#four of those racks are in studs

[beyoursledgehammer]

I'm just gonna be screaming hollering about how good this turned out

[dreamingofep]

Smile, baby

Pairing: Austin Butler × Reader

Word Count: 6.7K

Summary: You're the photographer for the Vman photoshoot with Austin and you can't seem to ignore all his charm.

Warning(s): SMUT, the usual p in v action, dom! austin, slow burn, teasing, fingering, oral.

A/n: Hi everyone! Hope you enjoy this little Austin fic! Please feel free to comment and message me your thoughts I'd love the feedback! Sorry for any spelling mistakes or goofs.

You finish packing your camera bag and double check you have everything you need for this next shoot. You had been in the photography business professionally for the last four years and have enjoyed it. It was your lifelong dream to be a full-time photographer and it finally came true.

This next shoot was for the magazine Vman featuring actor Austin Butler. You had seen some of his stuff and really liked him in The Carrie Diaries. He had that boyish cute look in that show and at the time, but you hadn’t paid much attention recently to him. There was so much you had to focus on like editing a million pictures after each shoot you do or planning trips for the next big gig. You didn’t necessarily have time to inspect every single aspect of whatever actor’s life you were meeting on set. Quite frankly you didn’t care because these people were just human and were really nice to work with and that’s all that mattered.

You slip on some black leggings and a tank top and put on some lip gloss as you head out the door.

You get to the studio before anyone else and start to set up your equipment and check out the space. It was a rather simple warehouse with some couches, a bed, and some tables that could be used for the shoot if need be. You hear the door from across the way get opened and in comes a rolling cart full of clothes and the wardrobe designer behind it.

“Hey, I’m y/n, I’ll be the photographer for the shoot. Thanks for coming early,” you say as she goes in for a hug to greet you.

“No problem! It’s nice to meet you I’m Angie. What do you think of the looks? Is it something that fits the vision?”

You had already talked to the magazine about what they were looking to get out of this shoot. They wanted the title of the issue “Hollywood's New Burning Love,” since the new Elvis movie would be coming out very soon and it was already getting rave reviews. The concept was to be bold, edgy, and free. Really capture that side of Austin but make sure the audience can also feel the human connection through these pictures. When they say pictures are worth a thousand words, they’re right. That’s why you loved your job so much. It was the best way to tell a story in just one single frame.

You sift through the rack and feel the smoothness of the black leather pieces hanging on the hangers and the jaggedness of the studs that were on another jacket. The mesh floral shirt caught your eye right away and thought it was really interesting but would see how it would look on Austin to see if you would use it for a shot. You were going to be mainly taking most of the pictures outside so you were hoping the weather would stay nice.

After a few minutes of looking through the wardrobe options, the doors open once again and you see Austin along with his team behind him.

You’re taken aback because your previous memory of how he looked and not at all what he looked like now. He was stunning in person, so gorgeous you can swear you felt your heart skip a beat.

Oh, fuck what’s happening.

He makes eye contact with you first and the way those blue eyes bore into yours, it’s electrifying and sends a shiver throughout your body. He then makes that boyish cute smile he’s always had at you and you can’t help but blush. You look up again and see he’s still looking at you only a few feet away.

“Hey, I’m Austin. I assume you’ll be the one taking pictures of me today?” He asks as he gestures to your camera strap around your chest. His eyes linger there at your chest for a brief moment before meeting your eyes again. You bite the inside of your cheek to stop yourself from giggling like an idiot.

You nod, “yep that’s me, as long as you don’t mind me being all close to your face,” you wince at the words that just freely came out of your mouth. Jesus Christ, what had gotten into you? Just seconds into this interaction you’re a babbling mess.

He chuckles and puts out his hand to shake it, “yea I think I can handle that dear. Let me go change. What did you want to see on me first?” He asks so innocently. But your brain is moving a million miles an hour and you continue to turn another shade of red.

I want to be on you…

“Uh…umm… how about that mesh floral shirt…I umm think that might be a nice start.” You start to pinch your hand trying to regain any control you have left of the situation. He nods his head and grabs the outfit off the rack and heads to the makeshift dressing room.

You quickly double check your camera is working properly and your battery is fully charged. What the hell has gotten into you? No one gets you this flustered, especially at work!

Austin comes out from the changing area and has the mesh top on and black dress pants. You try not to stare too much but he looks good and you feel your face flush.

“Where would you like me, darling,” he asked as Angie handed him a cowboy hat.

You giggle a little as he puts it on goofily and starts walking out with you. “Let’s go outside and see how the lighting looks and go from there okay cowboy?”

“Mmm, yes ma’am, he says in a Southern accent and tips the end of his hat down and you both laugh.

He’s so unbelievably charming to you I can’t believe the way your heart races around him.

He’s a natural in front of the camera. Charm is just pouring out of him and you find yourself smiling at every little thing he’s doing.

You have him lean against the building in the sheer shirt and lean back. The way he looks up is so attractive it makes you needy.

You both lock eyes and they burn into you causing your cheeks to feel like fire. He doesn’t look away and if you’re not mistaken, you think he likes the way you’re getting all flustered for him. You take a slow breath and watch as his eyes linger all over your body. He lets out a soft, “mmm,” from his lips and you do everything to try to regain focus.

“Okay umm… how about an outfit change. Maybe just changing the top in the tank top and leather jacket look.” You say as direct as possible to try to shift the mood of your photoshoot and have his eyes quit fucking yours.

You change your camera battery inside as he’s changing into the next look. He comes out from behind the dressing room and comes out shirtless with the leather jacket flung over his shoulder, being held on by just two of his fingers. His shirtless body looked divine, some Roman sculptures would be jealous of how good he looked without a shirt. The silver-adorned belt around his waist caught your eye and stared once again at how good he looked in those pants. The pronounced bulge in his pants made your mouth water and you bite your lip to try to stop yourself from staring when he was walking toward you.

He clears his throat to catch your attention, you shoot your eyes back up at him as he has a sly grin across his face as he sees where your eyes are drawn to.

“I was thinking no shirt, just felt right,” he pauses and you nod. He walks closer to you, slowly, like a leopard stalking his prey, and whispers, “hmm, I thought you might like that honey. Anything to keep your eyes on me longer…” he trails off and brushes your hair behind your ear.

You feel the wetness begin to pool in your panties. The tension between you two is electric and you have to do everything in your power to stay professional and maintain to stay calm.

You look up at him and those icy blue eyes bore into you with lust. Your heart races as you don’t know what to say next. Nerves fill your body as you start to enjoy the closeness of his body to yours.

“Oh, umm, let’s go outside again. The lighting should be perfect,” you stumble out. You and the rest of the team go back outside and you really don’t have a clue what the next shot will be but then it hits you.

You have all the power in this situation. He needs to listen to your direction.

If he wants to play this game and make you all flustered, you can do it too.

“Austin, why don’t you stand by that blue wall, it’ll bring out your eyes,” You tease and give him a wink. He lets out this airy laugh and shakes his head. He starts to put on the leather jacket and you stop him. You rush to him, away from the rest of the team so they can’t hear you.

“Ah, wait Austin, I was thinking nothing on for this part… since you like to have so many people’s eyes on you, this would be a for sure way to do that,” You tease and brush his hair back on the sides as he did to you.

“Nothing on hm?” He emphasizes, “I think that’s a special shoot we’d need to have just you and I. And as far as having other eyes on me, I’d much more prefer it to be yours only,” Your breathing hitches and you bite your lip.

“What are you trying to do here? Do you flirt this hard with every photographer you encounter hmm?” You say firmly.

“No baby, just with you. Somethin’ aboutcha is driving me crazy, and I know you can feel it too.” He teases, his voice raspy and deep, as his face inches dangerously closer to yours. He has this slight southern inflection in his voice. Something he must have still from shooting the Elvis movie but dear god it’s so fucking sexy. Between the raspiness and the southern inflection he has on some words, you’re falling apart at the seams.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you whisper sheepishly.

“Yes, you do. You’ve turned eight different shades of red since I walked in here. Do you normally get so flustered over every client you photograph?” He rebuts back at you.

You press your lips together as he’s got you pressed in the corner.

“Only the ones who eye fuck me throughout the entire photoshoot,” you say.

“Hmm, well I’ll try to make it more, bearable for you dear,” he chuckles and places his hand on his lower lip. You step back and realize you have a perfect shot.

He keeps his hand to his mouth and the other hand on his hip as he watched you closely back up and raises the camera to your eye. You squat down in front of him and the biggest smile forms across his face. Another burst of embarrassment embarks upon you as you realize he can see your cleavage perfectly at this view. You stand up quickly and snap a few more shots knowing that the first one you took was the perfect shot.

“Alright, I think we can move along. How about you put the leather pants and vest on for this shot and sit on that bench over there?” You point across the way and you start to walk over.

He leaves without saying a word and comes back a few minutes later down and sits down on the bench, giving you this devilish look. He crosses his legs as the makeup person fixes his hair a bit. An assistant hands you a different lens for the shot and you accidentally drop the lens cap. The cap rolls directly at his feet and he looks down at it, then back up to you. The insolent man doesn’t make any attempt to pick it up for you and you see what he wants you to do.

Bend down in front of him again like a submissive whore.

You purse your lips together and take a deep breath and walk over to him.

“I got the cap Austin don’t worry,” you scoff and pick it up and blow the dust off of it.

“I knew you’d get it. I just like you kneeling in front of me,” he says as he brushes his hair through his fingers and leans back.

Your blood boils. No client has ever talked to you this way. But no client has turned you on this way either. You’re at a crossroads. You can either tell him to get his head out of his ass or make it worse for him and have him continue to be at your mercy.

Option two sounds like a plan.

You scoot back a little, still bending down, and place the camera up to your eye.

“Open your legs Austin, you need to look more relaxed…” you say quietly but just loud enough for him to hear. His eye grows wide and he wipes his palms on his thighs. He shifts his body a bit uncomfortably, exactly how you wanted him to get. After adjusting so, he stretches out his long legs out, making it so you’re right in between them.

“Like this?” He asks innocently as he looks down at you.

“Mhmm, just like that.” You say as he looks off into the distance. You feel how soaked your panties have gotten in this position and they only are getting worse by kneeling in front of him.

“Smile, baby. Look right at me,” you coo softly and the expression on his face is a shock. It felt great to be so in control of him and have him do every last thing you wanted. He does as he’s told and looks directly down the lens. He bites his lip slightly and another sly grin forms across that beautiful face.

You get up and take shots from a higher angle and know you’ve gotten some amazing pictures.

The sun was setting and know the shades and lighting would start screwing up the pictures so you thought that would be a wrap.

“Thanks, everyone! I think that wraps it up. You all were wonderful!” You clap and start to hug everyone as you make your way inside.

You start tidying up your things and the crew starts to say goodbye as the sun begins to set lower.

You finally begin to calm down as the tension throughout the day was a massive cloud over you and your thoughts.

He was right, do you get flustered over every client you photograph? The answer was obviously no but today, Austin really got the best of you and this indescribable need to be close to him took over all sense and logic you had left in your body. The last few crew members leave the studio and you waved goodbye.

You watch as Austin emerges from his dressing room and he brushes his hair back and his eyes meet yours again.

“Thanks for a great day y/n. You sure made it fun,” he chuckles as he bites his lower lip. He looks you up and down yet again but this time, it looks like he wants to ruin you.

“Oh, it was my pleasure. Do you have a few minutes? I’d love to show you some of the shots I got today,”

“Yeah, I can stay for you,” he quips.

You walk over to your laptop on the desk and take a seat on the stool. Austin follows closely behind you and scooches the seat next to yours even closer. Your shoulders touch and when they do, it’s like fire seeping through your clothes. Sitting there almost not breathing, you start nervously tapping your fingers on the keyboard of your computer. You search around your files and open all the pictures from today.

You click on the first picture and once again have to press your lips together so he won’t see the grin wanting to take over your face. God, he just looked so good. The way his back arched in some of these. The way he sat with his legs spread wide open, just beckoning you to come and sit right there in his lap. You were flipping through the photos rather quickly but when you saw that picture of him in the leather jacket, sitting there with sexual charisma dripping off of him, you can’t help but pause and look further. The way he looked perfect to you in this shot had you start to become wet again.

He notices your prolonged stare and a cunning little smirk emerges on his face.

“Is there something wrong with this one? You’re looking at this one awfully long.”

His voice snaps you back to reality and your look at him with those pleading blue eyes.

“Mmm, you probably don’t want to hear what I have to say about this one,” you say teasingly as you go to click on the next picture.

The next one is only worse. Instead of his looking away from the camera, this one is him looking directly into the lens and making you quiver.

