year would be said it had been terrible. Since you decided to move from your parent's house to be closer to your college facilities, everything turned out to be more complicated than you had expected.

Of course, there were going to be changes, you would not be daddy's girl anymore, and now you would have to find a place to live, a job to pay the rent and food. It was the price of independence and adulthood; there wasn't much to do about it, but you never thought it would be that hard. You should have listened to your not-so-dear old uncle and gone to law school. Instead, you chose your vocation and went to the art school to become a dancer. So far, your achievements have been near zero. Yeah, you could blame that idiot tv show Fame and his dammed slogan 'fame cost,' but you never thought that this much. Anyway, the only one to blame was you.

So that day, after your lessons, your lame work, and the text on your phone letting you know that the rent was going to be more expensive the next month, your world started to break down as well as your brain, at the point of considering to come back to your parent's house, a hideous and shameful idea. Because you were not a loser or a quieter, and not everything was so wrong with your situation.

As soon as you entered your home, you saw him sitting on the couch with the tv on but not watching it. As usual, he was sketching something in his sketchbook, and scattered papers were all over the place. His messy silver hair and comfortable clothes told you he had never left his spot since that morning, and he probably had been sitting there for hours now.

"Yo! Did you receive the text from the landlord?" He asked you without turning to look at you. He already knew you were there.

"Yes, Kakashi, I did." You answered in defeat, plopping on the couch next to him.

Hatake Kakashi, your roommate for the last year, you had found him almost by chance. He was also studying at the art school, but he was near to becoming an artist and was very good at it. He was a bit mysterious, not much of a speaker but an excellent listener, easygoing and quite aloof at times. He was tall and well fitted, but somehow he always managed to keep a slouched posture, as if the rest of the world didn't matter much to him. You didn't know much about his past, but you didn't care. He was tidy, respectful, a good payer, and knew how to share, and the truth was that you had become close friends. Oh yes! And you had a massive crush on him, so much that only watching him made you hurt.

"Did you answer him?" He asked you, leaving the charcoal on the table and brushing the dust from his fingers.

"Of course not! What am I going to tell him? I don't know, it's so frustrating! I think I'll have to go back home with my parents," you said with a pout. The idea of returning there and leaving the city and Kakashi was disgusting, "You can search for another roommate."

"I don't need another roommate," Kakashi said, picking up the charcoal again and returning to his sketches. "Besides, I told you not to worry about the rent." He sentenced, not looking directly at you.

"What are you suggesting then?" You asked angrily, sitting straight next to him, now facing his impassive look with part of his eyes covered by some unruly strands of silver hair, with his eyelashes almost closed in a simple gesture of concentration. He was so perfect.

"I'm just saying that you don't have to worry, I can pay for both of us, until you get more stable in the city."

"Oh no, no, no... That's not gonna happen, Kakashi, that sounds like something my father could say." You answered, crossing your arms stubbornly.

"Maa~. I'm not your father, but as you wish."

"Yeah... let's better keep our counts clear." You said picking up the remote to start changing the channels dramatically.

The silence took over the place, and the only noise perceptible in the room was the charcoal against the papers and your sad sighs. After not finding anything on TV, you decided to turn it off and do some thinking. It was Friday night, and the only thing in your head was that most of your life sucked. When you decided to become a dancer, you thought it would be challenging, but you would enjoy it. You would find a good job and a beautiful apartment to share with a fellow dancer, and you would become close friends to go out on weekends. Instead, you ended up attending more classes than your body could physically support. Working in a bar where you were not even the waitress and leaving with a soon-to-be very talented artist, a bohemian unaware that most of the world around him exists, the man of your life, with the only problem he didn't know it. So yes, there you were, sighing and sighing.

"Could you just stop doing that? Please?" Kakashi asked nicely but coldly.

"Doing what?"

"You know... all those noises, you are not 'La Llorona'" He was mocking you now.

"Hey! Don't be rude... I wasn't doing anything."

"If you say so, but please stop creating problems where there are not," He was looking so sympathetic at you that you felt like melting there. "It's Friday night, don't you have any plan?"

"No... and if I did, I don't have the money nor the mood to go out." No matter what he said to you, you couldn't bear your current situation. "What about you? Don't you have plans?

"Nope... I never have plans on Fridays." Kakashi simply stated.

"Nor Saturdays" You spoke without thinking.

"Are you controlling my schedule?" He said, leaving what he was doing and going to the kitchen to grab a water bottle.

"Nooo... but you are always here." you said almost to yourself.

"Maybe it is because I like it here. There are many beautiful things." Kakashi answered you with a wink, and you couldn't avoid the redness on your face, he smiled, and you died a little with that smile. "You know... I was thinking..." He started talking again after drinking directly from the bottle, a gesture you found more erotic than any porn movie. "If you are so persistent in wanting to pay half everything and you need the money, you could look for an extra job."

"An extra job? Do you think I have time or rest to look for an extra job, Kakashi? You said, approaching him.

"Yes, a job that is kind of related to your profession and it doesn't require much effort and they pay well." So, Kakashi already had an idea, you thought.

"I'm listening..."

"You can work as a live model at the school."

"Oh! It sounds interesting." You answered thoughtfully. "And how do I apply?"

"Well, I can talk with some of the teachers there, and I'm quite sure you will have the work." He said, standing next to you, towering over you.

"Wait..." You suddenly said in realization, "In those lessons, the model isn't naked, right?" You were not going to pose naked.

"Almost all the time, yes. Why?" Kakashi asked as if it was the most normal thing in the world.

"Then no, I wont, I wont pose naked... No way"

"What? Why?" What's wrong with modelling? You are not telling me that you think that the leotards you wear are not that revealing?"

"What do you mean? They are perfectly fine and descent and you are a perv, just like your colleagues for sure." You were angry, but at the same time, you blushed. He had noticed your leotards.

"You know what, Anna Pavlova? I was just trying to help you. I'm so so sorry." He said, lifting his hands in defeat. "They wouldn't hire you anyway; you are too fit." Now he had that insufferable closed-eyed smile.

"What do you mean, Leonardo?" If he was going to use famous names just to be ironic, you would too.

"What you heard. You are too fit, and you don't have any interesting curve to draw." He finished looking at you from head to toe. He was so close, and you felt so small.

"You are... You are... You... I'm going to have a shower." You didn't have anything else to tell him, so you ran away to hide in the bathroom and have a long shower. You heard him laugh, as always, and you just sighed loudly again.

The long shower really had been a long shower. You stayed under the hot water for a long time, not doing anything but thinking about your life and the recent 'discussion' you just had with Kakashi. It was the first one in a year, and maybe he was trying to help, but you didn't know why you found the offer a bit offensive. You would be offered to a class like an animal for sacrifice to a bunch of students who only wanted to explore your anatomy. You wouldn't be different from an apple, an orange or a bottle; still, it felt weird. Truth be told, dancing in front of people wasn't that different. You would be in a scenario playing the part for others to enjoy or suffer with you. The swan death, Giselle, Carmen, what was the difference? When thinking about it, dancing was a minor sacrifice each day: during class, during exams, and during a performance.

And now, in front of the mirror and with other sensations about modelling, another thing was bothering you. It was true that you would have to fight the shame of being naked, but you were a performer after all; it was just another role. The problem was, 'you are to fit.'

Yes, the ballet had changed your body, and you weren't that curvy anymore, but Kakashi's comment was offensive and sexist, so for once, you were going to prove him wrong.

He wasn't in the living room, so you went straight to his room. You needed to talk to him about your resolutions and his thoughts. You find him lying in his bed watching tv, only dressed in his sweatpants, and you thought you would die there.

"Can we talk?" You began, and when he didn't answer or turn to look at you, you stood between him and the television. "I asked you if we can talk?"

"What do you want now? Don't forget I'm a perv, be carful." He said smugly.

"Oh, so you are hurt for my comment, I'm sorry", you apologized ", I didn't intent to be that rude."

"Maa~ It's ok." Kakashi said, dismissing you with his hand.

"You've been rude too. Your comment about my body was offensive, sexist, misogynist..."

"And a joke." He interrupted, "I think your body is perfect." Kakashi said, blushing.

"Really?" Butterflies exploded in your stomach.

"Yep, otherwise I wouldn't have offered you the job, no matter how much I would envy all those newbies." Kakashi answered, avoiding your gaze and trying to focus on the tv.

"About the ofer..." You began avoiding the last part of the sentence because it was too much to register, and you wouldn't want to believe much in anything that could give you hope about this man, "If I say yes, would you teach me how to be a model?"

Kakashi made silence for a moment, and after a long sigh, he spoke again.

"Yes, I guess I can."

"Then teach me." You said impatiently, doing a ballet pose, and you saw him smile.

"Now?" He said, sitting on the edge of the bed.

"Yes, now." You pushed, trying to keep your balance. "Come on." You said, taking him by his arm to the living room.

After a few moments of looking around, Kakashi finally took out all the things on the coffee table and gently asked you to sit there.

Once seated there, Kakashi approached you and rested his fingers on the edge of your robe,

"Can I?" He asked, and you just nodded your head. Having Kakashi close, barely touching your shoulders with his fingertips, sent electricity through your entire body.

"Now, raise your head and lift your chin, just like that."

Kakashi took a distance to observe you and approached again, "Turn your back and relax your shoulders. Don't stop looking at me. Bring your knees to your chest, and that's it."

"That's it?" You asked, so simple? It couldn't be that simple. He only had removed your robe.

"Yes, pretty much." Kakashi said nervously, picking up the scattered things on the floor.

"Teach me more, please." You pleaded. You were not interested in modelling anymore; you just wanted him close to you, touching you. And when he suddenly turned to see you, you saw a predator in the room. Kakashi was like a cat, and you were his prey.

"Are you sure of what you are asking?"

"Absolutely."

He went to you. He gently caressed your face and looked deep into your eyes, and when he saw no doubt, one hand rested on your small back and the other on your chest, his smile spread as he felt your heartbeat racing but that he didn't care. He gently pushed you back to the table and laid you down. He began by arranging your hair. He ran his hands along the length of your arms, sides, thighs and legs. It was the touch of a feather, and all the senses in your being lit up like never before. With the devotion of an artist in front of his muse, he began to take off your shorts and panties all in one movement. Instinctively, the shame took over your body for a moment, and you unconsciously closed your legs to cover your exposed sex. Kakashi chuckled and gently moved your legs to the side in an elegant, delicate, subtle way. Kakashi continued with the upper part of your body. With expert hands, he removed your shirt and now your entire body was exposed to him. He caressed and accommodated your arms, one above your head and the other below your breasts. The posture was perfect, and now you were his creation.

You stood there unable to move, your body burning, the sweet pain between your legs begging for relief, making it hard to think, you were so wet, and he didn't even properly touch you that way.

"Now what, Kakashi?" You asked in a voice that didn't sound like yours.

"What else do you want? You learnt two different postures now." He was acting smug, but you could see the lust in his eyes. "Do you want me to draw you? Paint you?" He spoke now from his spot on the couch.

"I..." you began unconsciously, taking your hand to your wet sex, "I want you to touch me."

"Really?" He asked, leaning now next to you, touching your hand, pushing you harder, slowly inside you. You moaned at his gesture and nodded with your head. "Fuck it." you heard him say, and you smiled. Suddenly Kakashi was already kneeling by your side and had replaced your hand with his. Inside you, two of his fingers were already playing dangerously close to your limits while you couldn't help but move your whole body in pure ecstasy. Kakashi began to kiss your stomach, leaving traces of his warm lips on every part of your torso until he reached your breasts. He took one in his hands and gently caressed it until tiredness. He took the nipple hardened by excitement and groaned at your reaction. Kakashi took your other breast in his mouth, and with his tongue, he did wonders.

Still jerking you off with his fingers, Kakashi took all the time in the world to stimulate you to make you beg. Still, you resisted.

In one movement, Kakashi sat you on his legs on the ground and your back on his bare chest. The new position made Kakashi's fingers reach places physically unthinkable for you.

You could feel his erection in the small of your back, and instinctively you began to move your hips, rocking back and forth. Kakashi pulled his fingers out of you, and now in his hands, your two breasts were caressed to the point of making you come just with that simple touch and the kisses he gave you. Kisses on your back, on your neck, on your mouth, everywhere. You were so painfully close. The overstimulation was the sweetest torture you've known so far, but you could barely stand it anymore. Instead, Kakashi was calm and totally in control. You thought you would die when he returned to your sticky, wet pussy and pressed your clit with his thumb.

"Ka...kashi...Please," you begged. And he obeyed. As fast as before, he lifted you up and took you to his room, and you both ended up on the bed. He was on top of you, and he would dominate this.

"I always wanted to do this", Kakashi said, looking seriously at you. "I'm going to fuck you now, so is this what you want?"

"I always wanted it too," you manage to say, but before finishing, he was already entering you with his hard cock well erected, and you could only scream his name.

It was rough sex, good sex, and incredible, amazing, animalistic sex. Kakashi was astonishing good, and he was so generous in his ministrations. You couldn't believe what this man was making you feel in every thrust, kiss, and touch. You were so close. With each thrust, you could see one more star in the sky, you needed to come with the force of a hurricane, and Kakashi knew it. Their movements became stronger, more aggressive, yet so exquisite that they knew every place to reach.

The two of you came together. The world succumbed under your bodies, and exhaustion took hold of both of you. Kakashi collapsed on top of you, and you hugged him as tight as you could.

"Why didn't we do this before?" you asked in a whisper in his ear.

"Because you're good at paying half the bills and I didn't want to screw it up."

"Now we can do it more often because I don't have to pay for them anyway."

"Will you accept my help?"

"Oh no... now I know how to model."

"Do not even think about it."

And just like that, Kakashi was already kissing you again, skillfully looking for your crotch for the second time in one night.

[therealvalkyrie]

exactly the spring

Pairing/setting: Ushijima Wakatoshi x Fem!Reader, college!AU

Summary: Reserved biology student Ushijima finds himself falling in love when you, an adorably disorganized art student, wander into the greenhouse.

Word Count: 3.4k

Warnings: fluff, kissing

AN: Hi!! So, the inspiration for this one sprang from the beautiful, sexi brain of Emme ( @doinmybesthere ) way back in MARCH ahem anyway, it's done! I hope it's just as soft and intimate as you envisioned<33 Also, big shoutout to my beautiful friends Arobi ( @daqueenobooty ) and Cee ( @spacelabrathor ) for being wonderful betas and giving me such kind comments:) I hope you enjoy, and as always don't be shy about leaving comments or coming to chat! Be kind to yourselves and others.  ~valkyrie

p.s. check out this amazing art that @/54prowl made of plant boy ushi!! :D

Plants don’t talk back, Ushijima learned as a toddler. He’d babble to them in nonsensical phrases as his mother worked in the garden, and they’d only sway in the wind and listen, waxy under his chubby fingers.

A volleyball doesn’t talk back, either, not even through its bounces and echoes on hands and hard surfaces. It doesn’t listen as easily as plants, but can be herded and shaped like putty into a winning thing if you touch it right. This, Ushijima learned at his father’s hand and carried with him through childhood and adolescence.

The joy and puzzlement of you is that you do both. You listen so intently and openly with your steady eyes and soft body as the words pour out of him. And then, you reply. With your clear voice and new perspective, you offer something new. You offer companionship.

It was the second week of spring semester that you wandered into the greenhouse, eyes lit by the sun and sketchbook under one arm. Ushijima was repotting a large fern, dirt up to his elbows as he kneeled on the floor. He barely gave you a second glance, preoccupied with nestling the plant’s root system comfortably.

You settled a short distance away, crossing your legs to sit on the tile floor in front of an orange tree to sketch its still-closed flower buds with charcoal pencils. He kept working as you did, the sun sliding across glass, shadows shifting into the early evening of winter. When the sun was threatening to set over the city skyline — even with the greenhouse where it sits on the roof of the biology building — he turned to tell you he was closing up, only to find you gone. In your place, sitting on the wooden table that held newly planted basil and sage, was a drawing.

It was a single branch, detailed in shades of charcoal down to the last dewdrop. At the bottom, looping handwriting scrawled, “thank you for the peace.”

That night, he tacked it up above his desk in his dorm next to the postcard from Tendō and hoped you’d come back.

And you do, a couple of days later, on a Saturday. He looks up from where he’s filling in the logbook, this time, catching your gaze and holding it for a moment before you break away to survey the room. Today, he thinks you looked breathtaking. You’re wearing a long, flowing skirt and a sweater that makes him want to feel how soft it is, and how soft you are in it, and by the time his brain catches up with his thoughts, he’s been staring too long and your eyes have wandered back to him. It’s raining, today — it never really snows in this city, he’s learned — and shadowy droplets play across your face as they drip down the greenhouse’s arched glass ceiling, highlighting the curve of your cheekbone and making your eyes glow softly.

He clears his throat and looks back to the thick spiral-bound book on the table before him. Sometimes, when he meets people for the first time, he knows he can come across as intimidating. That worked out for him in high school and on the volleyball court, but in his adulthood, it’s been more of a hindrance than a help. It makes it… difficult to make friends here, where he doesn’t already know anyone.

And the last thing he wants is to scare you away. The last thing he wants is to break the peace you’ve apparently found here.

Which is why he barely dares to breathe when he looks up to find you approaching him where he’s perched on a sturdy wooden stool.

“Hi,” you smile and lilt, and god if it isn’t the most beautiful word Ushijima’s ever heard, if it isn’t the prettiest smile he’s seen.

He doesn’t respond, doesn’t want to scare you away.

“Uhm,” you start again, when the silence makes it clear he’s waiting for you to speak, “I have an art assignment,” you start digging around in your shoulder bag as you speak, “to draw a, um, what’s it called?”

“I don’t know.”

You pause in your rifling and pin him with such a sunny smile it makes his knee start bouncing. And you laugh, too, which officially replaces your “hi” as the most beautiful sound in the world.

“Ha, you’re funny,” you resume digging, “it was um, pretty leafy and... tropical, I think? Oh! Here.” Triumphantly, you produce a wrinkled paper from your bag. It’s the first imperfect thing Ushijima’s found out about you, that you’re shit at keeping your belongings organized, and he files it away for later reference. You hold the paper in front of your face and squint slightly to read in the shifting light. “Canna indica.”

Canna indica, native to tropical climates, notable as a minor food crop for South American Native populations for thousands of years.

“And I was told that you have it, here, in the greenhouse.”

Ushijima nods and finds himself relieved that this is what you’re asking him. Plants, he can do.

“We do. Would you like me to show you?”

“Yes, please,” you also sound relieved, like he’s provided the solution to every problem you’ve ever had.

He unfolds himself from the stool, setting down his pen as he goes. You take a step back and look up at him mildly, as though you hadn’t realized quite how huge he is.

“This way,” he indicates, leading you deeper into the maze that is the biology department’s greenhouse. The winding path back to the tropical room gives him a moment to sink back into the earthy peace of being here, even if now there’s someone sharing that peace.

The temperature change from the warm main greenhouse to the balmy tropical room prompts Ushijima to shed his flannel outer layer, hanging it on the nail hammered by the door while you step in behind him.

“Whew,” you exhale, shrugging off your soft cardigan as well, “it’s hot in here.”

Ushijima hums in agreement and tries not to look too hard at the patch of skin revealed by your cropped tank top. Canna indica isn’t too far into the room, so he just gently moves past draping leaves and ceramic pots.

“Here,” he stops, holding back leaves for you. He stops breathing again when you duck under his arm and end up so close in the narrow aisle that he can smell your shampoo. The moment passes, and he can breathe again when you breeze past him and squat down to peer at the bright, waxy red leaves of your subject.

“Beautiful,” you murmur, and he silently agrees.

You’re leaning so close to the plant he’s afraid you might topple over when you make a noise of realization and sit back on your butt to rifle through your bag once again. Ushijima knows he should probably leave you to it, but he’s glad he waited just an extra minute when you pull out a pair of glasses and pop them on your face. Adorably.

“That’s better.” You’re looking back at canna indica, now, at a normal distance.

He’s figured you’ve forgotten he’s there when you start to pull out pastels from your seemingly bottomless bag, so he turns to leave you.

A soft, “hey,” calls him back to you, however, and he’s met by your face glowing eerily in the shifting rain-light. “Thank you for your help.”

“You’re welcome.”

When he locks up that afternoon, he finds another charcoal drawing waiting for him on the table near the door, this time of his favorite agapanthus africanus. No note, this time, but he attaches all the sounds he heard from you today in its place. He also finds your cardigan forgotten next to where you were sitting and carefully folds it for when you come back.

The drawing joins the orange branch on his wall-- an odd starter garden, he thinks, but all the more precious because it came from you.

The next time he sees you isn’t in the greenhouse, but instead at a cafe a couple of blocks away, two weeks later. He’s walking past, gym bag slung over his shoulder, when he hears your laugh ring out across the outdoor seating area. His eyes find you, head tipped back in sending peals of mirth into the lively spring air. It’s the first truly warm day of the season, though you and your companion are the only patrons sitting outside, and the sun catches on your glasses sat atop your head.

Your friend says something apparently hilarious, because your giggles redouble, and an honest-to-god snort pushes out of your nose. Ushijima catalogues it in his ever-growing list of sounds you make, and pauses at the crosswalk, halfway turned back to keep one eye on you and one on the light. If you were alone, he might’ve approached you and told you that he still has your sweater in the greenhouse, waiting on a shelf between succulents, but he doesn’t want to interrupt your— date?

He isn’t sure, but the person sat there with you seems like someone you might date. Clearly also an art student, judging by the carefully disheveled blue hair and combat boots. Are you the type to date someone with blue hair? Unlikely, he decides. You seem too… bright. Too floaty to be so concerned with looking like you don’t care how you look.

Ushijima’s still debating whether you find blue hair attractive when the crosswalk light begins its countdown and he starts across the street. And he almost makes it all the way across, too, when a voice calls—

“Wait! Hey!”

He turns partially because it sounds urgent enough that it might be an emergency, and his grandmother would roll in her grave if he remained a bystander to some horrific accident. But it’s you, standing up from your seat and waving him back over. He glances at the crosswalk countdown, which lights up red as it ticks from four to three, then turns and jogs back towards you, waving a hand apologetically to the cars waiting at the light. You meet him at the metal fence around the cafe seating area, and now that you’re standing, he can see you’re wearing a yellow sundress that cuts off at your calves and drapes over your hips like the fabric was spun from pure light.

“Hello.” Ushijima talks first this time because if he doesn’t refocus his brain on something else he knows he won’t be able to stop staring.

“Hi! Sorry about that, uh, and I’m sure you have places to be, but, um, did I leave my cardigan at the greenhouse? I can’t find it, and I know I have a tendency to forget things, so,” you finish with a laugh, one hand fiddling with the rings on the other.

“Yes, you did. I put it on a shelf in case you came back.”

“Oh! That’s great!” You sound relieved, and Ushijima’s suddenly very grateful he didn’t take it down to the bio department’s lost and found like they’re technically supposed to. “Is there maybe a time I can come pick it up? When you’ll be there?”

“I’ll be there all day tomorrow, opening at nine.” 

He can’t tell if he sounds a little too eager, and he’s about to soften his meaning by telling you that they’re open today, too, and anyone can hand you a sweater, but you’re already smiling big and sunny and telling him,

“I’ll see you at nine, then. Do you drink coffee?”

He doesn’t; his coaches have always told him that caffeine can only harm his athletic performance.

“Yes, I do.”

“Then I’ll see you at nine, with coffee.”

Ushijima says goodbye and turns to wait at the crosswalk again while you swirl your way back to your seat and pick up your conversation with your friend. He can feel two pairs of eyes on him as he crosses the street, red numbers blinking down from ten, and can’t help but turn to look back as he steps onto the opposite sidewalk. Where your friend tactfully looks down into their cup of tea, you catch his eye with yours and wave. He lifts his hand halfway in a goodbye before an eighteen-wheeler stops at the intersection and blocks you from him.

Ushijima’s normal work attire is typical of an average agricultural biology student accustomed to being up to their elbows in dirt every day: practical cargo shorts, dirt-stained but sturdy sneakers, a “plant dad” t-shirt (a gift from Tendō when they’d said their goodbyes and gone away to college), and a soft cotton flannel. He’s usually satisfied with this for his shift at the greenhouse, expecting to be mud-covered at least up to his wrists by the end of the day.

But today… Today, he pauses in the dorm bathroom to scrub his face raw, and he clips and shapes his nails like his mother used to do for him every Saturday. He normally only does it before tournaments, now, and it calms his nerves to feel prepared for a Big Event, even if that event is only handing you your gently pilled cashmere cardigan and receiving a coffee he won’t drink in return.

The air that morning is heady with spring, earthy and alive, reminding Ushijima of lying beneath the hedge along his mother’s garden to pass notes to the girl next door. He was seven and she was nine, so naturally she knew everything he didn’t. She knew about the planets and why worms live in dirt and how to spell the word “catastrophe,” and Ushijima would’ve bet his whole weekly allowance that she was the coolest person in the world, if he knew what betting was. (She did, and once bet him half an ice cream sandwich that he couldn’t climb the oak tree in his backyard all the way to the top. He did, and then twisted his ankle on the way down, and she brought him an ice cream sandwich every day for a week as an apology.) She was all shiny, long black hair and dark eyes and fast words, nothing like the spring blooming around him.

You, on the other hand, are exactly the spring.

He stops at his favorite pastry place on the way to work to pick up two fresh cream donuts. The line is just dwindling from the height of the morning rush, so he manages to make it to the biology building just five minutes before he normally does.

Morning sun sends rainbows through the automatic misting spray as Ushijima unlocks the greenhouse door, letting a burst of humidity out into the rest of the building. The spiral-bound log book is there on the desk, a thick parchment bookmark sticking out from where whoever closed last night marked the page. 

Ushijima places his backpack and pastry bag on the desk and reaches to hang his key on its hook just when there’s a knock on the door.

“I know I’m early,” you start, edging your way into the room with a paper coffee cup in each hand. “But I saw it was already open, so...”

Ushijima smiles despite himself. In their second year Oikawa Tooru had told him that his smiles can be unnerving, but he can’t help it right now. You look so lovely today, in jeans and a silky tank top, with a certain morning tenderness in the way you hold yourself.

“It’s okay, come in. I just need to check the temperature controls and I’ll be done opening.”

“Sounds good,” you reply, smiling back.

As he makes his way to the temp controls on the Southern wall, you perch on the wooden stool and set down the coffee.

With his back turned to you for a moment, you allow yourself to slouch, planting two hands on the table and stretching your shoulders with a sigh. It’s earlier than you normally get out of bed, let alone actually leave your apartment, and you can already feel a quiet exhaustion setting into your bones.

But this is worth it, you remind yourself. Worth it to talk to the beautiful boy with broad shoulders and gentle hands.

He’d been unexpected. That first day in the greenhouse, you’d sat down with the intention to calm down from a tedious school day and nothing more. Your hands had moved of their own volition on that second drawing of the orange branch, scribbling out a hasty message that made your cheeks burn. But he was so present that day, in the corner of your eye but staying respectfully out of your space. And you’re not blind -- you saw the muscles under his shirt as he lifted an entire small tree in its pot. You saw the startling shade of green his eyes took on in the sun. You saw it all, and it drew you back, and now you’re here.

When he joins you back at the table, leaning back against it to face you, you stick out your hand and offer your name.

He looks at it for a moment, then back at you.

“I just, uh, realized we never properly introduced ourselves,” you explain, with a hesitant smile.

He smiles again and your heart thuds, then his big hand engulfs yours and he shakes it firmly.

“Wakatoshi. It’s nice to meet you.”

You learn in the following weeks of coming to the greenhouse that Wakatoshi doesn’t like coffee. But he does like tea and donuts, so that’s what you bring him on the mornings you can find it in you to wake up before nine. You sit with him in the greenhouse, talking and listening as he records data and waters plants and sits next to you on the quilt you’ve fallen into the habit of bringing. The occasional professor or student comes through, and you get to watch Wakatoshi show off his brains when he leaves you to help them.

There are several things you learn about him over those weeks. Number one: he never minces words. Two: he prefers grapefruit chapstick over anything else. And three: he kisses like it’s his last day on Earth.

You discover number three late one night when you decide to drop by after class, shooting him a text to make sure he’s still there. Today he’s closing instead of opening, and you missed spending your morning with him.

The city lights cast a different kind of glow at this time of night. They add a distance to everything that’s palpable as you drop your bag by the door.