His eyes look over you again and this time , his hand is placed on your thigh causing you to put your full attention on him. you don’t break eye contact.

“Oh no trust me, honey, I wanna know what you think of this one.”

“I don’t that’s necessary,” you stutter hoping he might just drop it.

“Do you like how I look here? Do you like it when I look at you, and only you, like that.”

You nod your head, “mhmm, I love it actually.”

“Why do you love it so much?” His hand tightens around your thigh and fixes your hair sending a wave of pleasure from his just making contact with your skin.

“Austin, please, you’ve been killing me all day, I can’t do this,”

“What was I doing baby, I was just listening to you’ll day. I think it would only be fair if you listened to me now and answer my question. Why do you like this picture so much hmm?”

“B-b-because, umm, because you look so sexy sitting like that. Looking at me like you’re just begging to be fucked,” you moan out.

A big smile on his face emerges and he turns your stool to face him. He spreads your legs apart and places both hands on your upper thighs.

“Well, that’s funny you say that because,” he pauses as he looks at your legs spread for him, his hands trail up your legs dangerously slow, the friction it's causing is driving you mad. “That’s exactly what I wanted. I wanted you to get on me and slow fuck me until you came apart,” he groans out and squeezes your thighs tighter. His thumbs were getting closer to your core by the second and you felt the throbbing begin to worsen and your wetness begins to pool.

“Austin… I can’t do this…. I don’t screw around with my clients, I have a reputation I have to keep,” you say breathlessly and you continue to feel the wetness seep through your panties.

He nods his head slowly, “I understand, I don’t want to do anything you don’t want to do. I just thought you were thinking the same thing I was thinking. And maybe, just maybe, I could be the one to make you feel good instead of you going home by yourself and touching yourself all night wishing it was me…” he says sheepishly and his thumb grazed your core. His eyebrow raises as he feels the amount of heat coming off of you and the subtle wetness seeping through your leggings. This brings a smile to his face and looks up at you to see you in agony. You’re desperate for more of him and can’t help it that you push your hips onto the spot where his thumb is.

“Mmm, so needy I see. Let me help you with that honey. I just want you to feel good. You’ve been killing me all day with how beautiful you look,” he coos as his hand grazes your face and you lean in to kiss him.

Your lips crash together like the ocean meets the sand and it feels perfect. The kisses are so intense and passionate that there’s hardly any time to breathe. You place one hand on his face and the other on his thigh. You so desperately want to be taken out of here and have him ruin you all night long. Your kisses deepen and his tongue explores yours, licking your bottom lip at first then pushing it in further and moaning when he does this. You start to move your hand up his thigh and smile when you find his large bulge hardening and making his pants even tighter.

You can’t help but break the kiss and look down and what your hand is tracing over. You feel your core throb, wanting him to take care of this undeniable need you have for him to please you in any way he can come up with. You place more pressure on the outline of his hardened dick and hear his breathing hitch and he places his hand on top of yours, slowly rubbing it with you.

“See, you’re killing me. Let’s get out of here,” he pleads and you solemnly nod your head.

Your heart races as this are one of the most scandalous things you would ever do! You always kept it professional but something about Austin had you dying for his attention. Fear strikes you when you realize it might raise some eyebrows if you show up at his hotel. You swallow that fear and get into his car and drive off to the hotel which is only a short drive away from the studio. He parks out front and gives the keys to the valet and you realize you both are staying at the same hotel.

Well, at least no one will be asking questions about why we’re showing up here together…

You both round the corner of the lobby to the hallway where the elevators are. You keep a comfortable distance from each other, keeping it professional in the public eye. The up arrow flashes and Austin has you step in the elevator first and he follows behind. He presses the fifteen button and waits for the doors to close. As soon as they shut, he pushes you against the wall and kisses your lips with fire. He pushes his hips into you causing a groan to slip out of you and his hands roam your body freely. You want so much more contact with him, your body is aching for it and you claw at his back, causing him to let out a low guttural growl.

One hand grabs your ass and he squeezes it in his large hand. He starts to trail his kisses down along your cheek and down to your neck where he pauses there and sucks on the sensitive flesh. His free hand travels across your breasts, down your torso where he finally stops when his fingers find your throbbing core. You’ve only gotten wetter since you both left the studio so the wetness has soaked through your panties and your leggings, causing a big wet spot to form in between your legs. He places two of his finger on your clit and rubs in slow, agonizing circles. You gasp at the sensation as you have been so on edge since first meeting him.

“Seems like you’ve soaked through your leggings, you need it that bad hmm?” His voice was low and in control. You look at those endless blue oceanic eyes and nod your head yes as a small whine escapes your lips.

“I can take care of that honey,” he coos into your ear and pulls his body away from yours as you feel the elevator cart come to an abrupt stop.

He leads you out of the elevator and down the hall to where his room is. He taps the key card on the lock and the little light on the door turns green and he opens the door for you. He finds the light switch and you cautiously make your way through the room. It isn’t large by any means but the king-sized bed that is in the middle of the room seems massive. You feel him come from behind you and start to kiss your neck again. His hands grope your breasts and you feel his cock getting hard again pushing into your ass.

You moan at the feelings he is giving you and how desperate you are to take off his clothes. It’s almost as if he reads your mind as he picks you up and places you on the edge of the bed and lifts your shirt off your body. He unhooks your bra and places wet, sloppy kisses all over your breasts sucking hard on your nipples. You’re breathless and your head continues to spin. He gets on his knees in front of you and places kiss up and down your torso before hooking his fingers around the waistband of your leggings. In one quick motion, he drags them off your legs, also taking your panties off with them. You see the wetness that has smeared on your inner thighs and your cheeks get red at the sight. This only creates a smirk on Austin’s face and he runs his fingers on it. He spreads your legs wider so he can see how wet you truly are. He bites his lower lips at the sight before him.

“God, you look so perfect. So wet for me,” he teases as he runs his index finger through your folds causing you to hiss. You can’t help that your hips roll onto his finger wanting more than just a light touch. You start to unbutton his shirt and yank it off of his beautiful frame. His tan skin glowed in this light. You want to lick every square inch of this man.

He slowly puts his finger in your dripping pussy and you moan his name. He slowly pumps it in and out of you, feeling every inch of your walls and how taught you are around his long finger. He looks at your every reaction and slips in his middle finger inside you, causing you to arch your back and roll your hips onto him. He picks up the pace watching intently how so much wetness is spilling out of you and how good you look getting fucked by his fingers.

“Austin, fuck, I-I-I… I want you inside me,” you pant as you grab his forearm. A stark grin forms on his face, “I already am inside of you, what more could you possibly want,” he teases and curls his fingers inside you. Your eyes roll back in your head and you feel the coil in your belly tighten. His fingers are reaching places you never knew existed and you want nothing more than for him to make you cum.

He pulls his finger out of you and licks the wetness off of them before starting to unbutton his jeans. Your breathing quickens and you’re so on edge you almost feel the room spinning.

“Are you ready for me?” He stands up as he is unzipping his jeans and his cock is at eye level to you. He glides them down his leg and kicks them to the side. He’s left in his boxer briefs and they make his hard cock look delicious laying down on his leg. He slowly slides them down springing his cock free and your eyes grow wide.

“Oh fuck,” you moan and bite your lip as you continue to gaze at his impressive length. Everything about him looked good while he was naked. His toned body down to his hard cock. He was longer than you expected and your mouth watered at the sight before you. The veins protruding on his shaft made him look so good and the red tip of his head was leaking with precum. His balls were hanging tight closer to his body but nevertheless were ample in size. He takes his right hand as you are staring at him and starts to jerk himself off. The way his hand enveloped his shaft and a small sigh slipped from his lips as his thumb smeared the sticky wetness from his tip along some of his shaft. You couldn’t stop looking at how big he really was and how hot it was watching him jerk himself off in front of you.

“You sure you’re ready for me baby girl? Do you think you could take all of this cock inside you?” He teases and you feel your core throb at his words.

“Please, Austin, fuck me,” you beg and he pushes your body down with your arms above your head. Austin examines your body laid out before him and starts to run the head of his cock through your sopping wet folds. You moan, unable to take anymore teasing from this man. After he gets some of your wetness on his shaft, he lines himself up to your entrance and carefully starts to put inch by inch inside of you.

You’ve never experienced sex with anyone so big so the feelings you were having were unlike anything you’ve ever felt. He was slow and gentle, making sure you were adjusting to his length and not causing it to become painful. The way he was stretching you with each slow thrust was driving you wild. The sound of his soft grunts every time he put more of his cock inside of you was the hottest thing you’ve ever heard. He had one hand around your wrists that were above your head and the other rubbing your swollen sensitive bud.

You arch into his hand, letting out a whine needing so much more than what he’s giving you. You claw at the sheets beneath you and your breathing quickens and whining moans escape you. You look up at those blue eyes full of lust that could consume you if you let them. Without saying a word, you plead for him to give you more. He kisses you deeply and pushes in the rest of his cock inside you, bottoming out and he groans loudly.

Your mouth opens when you feel how much he’s filling you and are so overwhelmed by the way he’s stretching you out. He starts to move his hips faster causing you to scream. Every thrust was hitting your cervix and the mix of pain and pleasure was driving you crazy. You shut your eyes closed as you let Austin take you any way he wants. His fingers pick up the pace on your clit causing you to feel the coil in your belly tighten.

“Fuck, you’re taking this cock so well baby. Feeling so good,” he moans into your ear.

The way he moves his hips should be a crime. I guess he kept some of Elvis’ moves…

His hips continue to swivel and pound into you effortlessly. His pace is slow and controlled but you know you can’t last very long like this. He’s hitting all the right places and your walls are hugging his length tightly.

“I’m gonna cum,” you cry out. He sucks on your neck, marking you as his, and slowly starts to pull himself out of you.

You whine at the feeling of being so empty and watch him as he gets off of you and proceeds to sit on the bed with the pillows behind his back. He stretches his long legs out and sits there with his hard cock glistening full of your juices.

“It’s your turn baby. I want you to do just as I said before. Slow fuck me until you cum apart on this cock,” he commands as he looks at your body hungrily.

You crawl over to him and straddle his narrow hips. Grabbing a fist full of his hair, you pull his head back, nibbling and sucking on his gorgeous neck, leaving little red marks going down it. He moans out in frustration and you feel his cock twitch against your tummy. His hands find your nipples and start to roll them in between his fingers, sending shocks of pleasure straight to your leaking cunt.

You let go of his hair and line him up to your entrance. You slowly sink down on his head and your eyes roll back as you feel him stretch your weeping pussy. You look back at him and his mouth is open, watching as your pussy consumes his cock inch by inch.

You take more of him and moan the more he fills you. You’re moving so slow, just like he said, but he gets restless and bucks his hips up into you and makes you take all of his length deep inside you.

You squeeze and claw at his biceps and moan out his name. He holds your hips still as you adjust to him. Rocking your hips back and forth, you feel how insanely good he’s filling you never wanting this to end.

He starts to move in and out of you, helping you ride him.

“Such a good girl, keep riding me baby,” he says breathlessly and you squeeze his length at the sound of his words. You try to keep the same rhythm he's setting but you want nothing more than buck wildly on him.

You lean back and reach out your hands to place them on his calves. You rock your hips at this new angle and you see how his eyes become drunk on watching you take his cock like this. He starts moaning louder and muttering expletives under his breath. He throws his head back and squeezed his eyes shut after a while, knowing he’s close to coming apart.

This angle is hitting the most sensitive spot inside you and you feel the coil inside you about to snap. Your walls start to flutter around his girth and he watches as your mouth opens in ecstasy. Both of your moans and grunts fill the otherwise silent room and you start to move faster on him. He pulls you up so you two are chest to chest. He sucks and bites on your neck as he fucks you harder, needing every last ounce of you.

“Cum baby girl, I feel you’re so close,” he groans in your ear. He grabs your hair and pulls it back a little, never leaving eye contact with you. You wrap your arms around his shoulders and fuck him harder as you start to clench around his cock. Your vision starts to see spots and you squeeze your eyes shut as you ride out your orgasm.

“Ohh, fuck baby,” you moan out loudly and leave scratch marks down his chest. No one has ever made you orgasm this much and your body feels euphoric. As your orgasm slows, you start to open your eyes again. His face looks so fucked out, with his eyebrows furrowed together.

“It’s your turn, baby. I know you want to cum,” you pant and you pull his hair as he lets out a groan. He bucks his hips into a few more times into you before lifting you up off of him and leaving you sitting on your knees. He gets off the bed and entices you to come to him with just the motion of his index finger. His eyes look like they’re on fire as he watches you crawl to him on the edge of the bed to him. You stare as he jerks his cock off in front of you. His head was red and your juices covered his entire length.