“Toshi, are you here-- oh, hi.” You turn the corner to find him closing the door to the supply closet.

His cheekbones are highlighted briefly by a billboard outside flashing red.

“You should get some sleep.”

“I’m not tired. And I wanted to see you.”

“You wanted to see me?”

He takes a step towards you and you have to tilt your head back slightly to keep your eyes on his. They’re leaf green and unreadable.

“Yeah, uh,” you wet your lips with your tongue, “is that okay?”

“Yes.” He pauses for a long time, then, watching you carefully in the neon glow of the exit sign. His hand shakes as it reaches up to push your glasses from your face onto your head.

Without them, he looks fuzzy and soft around the edges.

He says, “Can I kiss you?” and it feels like there’s a bird trapped in your ribcage.

“Yes. Kiss me.”

Wakatoshi kisses nothing like you expected, all tongues and teeth and heavy fingers in the dip of your waist. He growls when you gasp and mewl against him, sucking on your lower lip as your hands find purchase in his shirt. He kisses you so absolutely breathless that you think you might pass out. Your knees buckle and you pull away, gasping with your eyes closed for a moment until you come back to yourself.

“Are you alright, little one?”

The endearment makes your cheeks flush with heat and your eyes snap open.

“Yes, I’m alright. Please do it again.”

And so he does it again, and again, and again until you find yourself bringing him home with you on the last bus that goes towards your neighborhood. He’s standing in the aisle, one hand wrapped around a pole and the other wound around you, who’s standing in front of him. He keeps you steady as the bus rounds a corner.

That night, you bring the peace of the greenhouse into your home, and the only thing you find yourself wishing for is that it never leaves.

[dearestones]

Czechia, Ukraine, and Vietnam with Immortal! Child! Reader Headcanons

Warnings: Fluff.

Anonymous Request: Hetalia request:

Is it okay to do more Immortal!child!reader! Headcannons?

But this time is one of the female nations: Ukraine, Vietnam and Czechia I pick these randomly because I thought it would be interesting.

I'm sorry if I'm requedting too much Immortal reader. Have a nice day.

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Czech Republic

Czechia is proud of her many achievements in life. She’s lived through living under other empires as their insubordinate, has made herself the boss of her own country, and is a proud home to fourteen of the UNESCO World Heritage Sites. Because of those achievements, she’ll automatically assume that she’ll be a wonderful guardian to the reader.

Her arrogance isn’t wholly unwarranted. Even though she didn’t exactly raise her brother, Slovakia, she did have a hand in making sure that he survived into the modern day. While she is more than competent, she may either overestimate her ability to take care of an immortal child or overcompensate if she ever suspects she’s not doing the most that she can do.

Because of her relationship with Slovakia, she can be a bit… hot and cold with her relationship with the reader. There may be times when she may deny that she truly cares for the reader, but her actions speak otherwise. She can also be a bit rude and blunt, but if the reader listens closely, they’ll hear how much she cares.

Czechia, while she may be stubborn, can be convinced to apologize if the reader feels that her behavior is unjustified or if her blunt personality needs to be curbed. She’ll immediately feel guilty and try to make amends. The way she does this is through acts of service: she’ll make the reader’s favorite foods, give them money to buy themselves little toys and trinkets, and give them little candies and snacks for them to enjoy. Rest assured, though, if the reader requests it, she will apologize.

Czechia is fond of giving the reader piggyback rides, especially when they aren’t expecting it. When she and Slovakia were younger Nations, they would take turns carrying each other until they were too old to do that anymore. In a way, it’s Czechia’s ode to her former childhood and continued brotherhood with Slovakia.

Despite her somewhat haughty personality, Czechia can be a bit of a troublemaker and likes to play pranks on people. Once she becomes more comfortable with taking care of the reader, she may surprise or prank them whenever the urge arises. Don’t worry, she won’t be as ruthless with her tactless pranks she plays on Nations she doesn’t like. Her pranks will be fairly tame and are usually guaranteed to make the reader laugh.

While not as accomplished or as talented like Kugelmugel or Veneziano Italia, Czechia definitely has an affinity for the arts. She likes to doodle little drawings here and there. At first, she’ll keep her hobby a secret, but eventually, she’ll open up and start giving them to the reader like presents for special occasions or prizes for behaving well.

Czechia doesn’t say “I love you” all that often. As was mentioned before, she prefers acts of service, but she also doesn’t mind spending a lot of time with the reader. She’s abrasive and cold at times, yes, but when the reader reads between the lines and actually listens to what Czechia is saying, they’ll find that she loves deeply. Her “I love yous” are present when she takes the reader out to hike in her national forests, when she lets them peruse her battered sketchbooks. The affections whispered can be heard when Czechia berates the reader for doing wrong or when she gently chides them to eat more food so they can grow up to be big and strong. But, sometimes, when Czechia is feeling particularly brave and carefree, when the timing is just right, she’ll scoop the reader into her arms and tickle their ears with a muttered, but affectionate “I love you.”

Ukraine

A human child who is actually immortal? Color Ukraine very surprised and concerned. Once she gets past those initial emotions, she immediately becomes consumed by the very spirit that has devoured the souls of other motherly figures, both past and present. That is, to say, she immediately becomes enamored with the reader and immediately scoops them up and starts swaying with them in her arms. (She does not care if the reader is bigger or heavier than her).

Effectively, the reader is hers unless they say otherwise.

Ukraine is a wonderful Nation. She is sensitive and kind: a mother to all and someone who cannot take it if someone is treated badly. Not only will the reader feel warm and safe under their care, Ukraine will make sure that her siblings, Belarus and Russia will also claim the reader as their own. Ukraine is a superb mother by herself, but it doesn’t hurt to have her siblings as backup guardians in case anything happens.

The reader will be able to recite all of the stories Ukraine will tell about Belarus and Russia. Even when it seems like Ukraine has a new story to tell, the reader will immediately pick up on the exact content of the story, the century it took place in, and what her siblings were wearing. Ukraine can’t help it! She loves all of the children under her care and she will regale others with all of her beloved memories if she has to!

The reader may have to brave a lot of Ukraine’s tears and tenderhearted nature. She may have raised both Belarus and Russia when they were younger, but they were all Nations. The reader is human. There may be times when Ukraine may be distraught or completely blindsided by politics and social unrest in her country. As a result, she may not be as present as she would usually be or she might be more emotional than usual. She’ll try to make it up to the reader at a later date, but the point still stands: there may be the times when the reader may have to be Ukraine’s rock during hard times.

While the above point may be viewed in a negative light, she is still very much warm and nurturing. She’ll knit the reader a variety of scarves and sweaters, all of them in traditional patterns or she might even entertain utilizing designs from modern day aesthetics.

Ukraine also has a wonderful singing voice. She’ll be sure to always sing the reader to sleep every night. It doesn’t matter if she and the reader had a fight, if she isn’t feeling well, or if there’s a world meeting that needs tending to. She will find a way to make sure that the reader knows that she loves them and that she will always be devoted to them. Her lullabies range from modern day pop songs to church hymns no longer sung, and on the spot ditties that she made up long ago to dry the tears on her siblings’ faces.

When Ukraine tells the reader she loves them, it’s always done with a slight blush on her face and her eyes turned just a hair away from the reader’s eyes. She’s not ashamed that she loves them, far from it! She’s just overwhelmed with the feeling that comes with proclaiming her love that she can’t fully understand it or confront it, so she makes up for it by saying it clearly, but softly: it’s only for the reader to hear. Sometimes, when the reader is sleeping after her lullaby, she’ll sing it to them and brush their hair away from their face before she herself goes to bed.

Vietnam

Vietnam is a shy and reserved person, not prone to being overly boisterous and loud like certain other Nations. When she first meets the reader, she’s immediately nervous and wants to know how the reader has survived for so long without a guardian. When it becomes obvious that the reader has no one else, she will immediately bring them into her home.

She’s quietly confident in her abilities to be a maternal figure for the reader. Although not as outspoken or as overbearing as the rest of her Asian peers, like China, her devotion and loyalty to the reader is palpable. While most other parents would loudly declare how much they love their children and shower them with loud displays of public affection, she prefers smaller gestures like holding the reader by the hand or gently patting them on the head.

She instills in the reader many virtues that she herself has valued over the centuries. Respect for elders, love for the family and community, honor, respect, and education. Whenever Vietnam gets invited to world meetings or gatherings among the Asian community (mostly ASEAN), she usually sets aside some time to tell the reader to be good and to behave. Although it may seem annoying to some, Vietnam truly means well and knows that because of the age of most of her peers, disrespect would be deemed highly offensive.

Furthermore, Vietnam hopes that the reader will take to their education and studies with zeal. Education is highly regarded in her culture because it is a stepping stone to a better future, which is something that she hopes she can provide for the reader. If the reader has any problems with their studies, Vietnam is more than willing to help them.

Because Vietnam is so close to the rest of the members of the ASEAN community, she’ll take the reader to meetings. Vietnam will of course try to supervise how the rest of the members treat the reader… and to make sure that the reader doesn't pick up some of the more concerning habits from her coworkers. (And yes, that includes trying to make sure that the Philippines doesn’t spend ninety percent of the meeting taking selfies and pictures with the reader for his social media).

Furthermore, Vietnam loves to nurture the reader to their full potential. Although she is soft spoken, she will become very vocal when it comes to the reader’s talents and interests. Children deserve the world and more and the reader is no exception. Even if the reader has a passing interest in something, Vietnam will be right there with them cheering them on.

While Vietnam does not consider herself photogenic and does not personally like getting her picture taken, she does like taking photos and videos of the reader. Just small things, like if the reader received a good grade in school, small little skits, cute dances, etc. With the reader’s permission, Vietnam will send these cute memories to close friends.

Saying “I love you” comes really easily to Vietnam. When you’re an immortal and there are very few of you around, it’s wise to keep and maintain social connections closest to you. She won’t say it all the time, but she’ll say it often enough that the reader is never in doubt about Vietnam’s adoration for the reader. Her “I love yous” are soft spoken and warm, always accompanied with a loose and sunny smile and a gentle pat on the cheek.

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If you want to donate a Ko-Fi, feel free https://ko-fi.com/devintrinidad.

HETALIA AXIS POWERS/WORLD SERIES MASTERLIST

[rainieclown]

DEADLY OBSESSION

michael myers x reader - chapter one: new neighbours

you've been in the haddonfield memorial hospital for what felt like forever with ptsd from a robbery gone wrong when a new patient gets thrown in next to you. he's quiet, perfect company if it weren't for the high security around him.

tags: medication, hospital settings, this is before michael gets out of the hospital, orphan! reader btw, it's spoken about more in detail in the fic, michael being a mute for a while, he does speak in this tho, smut, first times, michael being inexperienced, creampie, biting/marking, big dick michael energy, hymen ripping btw

warnings: ptsd themes, therapy, mentions of murder and depression, eventual smut, loss of virginity, mild blood, slight breeding kink on michael's end

a quick note!

if anything related to the ptsd the reader experiences is incorrect/wrong please let me know so i can correct it and learn! i am researching this so i can to write it with the accuracy it deserves<3

three sharp knocks wake you from your nightmare, you sigh at the sight of the ceiling of your hospital room. bland, the room is so incredibly bland. "y/n, medication time!" the nurse that takes main care for you chirps happily through the door, and you let out a wheeze as you sit up and pull on a shirt. "coming." you say, voice monotone and small. opening the door, you see the nurse with a tray, but what does capture your eye is the guards standing by a door nearby. "miss burnham, what's going on there?" you quirk a brow, taking your sertraline from miss burnham as well as the glass of water. "oh it's just a new patient, don't worry." the nurse brushes your question off with a kind smile as she takes the now empty glass back. "come on, breakfast then art therapy!" she beams, gesturing for you to follow her. you glance at the door again, before leaving with miss burnham.

breakfast is bland too, no sugar in the porridge, no fruit, no juice. it's so distastefully bland that you want to push it away but you don't want to get told off for not eating by mrs finch who was the more strict nurse that worked on supervision in the more social places, most of the time anyway. miss burnham sits across from you, reading over your schedule from her clipboard. "so, after art therapy is your free period, what do you want to do then?" she asks, looking up at you. "can we watch a movie with the others?" you ask softly, and miss burnham's eyes brighten. "you want to socialise today?" she beams and you sigh, taking a sip of water. "sure." you say softly, glancing around the cafeteria. "that's amazing, that will make outstanding progress!" she smiles, resting her cold hand on yours but pulls away when you flinch. "sorry, i forget." she says softly, but you sigh. "it's alright." you say, spotting a scruffy teen who looked to be the same age as you being directed to an empty table.

miss burnham hums and turns to see what you're looking at. "oh, that's mr myers, he's your new neighbour." she says when she turns back to you. "he looks interesting." you say, observing the cuffs on his wrist. myers plops down at the table, ignoring the bowl they put in front of him. "hmm, stay away from him. he seems to be under high security." miss burnham says, turning back to look at myers. the boy's eyes flicker to yours and your breath hitches, a sense of mild panic rising in your throat. "if you're done, we can go to the yellow room to do some painting with doctor piers." burnham says softly, pulling your attention back to her. "sure.." you mumble, and follow her out the door, past myers who watches you the whole way.

doctor piers is a happy man who greets you loudly. you don't like his suffocating energy, so miss burnham sits you down in your quiet corner and gives you your sketchbook. you sit quietly and draw things from your childhood, things that make you happy, all while miss burnham actually colours in a colouring page with the pencils you use. you felt peaceful with her by your side, she was like your big sister considering she was close to your age. "ooh, i like him." miss burnham smiles, tapping her nail next to the rough sketch of snufkin from the moomins. "thanks..." you reply quietly, letting the nurse push the pencils to you so you can colour him in.

for once, you don't feel alone... don't feel isolated with your thoughts and bad memories. miss burnham is your safe place, your new family. "so, y/n. are you interested in anyone in particular that you want to befriend?" miss burnham asks, the scratching of her pencil on paper stopping as she leans forward as if the two of you were gossiping about crushes. "not really... just think it's good to try and ease myself back into being around people other than you." you shrug, putting the green pencil down to pick up a yellow one. "that's still good. do you want to try and finish the drawing of him." she asks, flipping the page carefully to the recreation of that fateful night. your breath hitches as you stare at the charcoal drawing of the man standing over your mother. "what else do you remember, if there's anything else?" burnham asks, watching you carefully.

it comes back in waves, it was supposed to be a robbery, your family was in the wrong place at the wrong time, the blood spatter, the ornament that was used as a weapon dripping with the red substance. tears fill your eyes as you let out a shuddery breath. "no." you say firmly, wanting to push the book away. "are you sure, you haven't drawn any facial features for him.. it will help the investigation a lot." your nurse reminds you, and your hand tightens on the pencil. "i don't want to!" you snap, getting up abruptly, chair screeching back. "okay, okay. deep breaths." burnham stands too, fighting the urge to gently rub your arm soothingly. "i don't want to think about it." you hiss, storming off. nurse burnham calls after you, and doctor piers looks up to see you making a run for it. "y/n, wait!" he tries, but you swerve him and run out the door.

nurse burnham can't keep up in her high heels, and you outrun her easily, making your way to your room after losing her. you're alone again, and you catch sight of myers, sat in his room just as alone as you are. the guard is talking to doctor loomis, a man who gives you the creeps. seeing an opportunity to get past, you slip into your room quickly, once again isolating yourself. in his own room, michael had spotted you through the glass on his door, and he walks up, peering into your room as best he can. "hey! back up, myers." the guard bangs his door, now without loomis's presence, but michael doesn't move. he's unfazed by the guard's aggressive nature. the noise spooked you, you looked like a deer in headlights as you stare back at him.

you seem... disturbed by something, and that upsets michael. the feeling in his chest, to grab you and hide you from the world grows at the look in your eye. michael's hand finds the door, and he yoinks it open once the guard unlocked it in an attempt to push him back into his cell. "hey! what're you-?" he cuts the guard off, knocking the man out easily. his body hits the floor as michael opens your door easily. you gasp, back hitting the corner of your wall as you tried to make yourself as small as possible. "please, don't hurt me! i didn't do anything!" you yell, and michael shakes his head as he closes your door. "leave me alone." you repeat the three words like a prayer, voice quieter as your hands grip your hair with stress. "i'm not going to hurt you." michael rasps painfully, shocked at how deep his voice had gotten in comparison to the last time he spoke.

his words don't seem to get through to you, and he grows mildly annoyed. eventually, michael sits next to you and pulls you into a tight hug, hoping it would help as he had no idea what to do. you yelp in surprise, breathing slowing with confusion as you look up at the brunette with furrowed brows. "i-.. what..?" you stumble for words, but michael doesn't say anything, his empty eyes observing you. "thank you..." you mumble, once you calm down, and michael nods. "what's your name..?" you ask quietly, and michael continues to stare before answering.

"michael." he rasps, pointing at himself. "nice to meet you, michael. i'm y/n." you reply, eyes averting from his anxiously. michael sits with you as you start thinking. more intrusive thoughts break in, and you can't help the small whimper that escapes you as you rub your forehead. michael tilts his head, observing you. "sorry... it's just..." you sigh trying to find an explanation that didn't include what you thought of. "do you ever get intrusive thoughts?" you ask, finally looking at michael. the other teen nods, and you deflate with relief, he'd understand you. "they suck, don't they?" you chuckle half-heartedly, and michael shrugs. "oh, do they not bother you as much?"

he doesn't reply, and you nod slightly. "want me to show you around? i need to take my mind of things." you suggest, getting up and looking at the boy on your floor. michael seems to think for a moment before nodding and following you. you step over the guard carefully, and gesture for michael to follow you. the click-clacking of heels makes you grab the other teen's hand as you pull him around a corner. "shh! they'll be looking for me." you can't help but smile at the make-shift game of cat and mouse. it's been a while since you got to play games. michael blinks at you, letting you lead him around. "this is the rec room, it's the best room here. if you have a free period this is the best place to go. they let you watch anything they have." you smile, creaking the door open carefully.

doctor addison spots you and rushes over. "nurse burnham is looking for you." he whisper yells and you nod. "i'm showing the new guy around so shh!" you say, putting a finger up to your mouth. "it's good to see you getting out of your comfort zone. if i see her i'll tell her you're helping doctor loomis." he winks, and you smile slightly. "thanks addison." you say, pulling michael away from the room. "who's that?" michael's deep voice makes you jump. "oh, doctor addison? he's so cool, he'll give you snacks for after hours." you smile up at him, and michael notes the personality of the doctor. easy target to begin with. "you've seen the cafeteria so let's go to the gardens next." you say, peering around a corner carefully before ducking back, your back bumping into michael's chest. "my nurse is coming, quick, we can hide in here!" you whisper yell, pulling michael into doctor addison's office.

you close the door carefully, and michael observes the room. the decor is very vintage yet comfy, it suits the doctor quite well. you press your ear to the door carefully, listening as miss burnham speaks to doctor addison. you gasp as michael pulls you from the door, hand grasping your wrist. "are you alright?" you ask carefully, looking up at the brunette who didn't seem bothered. he shrugs, simply holding you near to him. your presence stirred something in him, and he didn't know if he should kill you or hold you closer. michael spots a candle stick, and his eyes dart from it to you.

michael lets out a silent breath as he decides on the latter, tugging you into his chest. your breath hitches as you hit his large frame, and your eyes come back to him. craning his head down, michael buries his face into the crook of your neck. you make a small noise, unsure of what to do as he takes in your scent. "uh... michael?" you furrow your brows, hands raised awkwardly as you didn't know where to put them. "shh." he hushes you, hands finding your hips. "what are you-?" your question is cut off by his lips grazing your neck, and it all clicks into place.

your body froze up, michael made a silent note of this. "i- uh.." you stammer as he continues to kiss your neck. "fuck, michael. we shouldn't do this." you say softly, glancing to the door. michael hushes you as his teeth nip your skin, he was testing the waters with you. your knees felt weak as your eyes fluttered shut. it had been so long since you had got to do anything like this, since you got to feel like a teenager. your hand find's michael's fluffy hair as you move his head closer to you.

taking the small success, michael sinks his teeth into your neck fully. the feelings in his chest explode as he finally marks you, suckling the dark bruise onto your skin. you whimper at the feeling, your other hand resting on his chest. eventually, his lips move again, and they find your jaw. you hum, letting him press closer to you as his lips kiss up your your own. when your lips meet, michael's inexperience really shows, he doesn't really know what to do so you take the lead.

eventually, his lips copy your movement as his hands tighten on your hips. you hum into his mouth, fingers gently stroking his scalp as you tilt your head to deepen the kiss. it felt right, and you didn't know why. eventually, when michael pulls away, you gaze into his eyes and notice the scar over his right one. "oh, what happened?" you ask, fingertips gently grazing over the scar on his eyes. upon closer look, his iris was paler than the other, and you guessed his vision was poor from the one eye. you're not able to get a closer look as michael kisses you again. you hands cup his face as you melt into him, lips moving against his fluently. michael moves with you, and you gasp as your lower back hits the desk in the room. the other teen's strong hands lift you and plop you down so you're sitting on the hard wood of the table.

your arms wrap around michael's neck to kiss him again, and he's happy that you're slowly beginning to show interest in him. you make a small noise as michael pulls your legs around his waist, standing between them with his pelvis pressing against yours. teasingly, you shuffle your hips against him as you kiss him again. michael growls softly, grinding into you as he grasps your thighs roughly to stop your movements. "i've never done this before." you admit, keeping him close as he hums. "me neither." he shrugs, kissing you again. you feel eased by michael's lack of experience, it felt like the two of you were experimenting together and that comforts you.

eventually, michael's fingers find the waistband of your pants and you whimper as he tugs them down easily. "no underwear?" he chuckles softly, and your cheeks heat up. "some of us don't have that luxury." you mumble, averting his gaze. "it's fine." he shrugs, fingers brushing over your slit. you gasp at the feeling of him spreading you open, and can't help but move your hips against his digits. his middle finger teases your wet hole, and you whine when he collects some of it to bring into his mouth. you feel slightly embarrassed as he suckles your pleasure off his finger with no shame before moving his hand back down to rub his fingers over your slit again.

your smaller hand finds his, and you guide his fingers to your clit with a small moan. catching your meaning, michael's rough fingers start rubbing small circles over your bud. you gasp, back arching into him as his fingertips stimulate you. "fuck, michael!" you whimper, hands grasping his shirt to pull him closer. he hums at your words, moving so his thumb abused your clit whilst his fingers slowly pushed your hole open. you whine as his fingers press into you, your hymen stretching uncomfortably. "michael, please- i need you." you whimper, letting him lay you back on the desk. removing his hand from you, he pulls down his own pants, erection springing free.

you freeze slightly at his size, unsure if he'll fit. michael notes your uneasiness as rubs your outer thighs softly. you smile nervously as his tip rubs against your cunt, your hands grasping his anxiously as he slowly pushes into you. you wail as his cock rips your hymen, and michael smiles as your blood slowly smears his cock. "it hurts!" you whimper, grabbing his arms tightly with discomfort. michael shushes you, and gives you small kisses until you stop whining. once you've settled around the intrusion and your pussy adjusts to his dick, you give him the nod to say that you're ready. michael slowly pushes in so that he's fully sheathed before pulling out half way. you whimper at the feeling, pleasure slowly overtaking the dull pain you still felt.

eventually, michael finds a medium pace in you, smiling as his cock bobs through the skin of your stomach. you whimper, holding michael's arms even tighter as he fucks into you. "oh fuck..!" you yelp as his tip protrudes from your abdomen. "sh." he replies quickly as your back arches off the table. "fuck, michael- oh!" you press your hand over your mouth to muffle your moans as he speeds up. eventually, his hand moves and starts rubbing fast circles on your clit. you gasp and keen loudly behind your palm as your thighs tremble around his hips. michael grips the flesh of your outer thighs tightly as he adjusts your legs towards you at an awkward angle. despite the weird position, you moan loudly as his cock pushes deeper into you, his tip kissing your womb.

michael hums at the feeling as his hand gets tired of stimulating you, so as a substitute, he brings his hand down onto your swollen bud harshly. you wail at the sting of his slap, pleasure rolling through your body. taking that as a good sign, michael waits before slapping your clit again harder. unexpectedly, you cum on his cock as you shudder and tremble under him. your cunt squeezes michael's cock tightly, preventing him from moving. the way your gummy walls grip him as you twitch around him is too much, so michael pushes into your womb so his cum filled you up.

you gasp at the feeling of his hot seed spilling into you, and michael seems to be loving it because when you come down from your high and loosen around him slightly, he's fucking his cum into you. you can't help but let out a small noise with every thrust, whimpering when michael stops, satisfied with how deep his cum had gone. your womb drinks up his seed nicely as you let michael grab your hands to pull you up into a sitting position. slumping against him, you nuzzle into his chest, your eyes becoming droopy with exhaustion. he grins at your sated state, pulling your pants up for you. once he is dressed as well, he picks you up carefully to bring you back to your room to rest.

michael ignores the nurses who try to stop him, marching past them as he carries your sleepy form to his room instead. he didn't know much, but he did know that only armed guards as well as doctor loomis were only allowed in his room for safety reasons and it was his best bet of keeping you with him. carefully opening his door, he closes it behind him with his foot and watches as the nurses stand anxiously peering through the window. he puts you down carefully on his bed, letting you settle as he sits down. his eyes find the nurses, one of them had left, probably to get security or doctor loomis. rolling his eyes, michael moves his attention back to you. you had already dozed off, and michael looks down to your stomach. the idea of you being swollen with his child excites him, a true marking. however, his hatred for children conflicts that, and he feels slightly frustrated.

three sharp knocks on the door can be heard, and michael lazily looks back over. doctor loomis is standing there, and he looks furious, but michael will stand his ground for you.

[starlessea]

Eye For Detail (Daryl Dixon/Reader)​

Sequel to Sketchbook Confessions

Summary: You try to sketch Daryl in return. Except, you draw his smile a little crooked, and the eyes are wonky... And Daryl completely loves it.

Words: 2490

Warnings: Language.

The courtyard was still and quiet, free from the dinner-time rowdiness going on behind prison walls. Well, it was almost quiet; Daryl's scribbling over paper sounded out faintly beside you, as you watched him work. At first, he'd been opposed to the idea of company, but after a while it has become almost like a weekly tradition - in which you'd both bask in the comfortable silence together. You'd even started to bring your own notepad, in your attempts to learn how to sketch from the man.

At first, your drawings were anything but good. Sometimes, even you couldn't tell whether you'd drawn a landscape or a strange, abstract fruit bowl. Yet, Daryl was a good teacher. Where he lacked patience normally, it seemed like he had ample to spare with you. He'd shown you how to use the different charcoals, and had even come back with more art supplies after his latest run.

It was coming up to dusk, and the sky was a brilliant mix of blue and grey hues. There were clouds gathering overhead, too, and you wondered whether there was a storm brewing behind them. Your notepad remained closed over your lap, since you still hadn't gathered the confidence to open it yet. Daryl hadn't noticed, however - too absorbed in his own work to pick up on the way you tentatively thumbed over the spine of your book.

"I tried to draw a person the other day," you finally admitted, "I don't know how you do it."

Daryl stopped what he was doing, rubbing circular motions over the paper to try and blend out his charcoal lines. He looked over at you, and you laughed gently at the black fingerprints littering his cheeks.

"Who was it?" he mumbled, eyeing you as you gathered your sleeve over your hand.

You shuffled over to the man slightly, and used the material to wipe away the charcoal stains over his skin, feeling him squirm slightly beneath your touch as you did so.

"It was you," you told him, and finally he kept still.

His stare bore into you, and suddenly it felt as though you'd been set on fire. You regretted the words as they came out of your mouth, and edged away from Daryl as soon as you'd finished cleaning him up.

You cleared your throat, trying to think of an excuse you knew he wouldn't believe. You sighed, knowing it was no use.

"Well, it was a poor attempt at Daryl," you confessed, glancing down at your sketchbook sheepishly. "Maybe a Darren at best."

You'd expected him to laugh at your joke, but he didn't. Instead, he seemed intrigued. He closed his own notepad, and you worried about whether the charcoal would smudge.

"Show me." Daryl said softly, his eyes flickering over to your lap.

You bit your lip, wiping off the cover of your sketchbook before opening it.

"Don't laugh," you warned him, shaking your head slightly.