“Open that dirty mouth baby. Need to fill it with everything I can give you.” He groans as he moves his hand faster.

You open your mouth for him and feel hot spurts of his cum coat your tongue and the back of your mouth. You can’t help but moan at this obscene act and how much you’re getting off to it. You feel your wetness drip down the side of your thigh as he fills your mouth with his hot cum. You watch his face as he cums and it’s the hottest thing you’ve ever encountered. The way his lip curls and how the veins in his neck pop out as he’s finishing.

He carefully puts the tip of his cock on your tongue and gasps at the feeling. You look up slyly and suck on his head. The last way you can tease him and get away with all that you’ve done. He hisses at the sensation as he is overstimulated at this point. You gently suck his tip one last time and release it with a pop of your mouth. He grabs your face with his large hand and looks down at you.

“You better swallow that like a good girl,” he commands breathlessly.

You swallow his warm, thick seed, and a grin forms across his face. He wipes your bottom lip and goes in to kiss you. His tongue swirls in your mouth and he places a hand on your cheek as you both relish in the kiss.

He breaks the kiss to look at you and he pulls you into his arms.

“Was that okay for you?” He asks innocently, his boyish features shining out as he genuinely feels the need to know you were taken care of.

In your mind, you want to scream that was the best sex you’ve ever had. But you remain composed and try to hide your face in his chest.

“Mhmm, it was beyond okay… I don’t know what else to say .” You giggle slightly.

“Well, it was amazing for me too. Let me get a towel for you. You just can’t help but make a mess everywhere you go huh?” He laughs as he squeezes your wet, sticky thigh.

You roll your eyes and laugh at him. You hug your knees to your chest and relive the events of today in your head.

If today proved anything, you really loved your job and will never forget a second of it.

Austin comes from the bathroom with a towel in his hand and one around his waist.

How could he look any more attractive…

He gently wipes your thighs and pats the wetness from your swollen folds. You tense up a bit and he rubs your back soothingly.

“I got you, honey, just relax,” he says and places a kiss on your cheek.

There’s a comfortable silence between you both and you’re not sure what to say next.

He’s rubbing circles on your back and starts humming a tune as he lays back and pulls you in his arms.

“So, um, I have a question for you honey,” he says shyly.

“Mhmm, what is it…” you say sleepily.

“Well, I could escort you back to your room so you can enjoy the rest of your night alone, or…” he trails off and your body freezes in anticipation. The sound of his low, raspy voice can make you fall apart again right here. He grabs your hip and squeezes the soft flesh there.

“I can make you stay here all night and fuck you until the sun comes up.”

Your heart flutters and starts ringing in your ears. Your hand trails down his body til it finds his semi-hard cock.

“Mmm… you’re gonna have to make me stay,” you say squeezing your hand over him.

“It’s gonna be a long night for you,” he teases.

Tagging💕

@powerofelvis @burninlovebutler @plasticfantasticl0ver @cryingabtab @ab4eva @marriedtopresley @mooodyblue @returntoelvis @areacodefan @notstefaniepresley @succsessions @lindszeppelin @peaceloveelvis @kendralavon7 @katelswan @star-shard @heartbrake-hotel @loving-elvis @missmaywemeetagain @eliseinmemphis @generoustreemystic

[courtney-deserved-better]

my fair lady: part eleven - a gwourtney choose your own adventure!

(part one | part two | part three | part four | part five | part six | part seven | part eight | part nine | part ten) (read on ao3)

the new season is REALLY helping with my motivation to write total drama fics. enjoy the new chapter!

What is she going to do about this crush?

Don’t tell Alejandro your plans, a little voice in the back of her head warns. If Heather and Noah are right, then he can’t be trusted. And it was your relationship with Duncan that made you vulnerable to elimination in the very first season…

“I’m going to win the challenge,” Courtney declares, trying to steady her voice. She has a crush on Gwen. Holy shit. She has a crush on Gwen. “We really should go ahead and get that clue. What’s taking the others so long?”

Gwen decides to answer that question by sprinting across the courtyard and nearly collapsing at Courtney’s feet.

“Oh my God, Gwen! Are you okay?”

“Where are Noah and Heather?” Alejandro asks.

Gwen wheezes, trying to catch her breath. “Ripper got ‘em. I stepped out of the room for two seconds and… they screamed, and when I came back in, they were just gone.”

“That’s not good,” Courtney says.

“It’ll be a lot more difficult to win the challenge now,” Alejandro adds.

“Yeah, and Heather and Noah got snatched up by a serial killer!”

“But it’s not the real Ripper. I’m pretty sure he wouldn’t be alive nowadays. It’s just an actor to scare them and take them away, right?”

Courtney and Gwen glance at one another.

“…Right?”

“You do know I’ve fought an actual murderer that tried to chainsaw me in season one, right?” Gwen asks.

Alejandro blanches.

“…Right?”

“Look, whatever’s going on with Heather and Noah, we can’t help them now,” Courtney says. “And they’re probably not being murdered, Gwen only had to deal with a real serial killer because he snuck his way onto the island, it wasn’t set up.”

“I genuinely don’t know if that’s better or worse,” Alejandro says.

Gwen stands up, brushing off her tights. “Courtney’s right. We should go for the next clue. Which is…?”

“Probably in the jewelry case on the table on the table,” Courtney points through the window.

“Let’s get this over with,” Gwen says, resolutely marching toward the door.

The trio manages to make it inside and to the case, which Courtney roots around in. Alejandro and Gwen stand guard.

“Golden toothpick, emerald studded toothbrush… what is wrong with these royals and their dentistry?”

“Noah probably would make a joke about bad British teeth if he were here,” Alejandro sighs.

Gwen frowns. “He’s not dead… that we know of.”

“Very helpful, chica.”

“Where’s the freaking clue?!” Courtney grumbles. “How much of this stuff do I have to paw through—”

“Uh, speaking of paws,” Gwen says, “those guard dogs sure do have a lot of them.”

Courtney and Alejandro turn to see an army of corgis growling at them.

“Uh oh.”

“This is why I’m a cat person,” Alejandro mutters.

Gwen looks over at Courtney. “Got anything round in there?”

Courtney passes her a golden egg.

“See the shiny ball… now sit!”

I like seeing Gwen take charge, Courtney thinks. Wait, how did I not realize I had a crush on her until five minutes ago?

“That’s so cute,” Courtney says, watching Gwen transform the corgis’ growls into smiles and tail wags.

“Los perros también,” Alejandro adds under his breath. Courtney elbows him. “How’d you do that?”

“I taught my lizards obedience,” Gwen says, spinning the golden egg on one finger and utterly oblivious to Courtney and Alejandro’s exchange. “I guess corgis are just as—”

“The clue!” Alejandro cries, pointing at the piece of paper sticking out from the middle of the egg.

“You found it!” Courtney takes the egg and twists it open. “Nice work, Gwen!”

“Hey, I doubt our team would’ve even made it to the torture rack without you.”

Courtney grins, certain she’s blushing.

“Ah, Courtney, what does the clue say?” Alejandro asks.

“Right, the clue! The Ripper’s most natural place has two levels inside it’s space. Go use your sack to bring the guy back.”

“Sack?” Gwen asks.

Alejandro grabs a burlap sack off the massive dining table. “I was wondering what this was doing here. It seemed out of place.”

“So we have to capture the Ripper,” Gwen says.

“Who is… probably not an actual serial killer if the ultimate goal of this challenge is to capture him?”

“Probably,” Courtney says.

Gwen takes the sack from Alejandro. “This is going to be awesome.”

“Hunting down someone who may as well be an actual serial killer?!”

“Yeah!”

Courtney puts a hand on Gwen’s shoulder. “Alejandro, it’s probably not even a real serial killer, but if it comes down to a fight with a real one, then we’ll for sure win. Gwen has a good track record.”

“And I’ve seen Courtney kick ass,” Gwen says. “The Ripper should fear us.”

Alejandro sighs. “Fine. Let’s just go to this final location… which is where?”

[arialim639]

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Placing the cards remaining in the deck on top of the stack of cards that were cut and placed on the cover card pursuant to section (c)(1)(ii) above; and Removing the cover card and placing it in the discard rack; and Deal the cards in accordance with the procedures set forth in Sections 7, 8 or 9. Most progressive jackpot machines are connected to others in a computerized network. In several provinces, VLTs were deployed primarily to help counter illegal underground video gambling operations, while several (particularly those whose economies are reliant on natural resources) cited economic development as a factor in their use. Thus, a player may stand on the two cards originally dealt to them, or they may ask the dealer for additional cards, one at a time, until deciding to stand on the total (if it is 21 or under), or goes "bust" (if it is over 21).

The popular casino game has been featured in many films and TV shows across the world. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/?search=먹튀사이트 Almost all of them have in common that there are exactly four suits, and numbers or other symbols indicate which cards within a suit are better, higher or more valuable than others, whereas there is no order between the suits unless defined in the rules of a specific game. Full-pay Jacks or Better, for example, offers a payback percentage of 99.54%. Some payback percentages on full-pay games are often close to or even in excess of 100 percent. These early cards, like those designed for Charles VI, were hand made. Later on they were mass produced from wood blocks and were colored using a stencil.

In the early 1990s, Gonzalo Garcia-Pelayo believed that casino roulette wheels were not perfectly random, and that by recording the results and analysing them with a computer, he could gain an edge on the house by predicting that certain numbers were more likely to occur next than the 1-in-36 odds offered by the house suggested. At a live casino, the smallest ante bet you’ll find at a Caribbean Stud poker table is likely $5 but there’s a chance you can stumble across a $3 table every now and then. With online Caribbean Stud Poker you will find much lower limits – with the ante even capped at $2.50 in some cases. If the casino allows switching two or more cards that option should never be taken.Once the switch decision has been made the player can follow Caribbean Stud Poker strategy when deciding to raise or fold.The layout is either single-zero or double-zero.

These are explained in more detail below and are quite well articulated by the designers in their pamphlet. Secondly, there is an order horizontally within each suit the meaning of which is harder to determine. Sigma Flush Attack is a combination of video poker and a banking slot, in this case what is being banked is flushes. For example, if the single roll minimum at the table is $1 the Horn bet must be $4 or more. 먹튀사이트 Video poker games online are now available in the US in 3 different states: New Jersey, Delaware, and Nevada. Players in all three states are able to enjoy fully regulated online video poker games provided that they are physically present in the respective state, of legal age to gamble, and can validate their identity.

The legend goes something like this: in 1765, John Montagu, the fourth Earl of Sandwich, was such a huge gambler that he didn't want to leave the gaming table to eat. The term ‘stiff’ in blackjack refers to a hand that is under the total of 17 but is likely to go bust. The player who hits bingo after the desired ball count does not win the jackpot but does win a consolation prize.The growing number of workers enabled the development of the commune with the construction of housing, schools, shops, roads, and small industries but the war marked a halt to this development.

In certain jurisdictions, VLTs are known as video gaming devices (VGD) or video slot machines along with "Video Gaming Terminal (VGT)". Rolls of 4, 6, 8, and 10 are called "hard" or "easy" (e.g. "six the hard way", "easy eight", "hard ten") depending on whether they were rolled as a "double" or as any other combination of values, because of their significance in center table bets known as the "hard ways". Except for blackjack, which has odds that change continuously as cards are dealt out, casino games are designed with a fixed mathematical edge in favor of the house.In a wide sense of the word, stock markets may also be considered a form of gambling, albeit one in which skill and knowledge on the part of the bettors play a considerable part.

In the summer of 1891 at the Monte Carlo casino, a part-time swindler and petty crook from London named Charles Wells broke the bank at each table he played over a period of several days. If a player and the dealer tie in blackjack then nobody wins. The bet is returned to the players upon a tie being confirmed. The house is geared to win in the long run because of a mathematical advantage (or the house edge) that the casino enjoys over the player.The maximum amount allowed to be wagered on a single bet in European roulette is based on a progressive betting model.

[jaetaimjadore]

doublure d’argent | l.ty

Pairing: Lee Taeyong x reader

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

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

Word count: 48.3k

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

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

I. …boyfriend?

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

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

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

“Y/n, listen-”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, Miss.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

So yes, people may call you a bitch.

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

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

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

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

Oh, the perils of being famous.

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

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

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

Now, this is more like it.

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

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

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

They did their research, you think inwardly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hmm, I can tell.”

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

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

You freeze.

Boyfriend?

What boyfriend?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What the fuck is this?

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

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

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

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

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

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

He picks up on the second ring.

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

“But you have a model inspection durin-”

“NOW!”

─── ⪧ ⪦ ───

“What the hell is this?”

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

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

A scandal.

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

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

So, where the fuck were public relations this time?

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

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

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

Which they aren’t.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

II. The Grand Toast

Lee Taeyong is a simple man.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You’ll waste your life away.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Without losing his job.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No one?” 

He shakes his head with pursed lips. 

“Not even after offering them double salary?”

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

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

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

III. Goodbye, World

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

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

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

Darn toast.

***

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

“Excuse me, sir?”

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

“Yes?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ten simply blinks. “Yes.”

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

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

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

“Taeyong,” Taeyong chimes in.

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

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

“Even toast?”

“Even toast.”

***

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

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

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

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

Shit, I’m done for.

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

It’s only a matter of time, now.

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

Bloody hell, why is everything in this place silver?

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

“Mr Lee Taeyong.”

 “Yes, ma’am,” he promptly replies.

This is it, goodbye, world

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

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

He finally nods.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You scoff, pointing a rigid finger toward him. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“He’s all clear.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Okay.”

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

“But on one condition.”

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

Conditions are never good news.

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

Undercover?

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

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

“Will I get paid for it?” he asks.

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

“Consider it done.”

IV. Depraved Little Devil

“You’re late.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Please, it’s Taeyong.”

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

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

─── ⪧ ⪦ ───

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“He had reason to.”

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

I know, goddamnit!

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

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

“Out of turn,” you voice sternly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Let’s.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“He’s on the skinnier side.”

“And yet you’re still staring.”

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

“It’s my job to stare.”

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

“He’s wearing pants-”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Kim Heechul

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

“Who is it?” Taeyong calls.

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

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

“Y/n?”

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

“Give him a minute, he’ll be back.”

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

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

“Is everything okay?”

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

“More than okay.”

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

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

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

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

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

You.

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

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

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

***

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

Man, that was close.

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

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

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

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

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

“The debunking article,” Heechul emphasises.

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

Absolutely ridiculous.

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

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

“Perhaps I could get used to this.”

Crazy.

She must be crazy.

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

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

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

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

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

If only she knew.

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

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

“No,” you reply.

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

Your eyes find themselves to Taeyong’s.

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

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

You and Jung Jaehyun are not a couple.

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

“Please.”

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

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

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

V. Teach Me How to Walk

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

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

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

9:18 PM

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Taeyong.”

Still no response.

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

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

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

“And she smiles, folks.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Would you like a hand?”

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

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

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

“So you’ve modelled before?”

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

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

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

“Very,” you deadpan.

“Fine, then. Teach me how to walk.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Now you try.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He snorts, “Look who’s talking–”

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

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

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

Taeyong nods.

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

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

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

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

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

“Why so quiet?”

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

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

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

No.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Can I ask you something?”

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

“Why silver?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Here.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So, where the hell is the remorse?

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

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

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

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

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

Taeyong [12:47am]: Goodnight :)

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

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

God, what is wrong me?

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

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

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

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

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

VI. The Loved and The Lost

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

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

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

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

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

“Just do it! Now!”

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

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

Jaehyun?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No.”

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

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

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

─── ⪧ ⪦ ───

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

Almost.

“Miss Y/l/n, what are you doin-”

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

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

Jung Jaehyun is fucking dead.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This feels so different.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I gave you everything.”

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

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

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

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

“You know why people don’t like you?”

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

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

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

Bitch. 

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

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

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

That he had once deserved.

Not anymore.

“Go to hell, you bastard.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ten [3:18pm]: how are you going?

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

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

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

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

Ten [3:20pm]: already been done

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

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

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

Taeyong [3:25pm]: hey, you busy?

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

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

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

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

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

Taeyong [3:26pm]: happy feet 🤨

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

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

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

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

Taeyong [3:26pm]: hmm I’ll take it

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

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

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

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

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

Taeyong [3:27pm]: I’ll see you soon

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

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

VII. Tell Me

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, miss.”

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

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

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

Note to self: must fire Charlie.

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

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

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

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

“Figured you needed the fresh air.”

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

“Taeyong?”

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

“Hey,” he offers.

“Shouldn’t you be at work?”

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

Gosh, I really do need this break.

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

“Don’t worry, I’m done for the day.”

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

“What did you do to your hair?”

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

“Aahhh.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Just for a while.

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

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

***

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

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

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

This.

This is what you need.

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

But this is exactly what I can’t have.

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

“Taeyong, do you think I’m a bitch?”

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

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

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

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

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

But perhaps it’s something you need.

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

“Yeah, I think you are a bitch.”

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

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

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

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

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

Taeyong eyes you sceptically. 

“Everyone else, as in Jaehyun?”

“Especially him.”

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

You chuckle resentfully. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What?” you ask.

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

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

This is the first time someone is willing to listen.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Well, what about that one?”

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

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

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

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

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

“And you fell.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

God, he wants to kiss you. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“As a matter of fact, I do.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Y/n [8:07pm]: I don’t know

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

Taeyong [8:07pm]: 😱😱😱

Taeyong [8:07pm]: the disrespect

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

Taeyong [8:08pm]: you’re welcome

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

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

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

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

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

Y/n [8:08pm]: you’re not slick :/

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

Taeyong [8:09pm]: curious, are we?

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

Taeyong [8:09pm]: well…

Y/n [8:09pm]: well…?

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

VIII. A *Bit* of Fun

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Taeyong, I swear if we get caught-”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How-”

“It’s called practice.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“We’re at a fair, Y/n.”

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

“You don’t have to be stiff here.”

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

“Loosen up.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Truly you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

IX. Give Yourself a Break

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Good?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Aren’t you tired?”

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

“Do you usually go to bed this early?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You need to give yourself a break.”

“I’m already on a break.”

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

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

And you’re very wrong.

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

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

“With this godforsaken bun.”

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

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

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

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

“I-”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Am I in love with him?

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

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

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

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

“It’s okay, I can get it-”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Kim Heechul

6 Text Messages

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I thought you were getting water.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And your smile. Your beautiful smile. 

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

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

Not yet.

X. Who Am I Really Kidding?

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

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

And Jaehyun?

Ugh, fuck him and his two-faced ass.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But who are you really kidding, anyway?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

─── ⪧ ⪦ ───

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Your fault, baby, not mine.”

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

And, bloody hell, all these nicknames.

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

Oh, how the tables have turned.

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

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

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

“Oh, so I guess you need another demonstration.” Taeyong doesn’t allow you a second to process his words, his other hand sliding to your jaw and pulling your mouth to his once again in a searing kiss. “This is why,” he mumbles against your lips, and you can’t help but blaze under the soft sensation of him, every inch of you melting naturally as ice under a heated summer sky…that is, until reality dawns on you once again, and you take it upon yourself to stomp a hard heel to Taeyong’s foot.

He pulls away placidly, head tilting in amusement. “You really think that hurt?” He raises an eyebrow, watching your own furrow on your forehead as you look down to his shoes, face falling in realisation. Goddamn you and your perfectly robust shoe designs.

“That’s cute,” Taeyong mumbles ardently, resisting the urge to kiss away the small pout on your face.

“Thank you, now get back to work,” you huff out in embarrassment, unsure how to handle the heat radiating from your surely pinkening cheeks as Taeyong chuckles and takes a step away to walk toward the door. Despite your words, you merely find yourself wishing he’d stay by your side for a little longer, close enough to hold your hands and kindle their warmth even further, unafraid to burn under the very whisper of his presence. But he only turns to blow a kiss your away, exchanging it with a smile of yours to etch in the back of his mind as he exits your office. 

You’re left airy and still in the echo of the room, resisting the urge to sway this way and that with every warm wave of joy coating your mind.

“Right, the documents,” you shake your head, eyes flickering before scurrying to your chair. “Focus, Y/n,” you tap your cheek twice, collecting the strewn-out papers into a neat pile before fingering through each one, signing your name wherever required and eyeing through the RSVP list, just to make sure Ten hadn’t approved of any unwanted guests – namely anyone whose credentials align with Qi Fashion Labels.

You jump in surprise at the loud ringing of a phone at the far end of your desk, humming in a second of confusion at the unfamiliar ringtone – though you’re only left to assume the device belongs to Taeyong given his track record of forgetting his belongings in his every wake. With a roll of your eyes, you decide upon ignoring it, allowing the caller to exhaust all futile hope for an answer, continuing to your papers. The ringing ceases after a while, but silence only lasts so long, as it’s shrill cries once again echo through the glass of the room, rattling through your final nerves. With a groan, you reach out to the phone, eyes scanning over the caller ID to find a familiar name once again displayed on the screen.

Kim Heechul

“A friend, perhaps?” you wonder aloud, teeth gnawing at the inside of your cheek as you internally tussle with the thought of whether or not to answer the call. 

What if it’s something serious, you reason with yourself, considering that the average caller would merely ring and hang up unless there was an urgent matter at hand. If a few weeks ago was any indication, this Heechul person seemed to have some kind of pull with Taeyong. And though you’re never one to trespass on the private matters of others, you think it would only be right to put the caller’s mind to ease by letting him know that Taeyong would be sure to ring him back sometime later. So, without another second to spare, your thumb finds the green button and the phone finds itself at the cusp of your ear.

“Hel-”

The Walkway’s tube lights flickering to a silent darkness has grown onto Taeyong as something of a delicate sound; as if in the next second, he could expect fireflies to appear with the beckoning tinkle of the bulbs. It’s almost embarrassing to admit that time and again, Taeyong has actually spent that extra second waiting for small glowing specs to appear, but every time, he has left only with his own shadow to greet him a final farewell for the evening.

The same routine emulates today. Taeyong steps out of the room, but this time his silhouette stands a mere sidepiece of the night, his eyes rather much too eagerly finding the screen of his phone, hoping to finally see your name in his notifications.

No Older Notifications

He frowns in confusion, unlocking his phone to find the blue bubble he’d sent that morning still unaccompanied by a reply from you. His frown only deepens, as he turns his head in the direction of your office at the far end of the hallway, a streak of worry convening in the growing creases of his brows at blackness emulating through the glass. 

It was a strange and rare occurrence for you to have left work at such an early hour of the evening; so much so, that if you did, one could only conclude that something was gravely wrong.

Taeyong thinks back to the nature of the last two days; all the times you were in the same room but never so much as spared him a glance, the numerous photoshoots you weren’t present for despite having scheduled them in yourself, not to mention your complete absence in all the mock-runways.  It really wouldn’t be an understatement to say that things have been rather odd on your end – tense, now that Taeyong really thinks about it. You always seemed to be in all the places he wasn’t and he’s unable to formulate a logical reason why.

It then occurs to Taeyong that neither you, nor him had taken the time to label the relationship you’ve harboured in the past week; there simply was none in the first place. But all of it – the secret handholding, the trivial gestures and texts – he’s positive it’s all come from some romantic facet within you.

Taeyong’s mind sifts through a million thoughts a minute. He can’t help wondering if he’d made you uncomfortable in any way, or if you were just stressed and felt the need to withdraw for a while or maybe you just-

“Done for the day?”

There was that voice that, among the tumble and wave of the last month, had remained solitary and constant. A voice that remained dutiful and obliging, belonging to an equally hospitable man who now steps out of his office with his black clipboard and silver spectacles.

“Yeah, I finished early,” Taeyong replies with a small smile, though Ten only raises an eyebrow as Taeyong’s eyes stray once more to your office behind his shoulder.

“So did Y/n,” Ten states, the metallic scrape of his keys resounding harshly as he twists one in the lock. “She left perhaps an hour or so ago.”

“Oh, do you know if she’s unwell or…”

“She didn’t mention anything specific, but I’d assume so, considering she’s not usually one to leave without some life-altering reason,” Ten chuckles, shrugging on his trench coat and slinging a satchel over his shoulder. 

“She’s probably just tired from all the work that’s been going on lately. Burnout isn’t exactly unheard of during this time of year.” Taeyong only nods, earning a pat on the back from Ten. “Well, I’m also heading off early to review the venue with our performance artist. Good work today, Taeyong. Take some rest yourself. You’ll need it.”

“Thank you, have a good evening,” Taeyong answers, exchanging a small bow with Ten and watching as his perfectly styled hair enters the elevator on the other side of the hall. A small vibration casts Taeyong’s eyes once again to the palm of his hand, his phone briefly aglow with the name he’d longed to see for hours now.

Y/n [5:48pm]: Come out to the field

Y/n [5:48pm]: I’ll be waiting

Taeyong exclaims in surprise, a small grin forming at his lips as his worries thaw slightly at the thought of you inviting him to his own favourite place; the thought of you waiting there in the grass for him as if it were something of fate taken straight from a poet’s diary.

Perhaps nothing was really wrong at all.

Perhaps all you needed was a clean breath of air.