You didn't think that he would, but you suddenly felt self-conscious. You'd drawn the portrait in your cell a few nights ago when you couldn't sleep - with the page illuminated by soft lamp-light. You remembered the feeling of the linen sheets beneath you as you sprawled out over your mattress, trying your best to shade the stubborn parts. You had tried - really you had. Except, you'd discovered that art came more naturally to some than others.

"Your eyes are crooked, and I drew your nose too big." you grimaced, settling your gaze over the portrait as you inspected its faults. "I'm sorry."

In natural lighting, it looked a lot worse than you had remembered. You tried to snap the book closed, but Daryl's palm prevented you from doing so. He was silent, and you watched his eyes slowly trail over the paper, taking in all of the details.

"Fine, you can laugh," you exclaimed, overwhelmed by his lack of response. "Okay, just say something-"

"Can I keep this?" Daryl interrupted, glancing up to meet your eyes.

You opened your mouth to speak, but no sound came out. It took a few seconds to comprehend his words, before you finally shook your head a little too quickly.

"No!" you cried, trying to snatch the book from his grasp. "I can draw you a better one."

Daryl didn't give up his grip, and only shook his head back at you in return.

"Nah, I wan' this one."

Any argument you had bubbling up was quickly quelled when you caught sight of his expression. He seemed deadly serious, and you felt your own fingers loosen over the sketchpad as a result. The man slipped it away from you, and brought the book onto his own lap, continuing to look over it.

"But it's bad," you retorted, weakly.

You knew you had lost at this point. You had learned your stubbornness from Daryl himself, after all. The man never was one to know when to back down.

The courtyard seemed a lot darker than it had only a few minutes ago. The clouds had gathered to be more dense and thick, and blocked out the remaining light left over from the setting sun. It would be hard to keep drawing like this, you thought - yet, Daryl seemed more preoccupied now.

"E'eryone gotta start somewhere" he told you, "an' I don' want ya to throw it out."

You watched as he trailed his charcoal-stained, calloused fingers along the page - careful not to leave any marks over the pristine, white paper. Even your sketchbooks looked worlds apart from one another. Yours was neat, each drawing labelled, and your lines clean; Daryl's was a collection of blackened fingerprints alongside scrawled handwriting, and the occasional crumpled page.

"Shoulda seen my first drawings," Daryl went on, looking out towards the field, and at the forest behind it. "Merle found one when I was a kid an' told me it was a shit donkey."

You cocked your head to the side, listening to him.

"Was meant to be superman," he explained, with an expression far too serious for his words.

You snorted, and the man whipped his head over to scowl at you.

"I'm sorry-" you choked out, not missing the way his lips quivered as they fought back a smile of his own. "I must have swallowed a bug."

Not long after that, the feeling in your gut turned out to be right. The storm clouds had finished gathering, and soon the first droplet of rain landed over your paper - smudging the line you'd just drawn. You glanced over at Daryl, but before he'd even had time to reply, the downpour started. It went from a single raindrop to a raging storm in a matter of seconds, leaving you both scrambling to collect the strewn sheets of paper and charcoal pieces trembling over the ground. With your supplies bundled up in your arms, the two of you ran towards the cellblock - yelling through the sounds of the rain along the way.

Once you had reached Daryl's cell, you were soaked through. The man had dragged you there since it was closer, but it hardly made a difference. Your shirt was stuck to your skin, and you were left clutching soggy handfuls of paper - bleeding ink over Daryl's stone floor. He helped you set down the supplies onto his desk, gathering up whatever was salvageable, and throwing the rest away. Luckily, most of the pastels and charcoals had been kept safe, but a lot of loose sheets had been sacrificed to the greater good in the process.

You laughed, taking in the sight of the man. His hair stuck damply to his forehead, and you watched as stray droplets ran over his cheeks. He quickly glanced around the room and retrieved one of his shirts, before offering it to you. You took it from him and smiled, waiting for Daryl to turn his back on you before starting to change.

"Looks like the weather had other plans," you noted, pulling the dry shirt over your head. "At least it washed away that god awful drawing I did of you."

You untucked your hair from the collar, and smoothed out the material over your body. Behind you, you heard the sound of a zip, and peered over your shoulder to see Daryl taking off his own leather jacket. As he did so, you noticed that he'd been concealing something beneath it, and squinted to try and make out what it was.

"Looks jus' fine to me," the man mumbled, holding up the dry piece of paper for you to see.

You scoffed; he'd stuffed your drawing there to keep it safe. You couldn't prevent the smile spreading over your face as you looked at him in disbelief. He gave you a teasing smirk back, before setting the picture carefully onto his desk with the others.

"Y'know," Daryl said quietly, "s'a lot easier to draw from real life."

You glanced over at your drawing, knowing what he was getting at. You were acutely aware of its flaws, but you just didn't have the experience to know how to fix them yet.

"I know what you look like," you quipped back.

It was the truth. Perhaps you even knew a little too well.

"Mhm," he hummed back, before walking over to where you were standing.

You could tell from the tone of his voice that he didn't entirely believe you. One of the first things he'd taught you was that there could never truly be a good enough replacement for the real thing. Though, you had to disagree. You felt like you knew exactly how Daryl Dixon looked - you just couldn't translate it to paper.

The man stopped directly in front of you, so close that you could see his chest rising and falling. He lifted one hand slowly, tentatively even, so that you didn't get scared by his actions. Then, he hovered his palm gently over your eyelids, flicking them shut so that your world went dark.

"What colour are m'eyes?" he asked.

His hand was cold over your face, from where the rain had soaked his skin. You knew that he was trying to teach you a lesson, but you thought that perhaps you'd use the opportunity to teach him one back.

"Blue," you answered, without hesitation.

You desperately wanted to see the man's expression, but all you could do was imagine it.

"An' what-" Daryl continued, but you cut him off.

"A greyish blue," you went on, not entirely satisfied with your answer. "Like the colour of the sky before a storm."

Daryl removed his hand from over your eyes, but you kept them shut. Your fingertips brushed over the hem of his shirt that you were wearing, and you felt like you could picture the way it looked in your mind just from the texture of the material.

"Your hair is brown. The same shade as that desk near your bed," you told him, pointing in the direction you remembered it to be. "And it falls just above your neck, and is slightly curly at the ends." You laughed, considering your next words. "Especially just after you wash it."

Daryl remained silent, and you tried to picture the type of look he had in his eyes. You thought that perhaps you should stop, that you'd made your point clear - but you were in too deep to turn back now.

"And you have two moles," you said quietly - and wondered whether he had heard your voice tremble, too.

You reached out your hand slowly, trying to find the other man. Your palm made contact with his chest, and you let your fingertips trail up until you reached his neck, and then his face.

"One by your nose," you told him, resting your palm over his cheek, "and the other near your lip."

You tried to find it, but your thumb accidentally brushed over his lip, instead. Your heart jumped in your chest, and your eyes flickered open unintentionally.

"I'm sorry-" you blurted out, but the words tapered off as you noticed Daryl's stare.

The man stood perfectly still in front of you, letting your hand rest over his cold, damp skin. You quickly pulled away, glancing off to the side nervously. Though, the both of you knew that you'd gone too far to make any poor excuses now. You'd passed a boundary, but you couldn't say that you wanted to take a step back, either.

"Tha's one eye for detail ya got," Daryl said, after a few seconds had gone by.

You shook your head. "Only when it comes to you," you admitted.

Daryl looked off to the side, and then back, but you continued before he had the chance to interrupt.

"I know I'm not the best artist, but I wanted to show you how you look through my eyes, too."

Daryl raised his hand again, but this time it wasn't to block out your sight. Instead, he just rested his palm softly over your cheek - and despite how cold it was, you leant into his touch.

"Ya jus' did," he said, and gave you a small smile.

You could still hear the storm outside, as the occasional breeze whistled its way past the cracks of the cell block, or made the tree branches batter up against the windows. Sometimes, the draft even made those loose sheets flutter over the desk, in a kind of muffled, paper applause.

"Maybe I should just swap out pencils for words," you told the man. "They seem to do the job better."

He nodded in agreement, letting his hand drop back down to his side.

"Hey, Daryl?" you asked, but you already had his full attention.

"Mhm."

You decided to put your words into practice straight away, so that you wouldn't forget exactly how you felt in this moment.

"You mean a lot to me," you admitted, "in a way I don't think I'd ever be able to describe."

Daryl's eyes widened slightly, and you wished to have the talent to capture that expression with pencil and charcoal one day.

"But I still wanted to try," you finished, and waited for his response.

Except, Daryl wasn't a man of words - and he reminded you of that as he reached for his sketchbook. His fingers were still damp, and you watched as they left watery prints over the pages as he flicked through them. He finally stopped once he reached the last one, showing you his latest sketch.

It was stained with raindrops that hadn't dried yet, from where the storm had first broken out and Daryl hadn't reacted quick enough. Yet, even though it was a little smudged and wrinkled, you could still make out that it was you - from where you had been sitting right next to him in that courtyard.

The man set the book down so that the page remained open on his desk, and picked up the other loose-sheet drawing that you'd done of him - and placed them together.

"Me too," Daryl said.

And that was all you needed to hear.

Feedback is always welcomed; I love hearing what you all think - so feel free to comment, send in an ask, or just message me if you want to chat!

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A/N AHH. I just loved this 2 part story.

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[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.

[retroellie]

(I love your work btw!!! 🥺💕) Can you make an imagine where the reader is cooking dinner for Ellie, but then Ellie starts feeling a bit needy for the reader while watching her cook, and ends up roughly fucking her on the kitchen counter, which leads to the food being burnt and they end up getting takeout instead? 😩

Summary: Cooking dinner until Ellie gets a nasty idea

A/N: I promised more farm!ellie so here ya go. Thank you for the request love <3 Thank you for enjoying and i know you said take out but like i started writing and was like oh shit they meant modern world, so i completely forgot im sorry AHSJA. Anyways mom!ellie

Warnings: NSFW, Strap-on, Fingering, Pregnant sex

Word count: 3.7K

"Shit." Ellie huffed, shutting the heavy door to the barn.

There was so much work still needed to do on the farm, the hen shed needed to be built still so for now they were spread out across the barn and the cows pen needed to be expanded. There was so much left to do and ellie was nervous y'all might not get it done by the time winter got here.

She had been out there all day working on getting all the animals comfortable in their new homes, the pigs being the hardest. As of right now though the sun was beginning to set and Ellie was starving. You had gone in not too long ago because you were becoming overheated, not well for the baby in your belly.

Ellie walked through the field, seeing how pretty the house looked in the sunset light. All the pretty oranges and reds spread across the wood of the house, she wished she had her sketchbook so she could get down the quick picture before it left her brain.

She reached the house, taking her shoes off so she didn't get mud on the floor. She could hear faint sounds of music, if she was real quiet she could hear you humming along with it. She smiled at the peacefulness she felt right now, suddenly all the stresses she had about the barn vanished. Suddenly she thought the barn was a great idea, if this was how it would be all the time then she could die a happy woman.

She set her shoes next to yours, taking one good look at the fields before going in. The sun buried itself behind the hills, casting a glow on the flowing laundry allowing her to see small peaks of the barn. She couldn't wait for the kid to be running through here, she could see it now. She could see herself running after the kid, small laughs coming from the both of them.... her kid. The thought made her smile.

She finally opened the screen door, the smell of dinner filling the air around her. That's when she saw in the dim light of the candle filled room, you in the middle of it all. You were dressed in a cute little cottage dress that you were given at the baby shower, and one of the women of the town made it for you.

You were making something on the stove, not noticing her presence until the screen door slammed behind her. You jumped slightly, the perks of living in a post-apocalyptic world. You gave a small smile when you realized it was her before averting your eyes to the pot in front of you.

Ellie placed her things down on the small table by your back door, her eyes glued to you. She made her way over to you, seeing a cookbook opened right next to you. There were so many types of vegetables out along with some bread and meat. You always did know how to surprise her with your old world cookbook.

"Long day at work Mrs. Williams?" You smiled, teasing her a bit.

"Long and hard, Mrs. Williams." She came up behind you, placing her large hands on your hips.

She swayed a bit to the music, watching you stir the food in the pot. You smiled at her sudden affection, the feeling of her hands gripping softly at your waist making you blush slightly. One of her hands made its way to your belly, noticing how much bigger it had gotten since y'all moved here.

"How are my girls doing?" She asked, caressing your stomach softly.

When you guys first found this place you were only a couple weeks along, not even 9 weeks along. Now you're almost 6 months old, you have gotten bigger and bigger. Your glow had only increased as well, you looked really good and really happy as well. Most nights were better than others obviously, the paranoia and depression of the outside world can be hard especially on a pregnant woman.

"We're doing okay, she's a little shit and won't settle down but hopefully food will calm her down." You replied, watching as the broth bubbled.

You could feel Ellie's grin on your neck, kisses halting for only a minute just to look down at the bubbles as well. It looked like chicken noodle soup but Ellie couldn't be sure. Her hands continued to caress your belly, feeling as the baby moved around. She will never get used to that, the feeling of a baby in your stomach.

She was dragged out of her thoughts when you turned your head to connect your lips together. She was caught off guard but happily moved her lips to yours, one hand still sitting on your hip and the other slightly pushing you back to rest yourself on her chest. You chuckled into the kiss, pushing her away slightly with your butt.

"Honey, I love you but you smell like a pig pen..." You joked, turning back to the oven. "Go get cleaned up for dinner, it has another 20 or 30 minutes left."

She laughed, stepping away from you for the first time since she came into the house. She gave your ass a soft smack before trailing herself up stairs. You let out a surprised yelp, giggling as you watched her walk to the doorway and stop in her tracks.

"behave yourself while i'm upstairs... You think you can do that?" She joked, giving you a small grin.

"Ugh that'll be impossible...how could I behave myself when I know you're washing pig shit off your hands just up the stairs." You joked back.

Ellie chuckled and made her way upstairs, jogging up the stairs and into your bedroom. It didn't take much to get cleaned up, she just changed into a plain white shirt and some random pair of jeans she found on the dresser.

While she was placing her dirty clothes into the hamper she caught a glimpse of one of your guys toys. It was a strap on, it was one you used often but it worked for the two of you. That's when the best idea came to her, she didn't hesitate in grabbing the strap on. She put it on tightly so it wouldn't fall off.

When she was comfortable with it, not too tight and not too loose she pulled up her jeans. It wasn't too noticeable, the strap was mostly folded in between her legs so it didn't show through her jeans. She smiled at her nasty idea before walking back down stairs, seeing you in the same position you were before. This time your eyebrows were knitted together in frustration, licking your lips which sent tingles through ellie.