XI. Once, Betrayed. Twice, A Damned Fool

It was one thing to watch the sky fade from blue to orange through the mirrored windows of a skyscraper, but it was something else entirely to view it from this position in the field. The sky was not simply blue when you’d set yourself down once again among the bed of itchy grass and ticklish flowers. There’s no one way to describe the colour you had seen, but it somehow felt…deep.

Deeper in colour, deeper in meaning, deeper in intent and in sorrow.

That deepness only grew as evening began its mingling commute with daylight, silently reaching forth its palm and convening a colour far intangibly ardent than orange, all of it accented quite perfectly by the large ball of fire in its routine fall.

You can’t recall another time when the sun had ever felt so blistering among the bittered February air. And, it was rather amusing to you, really, that of all possible days, today is when the clouds had chosen not to shade you.  There hadn’t been even a speck of white or grey to dampen the sizzle on your face.

Or in your heart.

You tug your coat tighter around yourself, head tilting as you watch the head of a yellow flower being tugged this way and that by harsh gale. It too doesn’t simply feel yellow – well, not in this moment, at least. Its bud looks wilted, slightly browned as if to preserve what little charming dignity it had once possessed. Such a naïve thing it was. Handing itself over to the forces of nature, blossoming, thriving, living in artless denial, and never once stopping to think it would one day end up bowing down in regret for ever committing such a profitless sin.

There really is more than meets the eye in all conceivable forms of life, you’ve come to realise. But only those cunning enough to blind their abetter are able see right through each facade.

The harsh crunching of grass behind you almost beckons you to turn, but you stop yourself if only to prevent your hair from covering your eyes.

Taeyong simply smiles to himself, your free locks a perfect accessory to the panorama in front of him. He sits down beside you and you dare to glimpse at him in your periphery.

“Hey,” he speaks so delicately. So quietly and softly as if to blend in with the wind and its every hidden sentiment.

“Hi,” you reply, eyes still trained on the yellow flower, and it’s when you refuse to smile or even look at Taeyong that he begins to frown, the worry of earlier finding its place within him.

“Y/n, is something wrong-”

“Did I ever tell you,” you interrupt him, pausing to take a shaky breath as the wind bites at the burning skin of your neck, “about when I was nineteen?” 

Confusion settles at Taeyong’s brows, though curiosity swirls through his eyes as they peer at you. The last time you were here with him, you’d given something of general overview of your life as a child and progressions as a designer, but never specifically anything about when you were nineteen. Taeyong shakes his head.

“I lived in a box apartment – at tiny little thing at the edge of the city, just trying to make ends meet. Ten and Jaehyun were the only people I had at the time. Nobody else.” If your voice holds a single mite of sentiment, it’s all but imperceptible to Taeyong, as is any emotion in your distant eyes which still refuse to meet his own.

“Nothing was working out for us in that year; all we really had was a handsome rookie, a jobless assistant and my notebook of drawings. Every company we approached had shunned us in less than a day. We were left broke, desperate, hopeless. I, for one, was ready to give up everything.” The memory plays in your mind as a series of blurred motions, your jaw clenching and chin raising slightly to keep a composed front. “But they both kept me going. They told me to never give up, no matter what. That-”

“Every cloud has a silver lining.”

It’s almost funny to hear those words falling from Taeyong’s mouth so naturally, but you nod, nonetheless.

“I had no choice but to keep moving forward; I couldn’t let them down so horribly. So, every night, by routine, I would sit by my window in my little box, and look out to Manhattan City, just hoping – praying – I’d make it there some day. Somehow.” You pause for a moment, taking another deep breath and gulping down the growing tightness in your throat.

“Look where I am now. It seems like I truly have made it…especially considering my own models are writing fake news behind my back.”

***

“Hel-”

“We just keep hitting those milestones, my friend. Luxe just received a retail offer we can’t deny! The biggest department store in the country wants to show your work off to the world!” 

The voice that echoes from the speaker sounds awfully cheerful; an inflection belonging to a middle-aged man, though that’s all you’re able to gather as you mind draws question marks at his peculiar words. You’re quick to remind yourself that Taeyong must have, in fact, had a job prior to the one you’d given him, and assume that this Heechul guy must be one of his colleagues or associates of some kind.

You open your mouth to speak, but the man beats you to it.

“Taeyong, I’m gonna need you to make sure this article is as snappy as your Y/l/n-Jung scandal – no, even better than that.”

Your face contorts in bewilderment, eyebrows cinching tightly together and jaw falling ajar as a wave of anxious goosebumps shroud the skin of your arms. “What,” you whisper, just quiet enough for it pass as a breath of air as a tight pain begins to flare up like a wildfire in your chest.

Y/l/n-Jung scandal?

Taeyong’s…Y/l/n-Jung scandal?

“Boy, is Argent going to be in for a treat. And right before New York Fashion Week, too!”

Your heart plummets with a trembling exhale as the man guffaws heartily, your eyes growing wide and haphazard, flickering to every shiny surface of your office as if to search for some form of an honest, untainted truth.

“Remember, I want it finished by-”

You cut the call and the phone slips through your fingers, clattering loudly – threateningly – against the documents on your desk. 

*** 

“It was you, wasn’t it?” You finally turn to face Taeyong, almost turning back straight away. “You wrote that article last month.”

The brown-haired man shifts sharply beside you in the grass, the sound akin to the harsh tearing of a paper while the sun burns its last blister into sky. You do nothing but view it through the blurring, wet sheen of your eyes, waiting and watching as it falls down and down and down, until all that testifies its existence are the furious scabs of pinks and oranges twisting among the deep azure.

“Y/n, I-” he starts, though his mouth falls dry of any placating words, unable to formulate a single coherent thought from underneath the growing thickness of his breath as you refuse to let a single emotion permeate through those clouded eyes.

“It makes me wonder just how foolish I’ve been all along,” you turn back to the field and force a hard, focused gaze back to the flower, unable to keep a seconds’ longer gaze on Taeyong without an impetuous tear slipping from your eye. “All that time, and all that energy…” And all that vulnerability. And all that trust. And all that love. “…wasted on a shameless man like you.”

It wasn’t supposed to rain today, but your cheeks begin to ache and burn with the salty streaks of water. You can’t seem to care for them being so openly on display. Taeyong has taken everything from you. What more are a few tears?

Taeyong follows the trail of water down your cheek. All he can do is turn away as that harrowing guilt sequestered deep within himself over the last few weeks, finally emerges at the surface, violent and strong and more forceful than ever. It peels at every nerve inside, eats away at all the confusion and the worry and every other emotion in between. It leaves nothing. Nothing but a dark, empty, shameful feeling in its wake. 

This is the first time he has seen you this way. And it’s all his fault.

“How dare you defame me. How dare you take Jaehyun away from me, and how dare you have the nerve to show your face in my building and take advantage of my company. How dare you, Lee Taeyong.” Your words fall lifeless and heavy between the growing bile in your throat and endless glisten of water against your skin.

Two days of processing couldn’t possibly have prepared you for this moment. 

You’d spent the first day mulling over what you’d heard from the call; there must surely have been some error on your part to hear such a shockingly absurd thing from Heechul. The second day was spent in worry; it was simply unfathomable that Taeyong – the very toast addict you’d hired all those weeks ago – could possibly have written such a false scandal. But it wasn’t until this very morning you’d found yourself as the fool who hadn’t bothered to check his employment history.

 Journalist at Luxe Magazine LTD

And since then, you had only been hoping for a miracle. That Taeyong would show up to this field with his comforting presence, hold your hand in earnest, look you in the eye and fully deny your accusation because it’s simply too hasty and completely absurd. 

But you realise now that it simply isn’t. That miracles are not an asset to be acquired so easily. Taeyong doesn’t hold your hand, and he doesn’t look you in the eye, and worst of all, he doesn’t make even the weakest, most deficient attempt to deny any one of your words.

So, you decide against speaking any more, allowing your hair to cling to the tear streaks along your neck and cheeks as you rise above the grass into a shifting halo of wind. 

“Y/n-”

“Your money will be transacted after the show.” 

You turn and the grass waves you farewell, clinging to your ankles in its ticklish murmur until you step out to the road where Charlie stands, his gloved hand clutching the open car door as you hide yourself inside. Regret eats away at you more and more ravenously as you silently view the brown head among the grass, watching with every choked gulp as it bows down into the green horizon.

You didn’t say everything you wanted to say. 

You didn’t even say half of it. 

Taeyong’s business at Argent was merely the tip of the iceberg. You should have yelled and screamed like your chest was aching you to. You should have told Taeyong exactly what he did, and exactly how he’d hurt you, regardless of anything else. How much pain you’re in to know that while you would have trusted him with every fibre in your being, he had slashed a gaping scar right where it would bleed the most, as if it were child’s play to him.

How you had loved him and how he had thrown it all away. 

Betrayal is a fickle thing; a notion always just as deceiving as the betrayer themselves – or perhaps even more. Because in its very essence, betrayal is always supposed to feel like the worst wrong of a lifetime; the worst possible pain one can experience for years to come.

A week ago, Jaehyun was your betrayer, and that betrayal had felt so excruciating, you couldn’t have imagined anything worse than it.  

Today, Taeyong stands in that betrayer’s place. Today, Jaehyun’s betrayal feels like nothing. Because today…

Today you had experienced the worst wrong of your lifetime.

The small stain on your coat grows larger by the second as your eyes blink in the shifting scenery, body welcoming the transition of rough road to smooth in the low buzz of 90’s classics scratching on the radio. 

And you finally make your leave back to where you had started. 

Toward loud tumble of city traffic and all the same vivid colours of moving billboards and weathered yellow taxies. Back to the place where you angle your head high and glimpse once more at the concrete jungle that once made up your every dream, every struggle and everything else in between.

XII. Omniscient Point of View

One fractured soul stands outside Argent building the next morning.

She arrives during the dark of the day, before the city rouses and catches its first glimpse of dawn, before the first light beyond the glass door has been lit. She tilts her head back and allows the wind to beat down against her skin, gaze trying to find the very tip of the building, but alas, the colossal structure seems to fade into the morning sable beyond the ninth storey or so.

This fractured soul plays her role in unlocking the polished doors – for, it must have been weeks since she’d last done so – and switching on the first light of the day to the empty silence of the lobby, her heels click once again for her own ears and nobody else’s. There isn’t a single hair to stray from her tight, unrelenting bun, its roots burning her scalp as if to deserve such a punishment for her lunacy.

She sits at her desk and buries her mind with yet another hoard of preparatory paperwork, an eye flickering to the clothing racks of assorted hues and silver every once in a while, as the first sun finds itself a halo on her cheeks. She watches it rise upon skyscrapers from the sweet haven of those four office walls, her stone-cold nature once again making its home in her heart, numbing her face and every other foolishly torn down wall.

Ten knocks at her door around midmorning for a clothing assessment. He knows of the day before’s happenings; she’d told him as soon as her bare feet met the cold tiles of her apartment floor. But he offers no words of solace, for he himself is at a loss, with a few too many unanswered questions roaming the inches of his mind.  Ten doesn’t prod, rather watches her as she works. 

Her hands hold the same magic, her voice is loud and clear as ever before, but she has seemed to have lost her spark – the very element that had set her aside from all others, the very reason he’d pushed her to never give up all those years ago. Today, she works a dull day in a robotic cadence, her eyes are blurred with the world’s darkest clouds, refusing to let the thunder clap, refusing to let any semblance of water fall. 

Weakness is not her strength, Ten has long understood, and her strength might just as well be her biggest weakness. Feelings weren’t a feasible option if the next four days were to be a successful feat, and that is all she can remind herself of. 

Perhaps a couple hours later, another soul finds himself standing outside Argent building the same morning, ashamed and afraid to step foot inside at all, for, crossing the glass threshold would only aggravate within him the blaring flame of all-consuming guilt and regret and shame. 

He hadn’t expected to be standing here at all after the happenings of the day before, yet here he is, carrying his frame with an hours’ worth of stew-infested sleep. For, when Ten had called him this morning with a voice full of vacancy telling him to find his way back to Argent, this shameful soul knew it would only be another cruel and selfish act for him to walk away with only four days remaining before the show. Ousting was no feasible option.

He steps inside and readies himself for every constrained stare, every secretive whisper, all the tuts and silent taunts to mar the silvered walls. But he receives none; nothing except warm smiles and welcome eyes, amiable manner, and polite conversation. 

She hadn’t told a single other person.

He catches but a glimpse of her in the corner of his eye, but doesn’t find the courage to do anything else. He regards her in the same way as Ten and finds her all too the same; rigid, lifeless, focused and unemotive in all senses. And it’s just like that – among the cheer of small accomplishments and Johnny’s at-last nods of approval – this shameful soul finds himself in a bout of repent, a slippery groove even the most agile-minded may never leave as soon as the hole was dug.

The distance between him and her is growing wider and wider with each minute; he can feel it. He feels it in her touch as she forces herself, one day, to adjust the cuff of his suit after another classical seam-slip; in the way her fingertips feel so foreign as they meet the skin of his wrist in detached brushes. He sees it in her averted gaze while fixing his collar once again. He feels it in her very absence of all other rooms he stands within.

But in the end of it all, he knows much too well that this – all of this; everything – is his own doing. He departs with this very notion at the cusp of sun fall, while she remains within the building, watching the growing darkness through her window, later turning off the final few lights and stepping out into the late hours of night.

Early morning, afternoon, evening, late night, the cycle continues as so for both of these souls; repeating, and repeating, and repeating, as if they knew no better than to let it continue in such a way. 

They return to their dwellings each night only to find themselves stuck in the dark. With breaths heavy and eyes tired, their fluffed pillows encase their heads as they search for some way – any way – to find a single merciful speck of clarity among the blinding black. Left with themselves and a mere thought of the other, their minds prickle and prod with each one of their mistakes and each one of their utter regrets.

XIII. Nothing. Nothing At All.

“Y/n!”

Straight posture.

“Miss Y/l/n, look over here!”

Head down.

“Did Jaehyun really leave Argent for Qi Fashion Labels?”

Ignore the questions.

“Just one picture for us!”

Smile for every sixth camera.

“Tell us the name of your new model.”

And don’t. Stop. No matter. What.

Suits and ties – crisp and clean in nature – lavish gowns, cross-dressing trailblazers, scarves and sequins and diamonds and lipsticks of every size, make, shape and colour; here, was one of eight splendid evenings that confounded all the worlds’ fashion partisans to their very cores. Every new trend, whether vogue or wholly obsolete, every essence of haute cotoure and high-style, it was all birthed under and could be traced back to the single most grand title: New York Fashion Week. A beautifully elaborate and gaudy scene to breathe in among the ever-putrefying air of this city; to bear the hollers of shutterbugs alongside the rageful honking of cabs behind one’s shoulder.

Your feet fall heavy beneath the cool satin of your floor-length dress. One in front of the next, they step forward like clockwork along the red carpet that daubs the concrete pavement of the New Yorker Hotel, the very destination of tonight’s mystique. Your head rests level upon your shoulders, a kind of reserved smile adorning the gloss of your mouth. Violent flashes of camera lenses burn your skin aglow as you walk the familiar pathway between paparazzi who spill over the barricades on either side; blustering, clawing, and pushing each other in brutal competition, their hefty hunks of metal held ablaze if only to catch a mere glance of the spectacle that you are…or the spectacle that you appear to be in this very moment.

The epitome of talent, the very pinnacle of grace and beauty; compliments are thrown your way, left, right and centre, suspended around your frame that exudes its confident and assured glow to everyone except you. 

Three steps, pose. Two steps, wave. One step, smile.

Oh, little do they know how deceiving such a smile could be. A time of such high regard merely jars you with the harsh anxieties and fretful sentiments of ‘what if?’.

Nervous. You feel terrifyingly nervous, and never had you felt such a thing since at least four full seasons ago, and it’s embittering to realise how shallowed your vigour has become over something as everchanging and facile as the media – even worse that you’d once sworn never to let such a thing happen.

Ten waits for you at the end of the red pathway, his hair sleeked, his body suited to a fault for the occasion, and his very being the only form of consolation among the anxious glamour enrapturing the venue. He smiles warmly as you approach him, cameras finally bygone in exchange for his assuring hand that guides you inside the hotel.

“Some crowd tonight,” he mutters, patting down the lapels of his blazer.

“Thank God.” A hefty breath escapes your lungs, relieved to find yourself under the roof of fresh lobby air that you now share with many other high-end designers – some well-known and some on the rise to their pedestals.

“We should probably make some rounds before heading inside to the catwalk. You know, chat it up with some other designers. Maybe Tom since he’s right before Argent.” Ten suggests, strolling mindlessly with you around the moderate bustle of celebrities, nodding politely to those who smile your way. “It might just make you feel better to have some company within your element. 

“Who said I’m not already feeling better?” is your sharp riposte, followed by a momentary glance to Ten’s dubious glare.

“Really?” He raises an eyebrow, holding a grand set of double doors open for you both to enter.

“Yes.” You raise your chin high, eyes sparkling in the shadowed lighting of the room and shimmering torches decorating the walls. “I am absolutely fine, and as my assistant, it’s in your very best interest to keep it that way. End of discussion.”

You glance around at the seating; half-filled with chattering patrons of neutral-toned clothing. Some hold small notebooks clasped between their hands that rest firmly on their crossed legs.

Critics.

“Okay, then,” Ten replies nonchalantly, tugging you toward a circle of A-list celebutantes surrounding a man in a sleek, black suit who holds a glass of bubbling champagne, “I suppose you wouldn’t mind if I just-hello, Mr Ford! It is an utmost pleasure to meet you again.” Ten reaches a respectful hand out to the man, sparking a welcoming dialogue which you’re left to watch with a fake smile plastered to your face. “Now, I just need to head backstage for show prep; same old routine, you know how it goes. You wouldn’t mind entertaining this gorgeous handful for a minute, would you?” 

You’re unsure whether an irked scowl or grateful thanks would be a suitable response to Ten pulling you forward, instead opting for a few clueless blinks and a slack jaw as he no sooner disappears behind a large black curtain at the far end of the large room.

Conversation nonetheless ensues smoothly with Tom, starting off with a congratulations and praise for each other’s work. It really turns out to be no surprise why this man is so successful and admired. Everything from his gesturing, his conduct and his fashion intellect falls nothing short of laudable. A few other designers join and leave the loop, and like Ten said, you do indeed find yourself significantly more relaxed to be in their like-minded company. 

As the lights later dim for the Tom Ford segment, you bid farewell to the designers, deciding to break away backstage through the same black curtain, behind which the atmosphere takes a drastic turn. It’s nothing all that unexpected, really; simply the normal pandemonium of various models with perfected figures and faces – and a shoe too less, or some form of missing accessory – scurrying around with backstage assistants in tow. You walk down a hallway, dodging as much chaos as possible before finding a door pasted with Argent’s logo and pushing inside. 

The chaos remains perhaps even to a higher degree as you watch the bustle of your models, subordinate designers, and make-up artists racing around the room. The clothing racks are almost empty, and it’s something that makes your heart swell with pride as the gravity of the moment begins to fully sink in.

“Oh, good, you’re here. I need a final assessment on some of these outfits, now hurry!” Johnny – quite the image with his hair a fluttered mess and his suit slightly rumpled – rushes over to you, grabbing your shoulders and leading you to a row of your models wearing their finalised ensemble of silvers, silks and cervelts. You remain surprisingly calm through it all, assisting wherever you’re needed and doing your best to settle nerves.

A loud knock no sooner echoes amidst the noise and a woman in a black uniform, donning an intercom headset and black clipboard appears at the dressing room doors. 

“Argent Fashion Labels? Ten minutes until your segment. Please navigate all runway walkers backstage for the catwalk.”

The commotion grows louder as you send her a nod from across the room, a new kind of buzz arousing excited jitters and whooping as the models begin to file toward her. You stand on your toes, neck craned upward, watching all the extravagant outfits – your extravagant outfits – exit the door one by one.  A small smile begins to form at your lips, only to be immediately torn away as a head turns back to meet your eyes from among the crowd. 

And just like that, it’s as if all the cheering and clapping around you is suddenly zipped away from the world, the rapid thrumming of your heart now the only sound ringing loud and clear in your eardrums. There’s something indiscernible in the look that passes through his features, a split-second of…something, though you’re unable to tell exactly what. It always seemed to have been that way, you’ve slowly come to realise.

You gulp thickly, daring to hold his gaze for a second longer before averting your eyes elsewhere. And still, you can’t help but look back once again, but this time, Taeyong is gone with the crowd, somewhere along the bend with the lasting image of your desolate face engraved into his mind.

“Come on.” 

You turn as a hand cups your shoulder from behind, met with Ten’s reassuring nod as he guides you out of the room and behind the wall of the catwalk.

“This is it,” you voice out quietly, eyes flickering to the first model, Karina, who stands just behind the runway entrance breathing in and out with closed eyes. She turns her head to you, smiling nervously, and you only smile back. But this time your smile finds you widely – hopingly, encouragingly. You whisper out a quiet, ‘you got this’, and in return her smile too, grows.

And then she’s off.

Freely and fleetingly, her feet land on the platform with self-assured glamour, the outfit from your sketchbook never having suited another person more than it does her in this very moment. She walks in time with the techno music; hips level, arms loose, expression poised, she stops, poses, turns, and finds her way back to the very head of the stage. As does the next model, and the next, and the next.

You watch it all tucked away behind the wall; every single one of your creations of the last year springing to a mirthful, beautiful life with every blink of the eye, click of a heel, drop of a beat. Some models walk with skilfully pocketed hands, some carry a bag on their shoulder, and some on their elbows. Every model has at least one form of nuance to them, but every single one of them wears a line of silver. One by one, they breeze out and in, past the devotees and the critics, through the feverish nerves and the anxious excitement. One by one, they make it through, there and back until only a final one remains to do them all their justice. 

Taeyong doesn’t meet your eyes as he stands at the edge. He knows he wouldn’t be able to step out onto that shiny platform if he so much as took another selfish glimpse. 

And he couldn’t do that to you.

It happens too fast; all too suddenly, much too overwhelmingly. So much so that it feels wrong that every one of your painstaking efforts – every sleepless night, every endured loss – amount so simply to the thirty seconds Taeyong spends on stage.

That was supposed to be Jaehyun. 

Jaehyun should have been wearing that outfit, with his hair styled in the same gelled coif, walking on that long platform with camera shutters lighting up on his smooth complexion. Jaehyun should have been the one to halt at the foot and clench his jaw if only to maintain what little of his composure he had left. Jaehyun should have been the one to walk back and finally look you in the eye with all the world’s anguish and remorse, hoping to see an ounce of emotion in those eyes of yours, only to find nothing.

Nothing at all.

And when you later walk out onto that long, star-studded stage for your lasting impression, you suddenly find yourself confused and unwilling to concede all at once. You link arms with the models on either side of you and take your well-deserved bow for the audience, knowing full well that this is where another season meets its close. 

You take in the standing ovation with a vacantly present smile, but you don’t breathe in any of it like you once remember doing. You look at the cameras and the reluctant simpering of critics, but you don’t truly see them in the way that you once you did. You walk off that stage and wish a congratulations to every person you couldn’t have done this all without. But every praise, every compliment; it all falls from an empty place within you.

In Ten’s suggestion of “keeping face,” you find yourself standing at the cusp of midnight at the venue of the after party. You’re in an entirely different place with a flute of sparkling champagne poured by none other than Alex Wang himself resting in the tips of your fingers. Only, the flute remains unkissed, no lipstick stain to fashion on the shiny glassware. 

In somewhat of a stupor, you watch the world as it revolves around you in a kaleidoscope of slow and fast motions, standing amidst the glitzed lights, lost in the place you’d once always called paradise. The place you were supposed to know like the back of your hand. Multitudes of bodies blur and manifest before your eyes, shifting like phantoms in disguise. Doused in glitter and endless waves of net, every celebrity stands anew in their dresses and suits - not nearly as casually unwearable as the pieces from the catwalk, but still extravagant nonetheless - all perfectly suited for a night of folly amid the pounding music and blaring lasers. 

Still as a robot, you smile at your conversationalists as if it were programmed into your muscles. You smile until it stops hurting, until you feel numb and until you just can’t take it anymore. 

And when you leave and you later lay yourself down on the soft mattress of your bed, ridden of any blinding lights or fabricated clothing; as you blink once again at the empty ceiling of your apartment, you can’t help but feel completely, and utterly alone. 

You’d sworn it would feel exhilarating. You’d sworn to make it exhilarating for yourself. But the truth finally surrenders in the form of all the uncontrolled tears that roll agonisingly down your cheeks, staining your neck and expanding the chill on your pillow.

This was not how anything was supposed to happen. Nothing was supposed to turn out this way.

But you were aching and there was nothing you could do about it except finally, finally, allow yourself to cry. To let every pent-up emotion out of your tired system. And nothing could have felt more natural than doing so while being stuck amid the motions of such a false and fabricated world. 