She went back to the same position she was at only minutes before her nasty idea, but this time her hands roughly grabbed at you. There was a slight change in her presence than the last time, it was once innocent and peaceful but now it was like a lion staring down its prey.

Her lips were once again attached to your neck, hands bunching up your dress slightly. The roughness distracted you a bit, not expecting her mood to change within seconds. One of her hands was slowly making its way under your dress, giving you only a split second to realize what she was going.

You didn't know if it was you being pregnant or what but you were almost immediately putty in her hands, in between your legs already called for her. Her hand was slowly running up your thigh, no time was waiting.

"Ellie... I have to make dinner!" You stated, hand grabbing on to the counter for leverage.

"You said 20 minutes right??" She asked, watching as you gave her a small nod. "I can make you cum at least 3 times before...."

Those words made you weak, you could feel the wet spot on your underwear grow more and more. Ellie sucked and bit at your neck, leaving small bruises. Her hand made it all the way to your thigh, feeling the wet spot. She gave a cocky grin, knowing she was the one doing that.

"Besides, dinner can wait..." She paused, moving her hand that rested on your waist to your chest, grabbing at your flesh softly. " Well, you pussy seems to think so." She teased.

You let out a small groan, letting go of the spoon you had been holding too grab at her hand that was grabbing at your boobs. You usually would give her a hard time, tease her as much as she teases you but right now... your hormones were everywhere and your body was so different than it was, you just couldn't fight back your desire for her.

She took a few steps back, taking you back with her so you were safely away from the stove before moving your panties to the side. She started off small with her movements, placing two fingers on your clit, circling them around to send small moments of pleasure to your core.

You moaned into the air, the increased sensitivity of your body changing made the movements feel more intense than they once were. Your head moved back to capture her lips in a kiss, while her fingers worked on the little bud between your folds.

The kiss was passionate, no teeth clashing or sloppy tongue action but like two puzzle pieces being perfect for each other. Your head craned back, wanting more of her lips and you were honestly afraid of breaking your neck but it just felt so good.

Ellie's hand on your chest pulled down your dress, releasing our boobs into the cold air. She was just able to pull it down to your waist but that was enough access for her. She grabbed at one of your boobs, playing with the sensitive nipple.

She watched as you gasped into her mouth, eyes slightly rolling back into your head. She took that as a cue to shove two fingers inside of you, thumb still rubbing at your clit. You couldn't last too much longer and she knew it, everything felt so different from your not pregnant body so she had to treat it differently.

Your walls immediately clamped around her finger, the knot in your body ready to explode. You grabbed on to her, one hand on her arm and the other moving back to grab her thigh to balance yourself. It all happened so fast and you didn't even know it was happening until waves of pleasure were sent all over your body and your juice dripped onto ellies hand.

Some strangled moans left your mouth, as your body felt like it was on fire and your stomach did twist and turns. You tried to catch your breath, wincing as Ellie took her fingers out of you. Ellie allowed you to slowly come down from you high, knowing she was not done with you yet.

"Sorry I came so fast...." You breathed out, moving to fix your dress back before Ellie pulled you back to her.

"Who said I'm done with you.." She spoke, moving her hand down to her jeans before pulling out the strap.

You gasped at the feeling of it, feeling it hit your lower back. You couldn't help but feel pathetic at the fact you were still so fucking horny even though you already came once, you felt greedy but you ddin't care.

"I said 3 times right?" She spoke, not asking but telling you.

You bit your lip at the tone of her voice, feeling your cunt flutter and drip onto your now soaked underwear. Your cheeks were red along with the flush skin of your chest from Ellie grabbing at your tender boobs.

Ellie pulled you closer to her, standing you still while she pulled your dress all the way down to your ankles. The feeling of her being fully dressed and you being completely naked, the degradation of it making your legs shake more than they already were. You were in nothing but your underwear that were pushed to the side and ellies hands settling down on your hips.

Ellie spread your legs a tad, moving a finger to slide through your folds. You winced a tad, overstimulated slightly but so ready to be fucked once again. Ellie got you nice and wet, lining up the strap to your puffy folds.

"Do you need anything? Water? Or do you want to sit down? i co..." She started but wasn't able to finish her sentence

"Jesus Christ ellie just fuck me already." You interrupted, moving your hips back to try to fuck yourself on the strap.

Ellie chuckled but you didn't have to tell her twice, she slowly inserted the strap but that wasn't until you moved your hips back and forth. The action of you fucking yourself on the strap made her stumble back slightly, hitting the sink so her back was flush against it.

You didn't have a set speed, you sped up and then slowed down just whatever felt the best at the moment. Ellie watched as you sunk down onto it, watching it go in and out of you. She was getting a little antsy, wanting to thrust in and out of you while holding you down on the cabinet.

Oh how she wanted to fuck you so hard, but you were fragile at the moment so she let you take your time. Instead she placed her hands on your hips, helping you push your weight onto her. Your thighs were burning, the way you had to push yourself back onto her gave you a legit work out.

You held onto Ellie’s hands, forcing your body back down onto her. You could feel yourself inching closer and closer each thrust, each thrust also came more frustration on your part. The feeling of running after an orgasm but not being fit enough to reach it out made you wanna scream.

You hair was falling in front of your face as you leaned over to try to fuck yourself harder on the strap, trying to get at the best angle as well. You were just genuinely uncomfortable but so motivated to get off that you didn’t care that your body was hurting.

Ellie noticed the tension in your body, feeling your frustration as you desperately tried to get off. That’s when she stepped in, stopping you for a minute to lean you on the cabinet next to her. Only your chest on the cabinet, your elbows holding you up.

“Lemme take care of you hun...” she started, lining the strap back up. “Just sit back and look pretty for me okay.”

She took home on your hips once more and dove back into you, hitting an angle that you wanted to get too but couldn’t. She went at the same pace as before, rough and hard but taking small breaks in between to check if you were hurting.

You grabbed onto the counter with dear life, the cold counter against your flush skin making you shiver slightly. She was prominent and very skilled, feeling every single inch of the strap inside of you.

“Fuck... Ellie... I-“ you could feel yourself clamping around her, your walls fluttering and tensing up ready to release.

She knew you could last longer, your strangled groans and small cruises dropped hints to her. Her twisted a hand in your hair, something she knew you liked, pulling it slightly while you thrust your hips back to hers.

You lifted yourself off the counter now holding yourself up with your hands, holding yourself as steady as you possibly could for Ellie. You could feel it rip through your body. You jerked your body flush against Ellie’s, back all the way pressed against her chest.

Ellie snaked a hand to your boobs and the other drawing soft circles in your clit. You threw your head onto her shoulder, mouth shaped into an O shape as you came with a loud moan.

“Come on baby.... cum on my cock..” she whispered, thrusting her hips into you harshly.

You were seeing stars at this point, holding on to Ellie for dear life as she fucked you through your orgasm. Ellie kissed up your jaw, catching your lips into a kiss while slowing down her movement. Your body had stopped jerking only to be left legit shaking.

Ellie pulled the strap out of you, still holding you up with one hand. You were out of breath, shaking violently in her arms as she comforted you back into your body. She moved a hand through your hair, peppering your neck with kisses as you slowly came back to your body.

“Do you need anything?” She whispered, pressing a small kiss to the shell of your ear.

You turned around in her arms, bringing her into a kiss. Your hands immediately made their way into her hair, her hands absentmindedly went to your hips. It had got a cold in the house but you both were heated up.

“I’m okay Ellie, the baby's good, I’m not thirsty, I don’t need to sit...” you said, knowing exactly the same questions she would ask. It warmed your heart to see she cared but holy shit you were so wound up. “I was promised 3 orgasms.... so please just shut up and fuck me.”

That was so fucking hot to her, you taking what you wanted without a care in the world was something she couldn’t handle. She brought you into a sloppy kiss, holding your head in place as she walked you back into the counter.

She pressed you against the counter, leg up against your bare cunt that was so overstimulated right now but you somehow wanted more. She lifted one of your legs up around her waist and you helped do the other until you were fully seated on the counter.

Your legs dangled down, spread wide open so Ellie could place herself in between them comfortably. Her hands sat on your thighs, squeezing both of them softly. Your hands wrapped around her neck, bringing her so close to you.

This is what heaven would feel like if there was one, fucking on the counter of your dream farmhouse while pregnant with Ellie’s child (Figuratively). It’s what pure light and sweet dreams felt like wrapped in one.

You wrapped your legs around Ellie’s waist, hinting at wanting her to fuck you finally. Ellie lined it up with your cunt, running it up and down your slit a few times before pushing it all the way in.

You gasped at the feeling of being filled to the brim once more, throwing your head back onto the cabinet as Ellie thrust in and out of you at an animalistic pace.

Ellie watched as your back arched up, causing your boobs to bounce every single thrust. This view made her mouth water, you being fucked under candle light. She leaned down to attach her lip to one of your boobs.

You grabbed a fist full of her hair to keep her there for a moment, feeling pleasure from two sensitive areas of your body could send you flying off the edge once more. You let multiple moans out, one after the other.

The house was full of them, bouncing off every wall until they made it back to Ellie’s ears. Ellie went deeper, trying to hit that spot that made you see stars. Ellie watched as your eyebrows knitted together, head pointed up to the ceiling as your mouth formed an O once more.

You were once again so close, tired walls fluttering against the strap. Your overstimulated cunt burning at the sensation of another earth shattering orgasm. Ellie lifted her head up to coax you through it, leaving sloppy open mouth kisses on your fully exposed neck.

“Come on baby, cum on my cock one more time....” she encouraged you, speeding up once more. “I know you can do it, make that pretty little cunt cum all over my cock huh.”

Those dirty words, words that made your body tingle every time you heard them. You grabbed onto Ellie once again, squeezing her hand as the knot in your stomach finally snapped once again.

You could feel how your juices spilled all over the counter, probably making a big wet mess. Pleasure courses through your body, making you jerk violently. Your nails dug into Ellie roughly, most likely leaving bruises.

Ellie once again fucked you through your orgasm but slowed down slightly, kissing up your neck. Your entire body collapsed, no more strength to try to get down.

You could smell the burning of your soup, the awful smell wafting through the air. It had been a little over 20 minutes, probably more than 30 minutes even. It was slightly bright outside when you started but now it was pitch black, candles were the only thing lighting your way.

Ellie planted another kiss on your lips, caressing your belly to comfort you. You kissed back, just wanting to go to bed at this point.

“Well the soup is burnt... So what do you wanna do for dinner??” You asked, looking at how the soup smoked.

Ellie looked back as well, seeing as it was literally almost black. She chuckled a bit, turning back to you and shrugging.

“I mean we have left over cake from the baby shower.... can't let it go to waste.” She said, watching as you gave her a big grin.

“Hmmm... I think you sound much better than cake.” You joked, well it really wasn’t a joke. You just came 3 times and she at least deserved to get eaten out.

“I swear you got knocked up and now you're just a little horn dog.” Ellie rolled her eyes, slipping out of you before handing you your dress.

“Hey corn dogs kinda sounds good??” You joked, hopping down from the cabinet almost falling down on your way.

“You are too much.” She laughed, pulling you back into a quick kiss.

You wrapped your arms around her neck once more, smiling into the kiss as her hands roamed down you your ass giving it a quick squeeze.

"Well cake and burnt vegetables for dinner i guess." You sighed out, between kisses.

The only thing y'all will be eating tonight is each other at this point.

[justcourttee]

Adrien asks mari out and she says i would of been so happy in the past but now its too little to late. She's engaged to Damian but they haven't announced it yet

Bittersweet

It had been a while since Adrien had found himself in Gotham City. Too many years to count on his hand. Yet when he received an invite from Marinette he didn’t hesitate to hop on the next flight to attend her gala.

He had no idea that she had created a partnership with Wayne Enterprises, in fact, he had no idea they were interested in the fashion world at all. Then again, why should he be surprised? When Marinette put her mind to something, nothing would get in her way.

Ever since he had taken over his father’s company, Adrien hadn’t had much time to keep up with his old school friends but it hadn’t stopped them from trying to keep him in the loop. From what he could gather, Alya and Nino would also be attending, Rose and Juleka too. It would be nice to see them all again, especially Marinette.

Stepping out from the warmth of his hotel room and into the cool streets, Adrien couldn’t help but let his mind drift to thoughts of her.

It took Marinette moving to the States for him to realize how much he was in love with her. It was something he never wanted to admit seeing how much he adored Ladybug, but as she disappeared from his grasps, he was left to face his true feelings.

Glancing at his phone, Adrien confirmed that he was mere minutes away from the address she had listed. The gala was still a few days away, but Marinette asked if he had wanted to meet up for a late-night coffee, a Gotham specialty. Even her scarf that she had gifted him ages ago couldn’t hide the red on his cheeks as he imagined the perfect date with the girl of his dreams.

He paused, reaching the door of Deja Brew, his heart beating a million miles a minute. Somewhere in this late-night shop was his best friend. How would she react to seeing him again? Would she be as excited as he was? Would she feel the same way as she did?

Taking a deep breath, he pushed through the door, his eyes glancing through the scattered exhausted customers until they landed on her. She still hadn’t noticed his presence, her nose buried into her sketchbook, her coffee still steaming beside her seemingly untouched.

She was early.

The thought almost drew a laugh as he approached the counter to place his order. Of course she would have finally picked up some time management skills by now. Marinette was 27 and slowly making a name for herself as the future of the fashion industry. That wasn’t something accomplished by constant tardiness.

He picked up his cup, placing a ten into the tip jar, the hostess’ raised eyebrows making him smile. He could already hear his father scolding him. After all, that wasn’t the way to becoming a billionaire. You only make money by holding onto it.

Honestly, Adrien didn’t understand why he had to be a billionaire. His father said it would raise the bar for their line, but it just wasn’t in Adrien’s heart to hoard all of the money unnecessarily. Maybe the Waynes offered Marinette the same advice. Maybe they had something they could relate to together.

“Excuse me ma’am, is this seat taken?”

His heart had finally slowed down but as her eyes slowly peeked up at him under her lashes, it immediately began somersaulting once more.

“Oh Gods, Adrien!” She was out of her seat before he even had the chance to set down his coffee, her arms flung around his neck. He hoped and prayed she couldn’t feel his chest threatening to explode. “You should have said something! I’ve gotten into the bad habit of zoning out in public places.”

Her smile was blinding as she unwound herself, slipping back into her seat, motioning for him to sit as well.

“How was the flight? Did you fly private or first class?”

Adrien gasped, his hand covering his chest as if she had shot him.

“I only flew business thank you very much.” Marinette’s look of mock disbelief earned a small chuckle.

“That must have been so hard for you. I really am sorry you went through so much trouble for my sake.”

“You know, I would go through so much more for you Marinette.”

Her smile faltered for a moment, so quick that if he hadn’t been staring so hard at her, he might have missed it. Did his statement make her uncomfortable? He had only meant it jokingly with the truth laced in, but he was sure his eyes gave him away. They always softened when it came to her.

Marinette cleared her voice, her true smile shining once more as if the falter never happened in the first place.

“You’ve missed so much, I don’t even know where to start.”

“How about from the beginning?” She nodded as she dove into her move to the States and how she began as an intern for the CEO, Tim Drake, years ago and slowly worked her way up to personal assistant.

She recounted how Tim found her sketchbook at work one day and showed it to his father. Together they agreed that she was their way into the fashion industry, an investment that could open the door to many more jobs for the Gotham citizens.

It took two years, but she finally had a full line that was presented at Bruce’s first fashion show.

“So many big names were there Adrien! I really thought I was gonna faint!”

His smile became softer and softer as she recounted meeting the rest of the Waynes and finally after six long years, she had made enough of a name for herself to be holding her own official Gala, the Wayne’s simply a sponsor.

“That’s amazing Marinette, you’re amazing.”

She beamed proudly, her smile pulling at his heart.

“I couldn’t have done it without them. They are genuine and kind people and they are pretty much family.” Something glistened in her eyes as she spoke of them. It could have been obvious to anyone, Marinette cared so deeply for these people.

It was Adrien’s turn to falter as an ugly thought passed.

She’s so comfortable here, she would never want to come back to Paris with me.

He was shocked with himself. This was no time for jealousy. His best friend, the love of his life, was excitedly telling him about a future she had built for herself and the only thing he could think was that it was an obstacle keeping her from him?

Adrien desperately wanted to smack his own forehead, but for Marinette’s sake he straightened out his smile instead.

“I’m so sorry. I’ve only been talking about myself! What’s new with you? How’s your dad’s business? Do you have anyone you’re seeing?”

His eyebrow raised at the last question. She asked the question he so desperately wanted to ask her. And she did it so casually, equating it to his work and social life. Did that mean she was also fishing for his response?

“Nothing much. Dad wants to move from a multi-million dollar business to a multi-billion dollar business so he’s been pretty aggressive about money lately. He didn’t even want me flying over here for the gala.”

Marinette snorted much to his amusement. She knew how his dad was and how petty he could be as well.

“And as for your last question,” he paused watching her face carefully. “No, I am not seeing anyone.”

He waited for the reaction, any reaction really. But none came. Instead, she simply nodded as if she expected as much. Maybe he had read into it too much. She really could’ve just been asking for the sake of catching up. Should he ask too? Was that what she was leading up to?

Adrien cleared his throat before taking a long draw from his cup. This was so nerve wracking. She looked so content, so grown. This was a Marinette who had grown leaps and bounds while he was still stuck in this high school romance that was quite possibly one-sided.

“Well, I hate to cut it short but it’s going to be a long day tomorrow and Damian will be here any moment to pick me up.”

She slid out of her seat so effortlessly, her sketch book snapping shut before it disappeared into a bag that he hadn’t even noticed. Her smile was just as warm as he remembered, but something was missing from the girl he loved.

“Your eyes.” The words slipped out of his mouth before he could stop himself. Marinette’s smile faltered as she tentatively reached up to touch her eyelid, confusion etching it’s way into her face.

“Is there something near my eyes Adrien?”

“No, no, I’m sorry. That’s not what I meant. I just-” Adrien bit his lip, trying to string his thoughts together before he sounded even more like an idiot. “You used to stare at me with such soft look. I’m sorry I never noticed, but once I did, it was all I could see. Yet now-”

He trailed off as her lips drew into an o, her hand moving slowly from her eye to her lips, trying to hide her shock.

“-now, I can still feel the love in them, love directed at me, but it’s not the same love is it?”

She looked like she wanted to say something, but she couldn't find the right words. He knew she was trying to explain that he was wrong, but couldn’t bring herself to lie. It was the only confirmation he needed.

He slid out of the booth, his hand grasping the scarf slipping from his neck.

“Marinette, I was so excited when you invited me out tonight. In fact, I thought of it as a date.” She tried to reach out, but Adrien took a step back, tears brimming in his eyes. “I don’t blame you at all, please don’t think I’m saying all this to make you feel guilty. I just had to get it off my chest.”

Adrien blinked hard, trying to spill the tears clouding his vision. This was harder to say than he thought. Her eyes were so distracting, the sympathy oozing toward him in waves.

“I love you, Marinette Dupain-Cheng. I know you’ve made your life here and I would never dream of taking that from you. Hell, if you asked me to, I would drop everything to be at your side in an instance. Is there any chance at all that after the gala ends, we could give this a shot? Just one real date. Not some deluded fantasy I created in my head, but something we both consent to.”

He flinched when her hand finally made contact with his upper arm.

“Adrien, I love you. I really do. But you were right when you said my eyes had changed. That soft look is meant for someone else now. He and I had tried to keep our relationship quiet, but tomorrow at the gala, I was going to announce my engagement to Damian.”

Adrien couldn’t help the small sob that left his mouth. He was painfully aware of the few scattered glances all directed toward him, but he couldn’t help it. He felt Marinette pulling his head down until it laid resting on her shoulder, her small arms wrapping around his figure. It was embarrassing how hard he cried, unable to hold back his sobs any longer.

“I’m so sorry Adrien, I had no idea your feelings had changed. You were always chasing after a dream when we were younger and when I left Paris, I had finally decided that there wasn’t a chance after all between us.”

He knew she meant her words as a comfort, a promise that at one point, she would have gladly accepted his offer. Why couldn’t he have seen it earlier? Why was he so blinded by a partner who never even revealed herself right to the end? He had someone who trusted and loved him with all of their being and he ignored their feelings for a what if.

Adrien slowly pulled himself from her grasp, his smile shaky. He took a moment to use the end of his scarf to dry his soaked face.

“I’m glad you told me that Marinette. I really am. And I hope you and Damian have a long and prosperous life together.”

Her eyes widened, her mouth forming the wait, but he was already out of the door, running. It was a cowards move, one he would mull over all night. But it was too painful to look into the eyes of one you love and only find pity reflecting in them.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

“So you came?”

Adrien turned, his smile bittersweet as he embraced Alya, his fist connecting with Nino’s outstretched hand.

“How could I not support her? She’s worked so hard to make this a reality. My feelings can take a backburner for one night.”Their eyes all trailed to the center of the room where she stood, her arm threaded through with the man he assumed to be Damian Wayne. “Besides, you can tell. She loves that man beside her more than anything in this world.”

The glint of the ring on her finger caused an aching in his heart. Despite it all, he really did wish the Wayne boy no ill will. If he was who Marinette chose to spend the rest of her life with, then Adrien trusted her decision.

“I’ve never seen her smile so bright. And to think, I used to believe her smile was at its maximum blindlingness.” Nino’s chuckle earned a small chuckle from Adrien as well.

There was no denying it.

Marinette was where she belonged. The only thing left was for him to support her in any way that he could. And that was exactly what he planned to do.

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[13uswntimagines]

Always Have a Place (Preath x Teen!Reader)

Request: learning to love part 2 with reader being super attached to Chris and Tobin then someone coments about it and reader starts to feel insecure about it again and Tobin and Chris has to reassure her again

You pulled the blankets tighter around you, padding through the chilly apartment towards the sound of your mama’s voice. The cold Manchester weather wasn’t quite agreeing with you, and paired with the holidays, you had been a bit on edge for the past few days. 

You never understood what the big fuss around Christmas was (as you had never been visited by Santa when you were younger), and Christmas Trees kinda freaked you out (Forster father number 3 had sent one through a window on your first Christmas with them). Though Christen and Tobin tried to show you some holiday traditions, you just didn’t understand why making cookies and drinking hot chocolate were supposed to put the world in a more giving mood. 

You rounded the corner, glancing to the left where Christen was sitting on the couch, and Right where Tobin was talking at the dining room table. You thought it was strange they never did video calls from the same room, but if it made them happy then who were you to judge. 

You sighed, deciding that Christen looked more cuddly, and began shuffling in her direction. She glanced over the top of her laptop at you, opening her arms to invite you in as she took in your tired form. 

“Hmm, you’re warm,” You mumbled, wigging into the woman to find your favorite spot. Christen giggled, wrapping her arm around you and pulling you closer, placing a kiss on the crown of your head. The two of you had grown close (almost as close as you and Tobin) in the past few months, and while you and Tobin bonded over art, you had become her cuddle buddy. Plus with the bad feelings the holidays always dredged up, you had been a bit more clingy than usual (not that her or Tobin were complaining) and her calming figure had put you at ease. 

“I’m glad baby, just a few more minutes and then we can all go to bed alright?” Christen asked softly, running a comforting hand through your hair. 

“You don’t have to rush, I’m comfy now,” You mumbled, allowing your mom’s scent to relax you. Now that she was here to ward off your nightmares, you were finding it difficult to stay awake. 

“Awe, is our favorite designer in training tired?” Megan jested from the screen, and you stuck your tongue out at her. 

“In training? My design sold out in less than a day,” you grumbled. You had been honored to work with your Ma on the popsicle capsule and were super excited that your work had done well. It was nice to know your art was appreciated, even if it wasn’t the typical portraits you did. 

Megan laughed, nodding in concession, glad you had warmed up to her. You were making amazing strides with not only the women that had become your moms but with the team as a whole. 

“The time change is a little much for us all I think,” Tobin said, glancing over at the two loves of her life from the kitchen table. God, you had come so far, had grown so comfortable coming to them when you weren’t feeling alright. 

“We all know the truth, that kid is just super attached to you, and probably can’t even sleep by herself,” Kling laughed, not noticing how you flinched slightly. You didn’t know Kling as well as you knew Megan or any of the other members of the USWNT and you weren’t quite sure how to take her teasing. 

“I can attest that Y/n is pretty cuddly. I don’t know how you detach her to train sometimes,” Pino shrugged and your eyebrows furrowed. Did Pino think you were too clingy too? Did she think you were holding your mom’s back? If they couldn’t train, they couldn’t be the best. They wouldn’t want you anymore if you were hindering them. 

You twisted slightly uncomfortable, pulling away from Christen’s comforting embrace. 

“I’m gonna go back to bed,” You mumbled, tucking your Batman blanket tighter around you. 

“You sure babe?” Christen asked, brushing a strand of hair away from your eyes. 

“Hmm,” You hummed, shuffling off to go and cuddle Roary. Hopefully, he could keep your nightmares away (not missing Tobin’s “Nice going, Kling,”). 

****

You woke with a start, sitting bolt upright and clutching your blanket tightly to your chest. You gulped down the bile that rose in your throat. You ran your hand across your forehead, pushing the sweaty strands of hair from your clammy skin. 

You blinked at the red number of the clock, the little 2 mocking you. It was the 4th time this week. Every part of you longed to go find the comfort your Mom and Mama always offered when you had a nightmare. But you couldn’t bring yourself to disturb them. Kling was right, how the hell were they supposed to play well with you bothering them every time you had a little scary dream. You were 14, not 4. 

You sighed, pinching the bridge of your nose and smoothing your thumb over both of your closed eyes in an effort to chase away the images that plagued your sleep. You were never going to get back to sleep now. 

You leaned over and grabbed your trusty drawing pad, before quietly tiptoeing out of the room, and down the hall. You paused as you passed the slightly ajar door to your moms’ room. They never complained about your frequent visits to their bed or pushed you to tell them which ghost from your past had made you end up there. 

You shook your head, taking a second to convince yourself that not going to them was going to benefit you in the end. If you stopped bothering them, being so clingy, they wouldn’t get tired of you. They wouldn’t get rid of you. 

You continued down the hallway, bypassing the kitchen in favor of turning into the living room. You stared out the bay windows, wishing for a minute that you were back in Portland. That you had the balcony to stand on and collect your racing thoughts, and the cool night air to ground you back in reality. Alas, you were here in the UK instead. 

You sighed again, curling up on the little window seat, staring listlessly at the drizzly night sky, and flipping mindlessly through the pages of your sketchbook. 

You settled on a blank page, mindlessly tapping your pencil on the paper. Your thoughts wandered, taking in the skyline as though it would tell you what to draw, how to set your mind at ease. The movement of your reflection in the window caught your attention, and suddenly you knew exactly what to draw. How to get your brain to stop obsessing over them leaving you. 

****

Tobin sighed as she entered the living room. It was the 5th time this week she had walked into the same sight of you slumped against the living room window, your pencil paused over your coveted sketchbook, which was balanced precariously on your knee. 

“She’s out here Chris,” Tobin called quietly down the hallway. How they had gone to waking up with you almost always cuddled between them (or on the foot of their bed) to you virtually pulling away entirely they weren’t sure. It hurt to see the brick wall around your heart rebuilding itself in front of their eyes. 

Christen padded up next to her, wrapping her arms around Tobin's waist and resting her head on her shoulder. “Again?” She asked, the sadness evident in her tone. They thought they had gotten over the hurdle of convincing you to come to them for help, plus she was starting to miss her cuddle buddy. 

“Hm, we need to get to the bottom of this,” Tobin mumbled, leaning back into her wife. It wasn’t healthy for you to be awake all night, even if you were processing your emotions through art, if for you to be pushing them away. They tried not to push you too hard, tried to let you come to them, but you clearly weren’t. They were going to need to intervene soon. 

“I’ll make the coffee, if you want to wake little miss up,” Christen murmured into her neck, placing a soft kiss before heading off towards the kitchen. 

You may have been her cuddle buddy, but you always had an easier time opening up to Tobin. Her chill demeanor set you at ease. 

Tobin nodded making her way over to you, making a mental note to put an extra blanket on the window seat in case this was going to continue. 