─── ⪧ ⪦ ───

Taeyong looks down to the little scruff of paper with a ten-digit number scrawled in haste and the words ‘call me’ sitting right beside them. He doesn’t know how or when the paper had found itself in the sweaty creases of his palm, but he has no intention of investigating further, ripping it up once, twice, three times, and watching it fall to the ground with the shiny confetti that flutters around his throbbing head. 

A glass bottle – perhaps his fourth of the late hour – sits loosely in his other hand, ready to drop and shatter as its contents sit bitterly in his mouth, burning his throat with each heavy gulp. Crowds of models brush suggestively at his sides, some subtle and others not as much, but their efforts fall futile as the dark-haired man of interest simply blinks out to some faraway place at the after-party venue. As if searching for the one he truly wished to find among the crowd. 

When he’s convinced that you’re not there hidden somewhere among the shadows, Taeyong simply turns around, back turned to the blinding disco lights, and exits the party. His business there and everywhere else in the damned industry was done; he’d walked the runway, finished his job, and there simply was nothing more left for him to do now.

He leaves with weighted limbs and a fogged mind, no knowledge of how he later ends up seated in the chair of his home office. He still wears the same suit he’d shown off to the world mere hours ago, but his make-up is now smudged, hair a dishevelled muss, breaths heavily intoxicated and eyes shallowed and heavy as he opens his laptop, glaring at the document that had sent everything crashing to the ground.

Taeyong doesn’t think twice – doesn’t care for the wall clock that reads an atrocious hour of the AM – as his fingers firmly clutch his phone, dialling a number he should have dialled much too long ago.

It takes no less than three rings for a groggy voice to emerge from the speaker, but he cuts it off immediately with a breathy whisper of:

“I can’t do it.” 

The words are as quiet as the dark room around him, as still as the cool air. 

“Heechul, I can’t submit the article.”

“What are you talking about, boy?” Heechul scoffs quietly – threateningly – though there seems to be some form of panic to his voice. “Do you even realise what this means for you? What this means for your money-”

“I DON’T CARE ABOUT THE FUCKING MONEY ANYMORE!” Taeyong roars into the speaker, every ounce of composure lost with the furious rise and fall of his chest, tears of anger beginning to blur his vision. “This is her career we’re putting on the line! Her entire life. Everything she’s worked for. And for what? Another godforsaken article to tear it all down?”

It’s almost as if Taeyong speaks to himself through the phone; finally voicing the truth as it so blatantly exists. 

“I don’t care-” His voice drops to a broken sob, “-about the money anymore. I just-I can’t do it.”

A heavy pause welcomes the hot trickle of water to his cheeks, a pathway glistening with the blue light in front of him.

“You really are your father’s son,” comes Heechul’s cold voice in the dark. “Always getting too caught up in your subjects. Too personal. Weak and cowardly.”

“What the hell are you saying?” Taeyong seethes, teeth and jaw clenching furiously.

“How do you think he ended up with your mother of all people?”

The venom in Heechul’s voice is clear and his words all too obviously spiteful. For what reason, Taeyong doesn’t know, nor does he have any desire to as his thumb cuts the call without another lasting word. 

His eyes, wet with dark streaks of flecked eyeliner, flicker back to his laptop; to the words he’d forced onto the white page that had breached and bled onto his dignity. His hands find his mouse, and he clicks down, dragging the cursor through the words, line by line, every letter drowning in a blue highlight only to disappear with a single press of the backspace button.

A blank document was where it all started, and a black document is where it all ends.

His eyes fall shut with this final thought, only opening to the bright halo of mid-afternoon sun the next day, head resting sideways on a stiff elbow. He hauls his body up, downs a pill for his headache and accepts the pelting water from the nozzle of his shower, all accompanied by the numbing nothingness of his mind. A coat, a scarf, a beanie, and a tinkling pair of keys are all that accompany Taeyong as he later steps outside his apartment, down the streets and among the noise of the city. He buries his face in the warm fabric around his neck and pulls his hat atop the tips of his ears, glancing out to the pedestrians and vehicles along the roads, the billboards and the buskers and everything else that he hadn’t before taken the time of day to notice and appreciate. It wasn’t often that he’d found himself walking on his own two feet among this tall wilderness of glass and concrete; it wasn’t particularly his of choice of scene. But now, with the icy wind flowing through his lashes, Taeyong feels a sort of silent beauty amid the stereotypical chaos. It’s something subdued, almost impalpable, present in the artwork hidden in the coolness of alleyways, the sky’s reflection upon the buildings, and in the simple workings of the city itself.  

Somewhere along his solitary way, he passes a newsagency flanked at its front with rows and rows of glossed booklets. Some display you, Y/n Y/l/n, Head of Argent Fashion Labels, bowing at the show from the previous night. 

Many others display him, but no longer just his face.

MEET LEE TAEYONG, THE FASHION FRAUD OF THE DECADE Argent Fashion Labels’ new model exposed as the anonymous writer behind the Y/l/n-Jung scandal

Taeyong picks up the magazine and inspects every inch of the paper, spotting Kim Heechul in a tiny font just beneath the bold typewrite. He doesn’t turn a single page, just eyes the man on the front cover with a longing so painful and deep, wishing that man hadn’t been so blind and foolish. If only not merely for his own sake, but for everything he had put you through since the day you’d first locked eyes.

Taeyong places the magazine back down, not bothering to pay for a copy, and decides to return home. As he once again seats himself at his desk, he feels a sort of enlightenment, as if he were now free of some form of a suffocation that he hadn’t realised had been there all along. 

He opens his laptop to be met with the same blank document from the night before, fingers brushing lightly over the keys.

XIV. Okay? 

It’s almost laughable how often the past repeats itself. Recycling old scenarios, emotions, and situations all for meticulous use in the present.

Ten finds himself the subject of such a phenomenon once again; standing outside your large office doors and peeking through the tiny crack, watching you in your current preoccupations of planning out Argent’s spring-summer line for the next season. A sudden wave of déjà vu reminds him that those dead-set features of yours really haven’t changed in the long time he’s known you. Still so passionate, and still so mystical. But there was now something different about you.

The weather had slowly begun to bleed into the supple hands of spring and with it, you too seemed to have thawed on the outside; now less austere in manner and more permissive to those around you. A month had come and gone since the success that was New York Fashion Week, and the tabloids – though ever-present in Argent’s business – were once again beginning to mute themselves for the time being. Now that the heavy preparations were over and the competition was down, you’d found a well-recommended model by the name of Lee Jeno, and he’d taken over the top model position with much fulfilling ease. He was almost too perfect for the job, things seemed to have settled back into a comforting routine, and much to everyone’s surprise, you often smiled.

But Ten could see past it, knowing all too well it was all just another façade of yours; that while each of your smiles came from a well-intended place, they did not resonate with you at all. He knew that from within, you only grew more fervently frigid and harsh with yourself, if only to never again commit the mistakes that you had in the early months of the year. Ten knows that all along you’ve been hurt by someone you’d invested far too much trust in. That along the way, you’d lost a certain part of yourself to a man that had made you feel alive in a way you’d never felt before.

He looks down nervously now to the clipboard held to his chest, jumping as your voice comes from behind the door.

“What is it, Ten?”

Sighing, he pushes forward into your office, gnawing at the inside of his cheek while eyeing you nervously. He can see just how much of an affect Taeyong has had on you, even now. How you’d picked up on those little habits of his and adopted them as your own, from the slight humour in your witty remarks, to the quirk that now seems to find your eyebrow. You weren’t even aware of it, but it seemed that Taeyong was now an unshakeable force in your life.

“What?” You narrow your eyes at him. “Oh, please don’t tell me there’s another delay in the fabric delivery. I spent three hours on the phone with them yesterday just to make sure that-”

“Y/n,” Ten interrupts you, taking a deep breath and stepping closer to you.

“What?” You snap, impatient and confused by his sudden anxiousness.

“This,” he unclips a magazine from his clipboard and places it on your desk, sliding it in front of you, “just got published today.”

You pick up the book with an apathetic expression and scan over the front cover, only for your brows to crease while reading over the bold text.

JOURNALIST LEE TAEYONG FINALLY EMERGES FROM THE DARK-

“No,” you hold the magazine out to Ten and look away, refusing to read any further. “I don’t want to see it.”

“Y/n-” 

“No, Ten.”

“Just read it, for God’s sake!” he yells, slamming the magazine down on your desk and opening it to a double page.

Your eyes widen at you look up at Ten, blinking in shock of his furrowed expression and angry tone. It was rare for him to raise his voice with you unless the matter was urgent, so you find yourself in a bout of hesitation.

“Why?” Comes your voice in the tense silence. “Why should I read this?”

“You just have to trust me when I say you’ll want to,” Ten replies, now soft again.

You take in a deep breath through your nose, unsure what to expect from the article given the sincerity in Ten’s voice, and hesitantly look down to the spread pages.

~

There is no short or easy way for me to say this, but it must be said.

I do not write this letter for the appeasement of anyone, nor for any sympathy, and I do not expect or wish for anybody to take my side. My side is unjustifiable. I write this letter in hopes of delivering the truth, and the truth only, regarding my recent involvement with Y/n Y/l/n and Argent Fashion Labels. 

My name is Lee Taeyong. Most of you now know me as the anonymous writer of the Y/l/n-Jung scandal, or the fraudulent model who entered Argent Fashion Labels as a gossip spy. Perhaps even both. These claims are not wrong, and I am here to address them in their utmost verity.  

The truth is, I am no model. I am a journalist who, in the past, worked under the editorial division of Luxe Magazines LTD in Manhattan city. In my job, I was well-approved, highly acclaimed and lucrative to the firm. These were unfortunately the materialistic qualities under which I thrived. In the event of being offered a celebrity scandal headline, I jumped without rational thought, and wrote a false and misleading article about a non-existent love affair between Y/n Y/l/n and Jung Jaehyun.

I must clarify that they were not, in any way, intimately involved with each other. I did not check the hard facts, and for this I am deeply sorry to them both. I must further clarify that Jung Jaehyun is innocent, and I take full responsibility for his departure from Argent Fashion Labels, as well as the losses suffered by both parties as a result of this.

Regarding my temporary employment under Argent; there are no words that can justify my actions. It has taken me a great deal of disillusionment and self-reflection to understand the gravity of my intentions when entering the position. It is not Argent’s fault in scouting me, but mine for accepting the offer and intruding on my rights and responsibilities. 

I will be transparent in saying I was to write another article; this time to ‘debunk’ Argent as a whole company. Initially, I thought it would be an easy task. And while I must concede that there were external forces at play, I was in no case, justified to continue with knowledge of the consequences. 

But in wake of all this, I cannot bring myself to regret the time I had spent at Argent. I had thrust myself into a new environment; it was a dizzying and expeditious experience at first. I was ready to quit the job as soon as I started. 

But dare I say, I’m glad I didn’t quit, because it was these experiences, the people, the friendly faces all working toward a common goal and the connections I had made through them. All of it changed who I am and what I stand for. Everything at Argent was a massive challenge. I would have expected no less from a world-class fashion label. But it changed me.

In the end, I had chosen not to publish the second article, because I no longer cared for all my previous qualities. It didn’t matter to me how well-approved or highly acclaimed or lucrative of a person I was. 

But I was too late in realising this. Consequently, I have wronged many people; in doing so, relinquished the trust they had in me, and for this, I will forever repent. I was a coward who chose to sacrifice not only his own honour, but the honour of Y/n Y/l/n.

I am at fault, and she is not. She is innocent in all regards.

I am so, so sorry for all the trouble I put her through. I am very deeply sorry for all the effort and the time, all the hours and all the energy she had spent in me. 

To the tabloids, the paparazzi and all celebrity gossip agencies out there: Y/n Y/l/n is not the person you think she is. She isn’t the fashion industry’s monster. She isn’t a hot-headed, unappeasable snob. And she is certainly not a bitch. 

Once again, I am not looking for approval or sympathy from the public eye. But please, if there is anybody to target for the matters discussed, it is only me.

With each of these words, I need nobody to believe me except one person.

I am sorry.

~

Your lips part as your eyes read over the last three words over and over again, gulping through the emerging mixture of emotions that gather in your mind.

“He didn’t accept the transaction,” Ten murmurs softly, now seated on one of the sofas.

You can’t seem to do anything else but blink, breaths growing shallow. “He…he…” you try to formulate words, though they don’t come out, “why didn’t he-”

“I think you know why,” Ten whispers, a solemn look in his eyes.

Why?

Was it because Taeyong had taken pity on you? Or was it because he decided to take the moral high road? Was it because he wanted to save his own face? Or was he truly, deeply sorry? 

“I-” You stand up abruptly, “I need to go see him, Ten.” 

You really hope he is truly, deeply sorry, and you have no choice but to find out.

Ten stands up with you, surprise evident on his features. “Wait, what-now?”