She crouched in front of you, carefully maneuvering the dangling sketchbook out of your hand, barely glancing at the still open page as she set it on the coffee table, and placing a gentle hand on your knee. 

“Hey kiddo, it’s time to wake up,” she said softly, rubbing your leg to rouse you. 

“Hm, what time is it,” You asked, pushing your forehead against the cool glass and blinking sleepily at the woman. 

“Just after 8. What time did you come out here?” She questioned softly. 

You shrugged, yawning loudly. “Like 1:30. I couldn’t go back to sleep after my dream so I decided to come out here for a bit,” You lazily gestured towards your sketchbook “thought I could work through it and I guess I fell asleep,” 

“Why didn’t you wake Me or Mom up, we would have hung out with you until you could get back to sleep,”  The woman pressed, cupping your face and running her thumb over your cheek, brushing the dark circles that had grown more prominent under your eyes. You leaned into her touch, allowing it to ease your fears for the moment. 

“Didn’t wanna bother you. Your both starting today,” you said. 

Tobin squinted at you, her head tilting to the side. You were more important to them than any starting position, they thought you knew that. It was a piece to the puss me that was this change in your behavior, but she couldn’t seem to put her finger on the rest. She couldn’t quite see how it fit. 

“You could never be a bother to us babe, we love you and want to help you. And you’re our priority, never worry about soccer when it comes to stuff like this. If one of us has to sit out, it’s no biggie,” She said, looking you in the eye, repeating the words that had become their mantra to you. 

You hummed noncommittally, abruptly pulling yourself out of her grasp, looking away from her piercing gaze. That was too close, and you didn’t want her to make a promise you knew she wouldn’t keep. It would hurt less later if you didn’t believe her. 

“Is mom making pancakes?” 

*****

Christen was worried. Very worried. She hadn’t meant to go snooping, but the sketch on the page of your open notebook had caught her attention, and once she started she couldn’t stop. 

It was a striking image. The drawing of the view from their apartment was nice, but what really caught her eye was the reflection of you in the glass. There was something about your expression that tore at her very soul. 

You drew what you felt, and if you had this much disparity, then something was very wrong. 

“Have you seen this,” She asked her wife breathlessly. Tobin glanced at the page, nodding once. It had been the same sketch 4 days in a row, the only thing that changes were the expression. The eyes growing emptier, the shadows getting bigger. She bit her lip. 

“We have to let her come to us, babe. All we can do is try to be there for her,” 

And try to be there for you they had. They increased their touches (trying not to feel hurt when you pulled away), Tobin scheduled extra time for the two of you to work on the capsule together. Hell, Christen even started leaving hot chocolate in the window seat for you. But nothing seemed to be working. You were slowly slipping away and neither of them knew why. 

Christen sighed, glancing back at the sketch, so beautifully haunting. “I just want her to let me help,”

“She will, you just have to let her sort through whatever it is first,” 

*****

Your moms were on their feet mere seconds after your first shriek, racing across the hall and into your room, searching for the threat. They released a breath they didn’t know they were holding when they saw you alone in your bed until another strangled cry left your lips. 

“No, I’ll be good, please don’t leave,”

That was all it took for them to jump into action, Tobin flipping on your bedside light, and Christen crawling into bed beside you. 

“Hey baby, wake up, it’s just a bad dream,” your mom said, wrapping you up in her arms and rubbing your back to rouse you from sleep. 

“Mom?” You asked disoriented, trying to fight the gentle hands keeping you from accidentally hurting yourself. 

“Shh, I’m here, you’re ok,” Christen said, pulling you into her lap. You buried your face in her neck, gripping her nightshirt so tightly the cotton was straining in your grasp. 

You sobbed into her neck, your tears making the skin sticky. “Don’t leave me please,” You begged, the words garbled by tears and your adamant refusal to pull away from your favorite hiding spot. Christen shushed you, rubbing your back with one hand and cradling your head with the other, sharing a worried glance with Tobin over your head. The other woman stood next to your bed, her hands opening and closing, shifting foot to foot unsure how to help you. 

“Never baby. We’re not going anywhere,” Christen soothed, gesturing for Tobin to take your other side. She did, hugging you from behind to let you know that she was there too. 

They held you as you cried, whispering sweet nothings over your unintelligible whimpering. 

“I’m sorry I’m too clingy. That you can’t practice as much as you used too,”

“No baby, we don’t feel that way at all. We love you, and we want to be here for you,”

“But Kling and Pino-“ You protested, only to be cut off by Tobin solemnly shaking her head. “Were joking, they didn’t mean anything by it. They’re both glad that you are opening up to them,” 

You stared at her in disbelief (and Tobin made a mental note to murder her friends for being assholes. They needed to learn that even though you felt comfortable, your fears and insecurities were not something to be picked on, even with the best intentions). 

“And so are we. We’re glad and honored that you’ve opened up to us, and let us see your goofy side, and your amazing art,” She added, brushing a wild curl from in front of your eyes. 

“Really?”

“Absolutely. We love how cuddly you are- it makes up for the 13 years we didn’t get with you,” Christen said, squeezing you tighter just to prove her point. It had taken you a long time to let them in, and though it was still a work in progress, they were honored you trusted them. That you had let them in further than anyone before. 

“Will you stay?” You asked in a small voice, almost afraid of the answer. 

“Always,” Your moms answered together. Tobin pulled back the covers, allowing Christen to maneuver the two of you inside before joining you. You sighed, reveling in their safety. Here, wedged between the women, you knew you would always have a place. 

[thesmokingguns]

Picnic in the Park

Pairing: Axl Rose x Reader

Word Count: 2128

Fluff

Request Summary: “Axl rose meets a girl threw slash who is his childhood friend whos also an amazing painter and just is infatuated with how pretty she is and he just follows her around like a puppy.Tan skin brown hair that goes to lower back brown eyes, wears alot of cute sun dresses and is very kind”

A/N: I am catching up on requests. So if you have requested anything in the past week or so thag oiece should be coming out soon. Thanks everyone for reading

Tag list: @ayablackwood @agroupiewhore @thenobodies-inc @littlemisscare-all

Your mind was a mixture of light and dark, complimentary colors, and images burned into your mind that you wanted to paint later. If there wasn’t a brush in your hand you were taking notes with a pencil, sketching the world around it through eyes that only you saw it from. You captured everyday life like the older woman with the mesh bag she had filled with fruit or the man with his red beard, a few weeks unkept, napping in the alley to get a break from the heat. You took these people, characters of the world and had them live forever on the canvas you painted on.

Art was your passion. You loved walking around Hollywood with a set of watercolors or a notebook to sketch in and take in the lives of others. There was some sort of poetic feeling of taking a stranger from the street and importilizing them as a character in your art. You created a narrative for them that they may not be living. It was cathartic and you’d spend hours of your day people watching until you finally found the right subject.

Sketching out a bump on someone's nose that might have come from a childhood accident or from their Freshman year of college when they drunkenly fell down the front steps of the dorm, you created their unknown life story as you placed each line of their face into place. If you didn’t infuse their story into the piece it was just some colorful person without any meaning. But you wanted to give the viewer of your art a full piece. They should be able to look at your picture and understand the life that the subject lived; your art created that life.

It was crazy to think that a few years before you were in school thinking about becoming an English teacher.It was a chance meeting at a grocery store when you ran into your old friend Saul’s mother. When you had been kids the pair of you had been so close and secretly your mothers had both had fingers crossed for a wedding that never happened. The pair of you split apart the summer after senior year to set out of a life you each wanted. His mother had invited you over for dinner, which she also invited her son to, thrusting the pair of you back into each other's lives.

Oddly enough, it was like time hadn’t passed between you. The easiness of your friendship coming back without even trying and soon the pair of you were hanging out on almost a daily basis. With your schedule up helped manage his house, buying groceries, doing some cleaning, and running a few errands he never remembered. In return you had a few rooms to yourself. Slash had wanted to make sure you had time for your art as well as a space for it.

Dressing in a white floral pattern sundress you grabbed your bag that contained your art supplies. You wanted to get to the park early and set up a blanket you could spend the day sketching and painting on. You planned to soak up the sun in your skin and use the good lighting to get some new work to sell for the craft fair this weekend. As you turned to grab the picnic foods you had made the night before you saw Axl sitting at the counter. His green eyes looked up, smiling when he saw you.

“Hey, Y/N. Slash just left. I’m going to leave in a minute. I was just finishing up some lyrics.” he was always over and you thought that he was lonely in his role as lead singer. Even though Axl put on this tough guy imagine and had a reputation it was like he needed to work for that because he thought that was what rock stars were supposed to do. Whenever he was around you he seemed lost, always making extra conversation or taking the time to go walk to the coffee cafe with you and wait in line, even if he didn't want anything.

“I’m heading out for a day in the park.” you told him, moving the wax paper covered sandwiches into a small wicker basket, along with some fruit and cheese, some water, and a bottle of wine. You could feel his eyes on you, “I’m over packing and have more than enough if you want to come with me?” you let your eyes flutter up from packing the basket to look at him. “I’ll leave you alone to write because I’m just going to spend the time working on some new portraits.” It was important to you that you set up expectations. There was no need for him to feel like he was going there to entertain you or vice versa.

“I’d love to go. You don’t mind?” he asked as you finished packing up the wicker basket. You shook your head no, letting him pick up the food you had just packaged and leading you outside, “What park did you want to go to? I can drive us there.” you told him what you were thinking, getting comfortable in the convertible.

When you had moved in with Slash you had forged fast friendships with his bandmates. Even though you weren’t at every show and didn't always go backstage you had gotten close to them in different ways. On Wednesday nights you hosted a dinner party where you made them all come by so you had an excuse to cook for them. When someone had a ripped piece of clothing at a show you’d quietly take out your sewing kit, stitching patches in jeans and repairing favorite band shirts. You liked being around them all because of how animated everyone was; they were so easy to draw. You had a whole sketchbook of black and white images from the band. Your favorite subjects were Slash and Axl, mainly because they were the two you were around the most and had the most flexibility when it came to moods.

Axl had grown close to you, drawn into the caring nature you had. It was hard for him to understand that someone would do things for him without expecting anything in return. The first time that you had been out drinking with them and insisted Axl came home with you so you knew he was safe he had thought was a come on. When you helped him drink water and gave him aspirin before tucking him into bed he was shocked. Even more shocking was waking up to find his clothes washed and folded on the guest room chair and you carrying in a breakfast tray of freshly made foods. That’s just how you showed you cared about your friends. Being the mother of the group and taking care of them helped you feel like you were contributing as a friend.

Spreading out the blanket under the Weeping Willow tree. You motioned for Axl to sit as you toed off your sandals and moved to sit down. Digging through your bag you set out your sketch pad and pencils. You could see Axl out of the corner of your eye. He didn’t seem to know what to do. You pulled him down to the blanket, settling him so he could rest his back against the tree. You pulled off his shoes and socks and handed him his notebook as you went about unpacking your picnic so he could pick at food if he wanted to.

With him settled in the shade you laid down, belly first in the sun. Picking up your pencil you scanned the park until you found an older man feeding the pigeons. Your eyes followed his movements for a few minutes before you started your sketch. The feeling of the warm sun on the back of your thighs as you twirled the pencil in your hand, capturing all the features of the man.

As you drew you could feel Axl’s eyes on you. At first it was just light glances every few minutes and then it turned to heavy long looks where his eyes were watching you. Ignoring the way his stares made you blush, chalking up the pinkness in your cheeks as just sun exposure.

A hand slid over your calf, over the back of your thighs before going over your dress and laying on the flat of your back. You turned your face upward looking at Axl watching you. His eyes flickering from your art up to your face. There was a pause, curiosity and interest in what he was going to do next. Your heart is beating in your chest even though your body is frozen, wondering what he was up to.

“Do you want to take a break and eat? You’ve been working for a couple hours.” Looking past him you saw the sun had changed position in the sky and time had gotten away from you. Sitting up you handed out sandwiches, positioning yourself comfortably besides him in the shade of the tree.

Axl had been following you for most of the spring and now into summer. He's around all the time and often comes along for days like this. But you liked having him around. You thought that he needed the quiet comfortable silence between the pair of you; so much of his life was filled with noise.

“Y/N, do you like this?” He asked, peeling off the crust to his sandwich. The action seemed to be more of a need to keep his hands busy instead of a dislike for the bed.

“Do I like this? Picnics in the park?” You didn’t know exactly what he meant. Axl sometimes seemed to talk in riddles not wanting to fully play all of his cards.

“Being with me.” He didn’t look up to meet your eyes at this, almost embarrassed to be talking about it. You weren’t like Axl. There was no need to talk in riddles or have him guessing how you felt.

“Of course I like having you around, Axl. It’s nice to be able to spend time with someone I like.” He looked up, almost surprised that someone would like to be around him. “I’ve had a crush on you for a few months and it’s nice to get to know you more and find more reasons to like you.” You didn’t feel nervous telling him this. It actually felt like a relief to get it off your chest.

He put down his sandwich, wiping crumbs off on his shirt and looking at his hands to make sure that they were clean. Before you could figure out what he was going to do he had a hand in your hair, tugging you closer to him in a soft kiss. For months you had been thinking about what it would be like to kiss him on one of your lazy afternoons together and now it was happening.

Instead of letting him pull away and think about what he had just done you slid onto his lap, letting your hands wrap around him. His free hand was on your back holding you close as the pair of you made out like teenagers under the shade of the willow tree.

Finally, the pair of you pulled away, swollen plush lips and wild curious eyes watching each other. This new change between the pair of you sparkling like wonder between the pair of you. Axl was playing with a piece of your hair, wrapping the brown lock around his finger like he had been wanting to do for months.

“Does this mean we can finally start dating?” You asked, watching the way he smirked at this question. “Because I don’t know how many more times you can just casually show up without Slash catching on. And I don’t know how many more picnics I can plan without touching you.” You admitted, his lips were on your chin and up your jaw.

“Mhhh, I’ve been waiting for this for so long and now I can have you all to myself.” His voice whispered huskily to you kissing your earlobe. He pulled away to look at you again. “You have to tell Slash.” He said, making you laugh as you rolled your eyes. If that’s what it would take to have Axl you didn’t mind telling your best friend about the relationship.

“You take care of me and I’ll take care of everything else, babe.” You promised, meaning it. This was everything that you had wanted for months and now you were getting it. The man that you had started falling for was yours. It had only taken months worth of picnics to get him.