“Yes, now!” You look around frantically, before pausing. “Wait but…where would he be?”

“Are you really asking me that right now?” Ten raises his eyebrow.

“Ten, this is serious, tell me!”

“Well, I don’t know!” He throws his hands up in the air, starting to panic along with you. “Like, his house, or-or the field maybe, or-”

You gasp quietly.

“What?” Ten asks, oblivious.

“Ten,” you call to him softly, grabbing your purse and walking to the couches.

“What-oh.” He asks again, only for you to lean forward and plant a kiss on his cheek.

“Thank you,” you give him a small smile, “for everything.”

He blinks. “O-okay.”

With a single nod, you turn on your heel and scurry toward your door.

“Wait, woman, your coat!” Ten yells, jogging to your coat hanger and tossing your trench to you.

“Thank you!” you yell back, leaving Ten standing in your office among the silent echo of the doors that swing shut behind you, stunned with his hand still holding the cheek that you’d somehow kissed. 

“Uhhh, okay,” he speaks to himself, though it sounds more like a question than a statement. “Okay,” Ten chuckles once again, reaching back for his clipboard before clearing his throat with a curt nod.

“Okay,” he says once more, before exiting your office with a growing smile.

XV. Une Doublure D'argent

The world truly is a lonely, lonely place. You ought to have learnt exactly that, if nothing else in amongst the tumultuous waves that make you up. Now, it is not the barren, desolate land that you compare to the city, but the solitary nature of your surroundings that reminds you of it. In the end, you realise that everything stands for itself. Each blade of grass is merely its own blade of grass. Each skyscraper is, in itself, its own skyscraper.

The notion finds you as you once again make the journey from the city to the countryside, this time in your own car, with the wheel sliding under each palm of your hands. From where such an epiphany had suddenly manifested, you have absolutely no idea. You simply allow your mind to drift in whichever direction, feeling the enormous space all around you as the road cuts into broad, green plains beneath the cloudy sky.

It seems all the radios know how to play these days are renditions of the same smooth jazz, but you let the speakers echo as they please, too busy with looking around and trying to remember the exact place you’d sat in among this maze of greenery. 

Now that you really think about it, what you’re doing right now is absolutely ridiculous; something your past self never would have envisioned you doing in the future, because why would he be here of all places?

“A mess,” you mutter to yourself, “I’m just a big, fat me-”

Your foot slams down on the breaks as a dark head of hair emerges from the thick bed of grass on your left, yet another solitary figure hidden among the scene before you. Parking the car, you merely sit behind your window and watch him for a minute, noting the familiar way his locks shift in the breeze, some straying from the rest. And contrary to what you’d anticipated, such a view is oddly settling to take in. When the head disappears among the field again, you sigh, retrieving your bag and exiting the car to find a bicycle laying down outside the entrance of the same beaten down dirt path. You once again walk through it, welcomed ever so delicately by the pasture flanking its sides. 

You reach into your bag, pulling out the magazine spread and approach the man lying down on his coat.

“What is this?” You make no haste in voicing your words, holding the article over Taeyong’s face and forcing yourself to ignore the flutter of goosebumps that arise on your skin as his eyes flutter open...

And then flutter back shut again.

“Excuse me?” You tilt your head, scoffing in disbelief. This was anything but the reaction you had been expecting. 

“Hello?” 

Still no response. 

“Taeyon-” 

“I thought you were smart, Y/n.”

His words catch you off-guard, eyebrows scrunching. 

“Do you hear yourself right now?”

He simply hums in apathy, bringing a forearm to cover his still closed eyes to which you scowl in frustration, suddenly compelled to jab your boot into his side.

“Ow! What do you-”

“Taeyong, what is this?” you repeat yourself, shaking the magazine in your hand. “Tell me clearly what this is.”

He sighs, sitting up with a quiet rustle and combing a hand through his hair.

“Well, did you read the headline, or…”

You simply scoff once again, an irked smile finding your face as you turn around to leave.

“Wait.”

Taeyong catches your wrist from his spot on the ground, stopping you before you can take another step away from him, and you curse under your breath for the shiver that trickles through your body. His grip is so tight and unrelenting that you have no choice but to evade all thought of trying to shake it off. Reluctantly, you turn back to him, trying to level your breathing as his eyes meet your own.

“I didn’t know what else to do,” he speaks softly, the wind carrying his voice with its echo as he peers up at you. “I couldn’t just leave without telling the truth…even if it had to be after a month.”

You take in his words with a growing frown, and just like that, everything you had planned to tell him – every single rehearsed sentence from your monologue of emotions – fades from the tip of your tongue, forgotten in the dry of your throat as you gulp, and without another thought, step forward and lower yourself down to the ground beside him. Minutes are spent thereafter in the silence of the outside, looking out to the grey sky with empty eyes. But within your mind roam a tangled, blundering string of ineffable thoughts, none of which you can seem to comprehend yourself.

“What are you doing here, Y/n?” Taeyong asks defeatedly.

“I’m giving you two minutes to explain everything that happened – and I mean, everything,” you blurt out, refusing to look at him until everything had been laid out properly in the open. You need all the answers before you can make any drastic considerations.

Taeyong sighs and you catch a small nod from him in your periphery. He begins with the first scandal, repeating everything he had written in the article that rests in your hand; how he’d genuinely believed it to be true, and failed to check the truth behind the dating rumours. Next came his modelling proposal, how, back in January, he’d accepted Ten’s offer at his frequented coffee shop and later found out it was a job for Argent. Then he explained Heechul’s offer of going undercover.

“Heechul,” you interrupt Taeyong, now all too familiar with the name. “He’s your boss?”

“Not anymore,” Taeyong sighs.

“You left your job?”

“More like I was fired, but I guess you could put it that way.”

“So, Heechul is the one who asked you to write another article? To debunk Argent?” you continue, “and you agreed?”

“Yes,” Taeyong replies, a hesitancy in his voice, unsure of what to expect from your reaction.

“Okay,” you nod, spurning any emotion from seeping into your features, “continue.”

And he does. And his words exceed far longer than the two-minute time slot you’d initially granted him, but you don’t move from your spot, nor do you attempt to stop Taeyong as the whole truth finally spills from his lips with the blooming emergence of dusk. 

You gather that he’d written the majority of the debunking article in the first week or so of employment at Argent.

“…but when you told me the truth about the dating scandal, I was ready to drop everything and leave,” he pauses. “But then again, I couldn’t just do that to you. I was stuck between a rock and a hard place. If I left, you’d have no model and I’d feel guilty. If I stayed, I’d still feel guilty, but I figured that the least I could do in that situation was help you…as ironic as it sounds.”

You sigh in deep vanquish, unsure what to make of his words or how to feel about his overall intentions.

“I actually forgot about the article after that day because I genuinely took on the role,” Taeyong adds with a small voice, and it only serves to muddle your thoughts up even more. On one hand, he’d defamed you, driven Jaehyun to leave Argent and join another fashion label, and then proceeded to romance you all while writing another article behind your back. But on the other hand, instead of leaving, Taeyong had stayed with you for an entire month, kept up with his modelling duties, walked the runway at New York Fashion Week, and maybe – just maybe – given you a sense of enjoyment while doing so.

“I deleted the article on the night of the show and called Heechul to tell him I couldn’t submit it. Then he fired me and released an exposé article the next day.” 

“And you didn’t accept the money either,” you murmur from beside Taeyong and he shakes his head. “And then you released this article a month later,” you hold up the magazine, “just out of the blue.” 

And he nods.

And you nod back.

And then, looking out once again toward the silence of the field, your brows furrow with a lingering thought.

“Why did you do it in public?” you ask quietly, a spark of anger beginning to brew inside you. “Why did you have to release an article in the first place? Why couldn’t you have just come to me yourself?”

“I already told you, I had to tell the truth-”

“But why didn’t you come to me?” 

Trying your hardest to stabilise your breathing, you turn to Taeyong, immediately shivering with another unsolicited prickle of goosebumps at the mere sight of him. You’re adamant on knowing the reasoning behind his drastic actions, unwilling to believe that everything that you had built with him – everything he’d done with you – was simply just an act.

Taeyong has to pause at your question, expression tensing as he inhales deeply, searching for the answer which is surprisingly hard to pinpoint.

“I couldn’t-” he sighs sharply, “I couldn’t bear to face you after everything I did. I was ashamed.” 

“And you weren’t ashamed that night?” you dare to ask, facing forward again with a shaky breath.

Taeyong knows exactly which night you’re referring to. He’d gone through a month of deep rumination, but nothing – absolutely nothing – could have prepared him for the striking pain in his chest when he finally turns to your downcast figure staring toward the sky with a doleful look in your beautiful, but incredibly sorrowful features. The only other time he’d seen you in such a genuine sadness was the very first time he’d taken you out to this place; when you’d voiced every one of your worries and he’d listened to them all. When he’d let you believe that you had his trust. 

“I don’t think I’ve ever been more ashamed in my life,” he whispers, turning to face his lap, completely heartbroken to have brought this all upon you. 

“I just needed you to say something back then; anything…” you begin, voice breaking without any idea of where your mind is leading it, “…but you just disappeared without a word.”

You turn back to him, your own heart breaking at the genuine remorse present in every inch of his expression. In the drained depths of his eyes, and the shadowed bags just beneath them. In every crack on the pink of his lips and the very wilt of its frown.

“I’m sorry, Y/n,” he whispers, his helpless gaze focused right on your own, “I’m so, so sorry.”

You’re forced to close your eyes with a pained, shaky breath.

It truly is a lonely, lonely world. You haven’t always had someone to lean on in every moment of needful solitude, but you had just so happened to find Taeyong months ago, in one of your biggest moments of need yet.

It doesn’t seem to matter under which context he’d come; all that matters now is the fact that he’d been there for you. And it dawns on you just how much your life had been riding on this man after you’d met him. No matter your feelings toward the notion, because for once, you didn’t have control, and it didn’t matter whether you liked it or not. Your input had not a single ounce of weightage in the grand picture when you were around Taeyong.

In his presence, things had felt as natural as this field, and as effortless as merely existing here in the tall grass. You’d found yourself caring less and less for inhibitions, letting go, turning away from all the nasty what-ifs that make up everything the world hates about you. Slipping up here and there…it had started to feel okay. And it was all because of him.

He was your anchor in a time of great need.

The fact still remains that his initial motives were flawed and his silent departure equally as painful. And it still hurts that you’ve had to find him yourself even now, hidden in this field without any direction or prospect for his future.

But all of that pain dulls in comparison to the pain you feel while looking into his eyes right now.

This has all been painful for you. But it must have also been so painful for him. 

You’ve searched within the confines of your thawing heart and found something of a crackling hope amid the fire of betrayal, thinking that maybe Taeyong deserves the benefit of the doubt. That maybe somewhere along the way, his original motives had lost their significance. That it couldn’t have been easy for him to write that letter about himself. That he wouldn’t have put himself through the trouble of public scrutiny were he not a changed person.

Maybe you’re a fool for thinking that way, maybe you’re just selfish. But you can’t face the other way now, and there’s only one apparent reason why. 

“It’s not okay,” finally comes your reply, voice as airy and soft as the wind. “And I thought I needed more from you, because you really, really hurt me, Taeyong. And I wish so much that I could hate you for it but,” you pause, lifting a hand to cup his face, “but all I needed was an apology, because that’s all anyone ever needs from the person they love.” 

You really thought you needed more from him. 

But you love him. 

You love Lee Taeyong.

And all you really needed was a sincere apology.

You feel Taeyong’s cold hand find your own face, warming against your skin. He brings your forehead to gently meet his own, soft whispers of “I’m sorry” melting repeatedly against your cheeks, soothed by the feathered stroke of his thumb. “I love you too, Y/n, I’m so sorry,” 

You pull back just enough to find his eyes once again.

“I forgive you.”

And Taeyong pulls you back to him, your body now encased in the haven of his arms like never before as his face finds a home in the warmth of your neck, refusing to let you go when he hears the soft sniffles on his shoulder.

“Don’t cry,” he breathes, holding you tighter. “Please don’t cry, Y/n.” 

“You don’t think I’m a bitch,” you mumble into his coat.

“Of course you’re not.” Taeyong unwinds his arms from you, gently wiping your tears while looking you in the eye. “God, fuck no.” His words pull a small chuckle from you and Taeyong doesn’t think anything has ever sounded as sweet as your smile, nothing has ever felt as nice as your fingers in his own, or as comforting as the mere thought that you were here with him once again. That you loved him despite all his flaws and mistakes.

“I have something for you,” you untuck yourself from his arms and reach back into your handbag, lifting your hand back out in a fist and bringing it in front of Taeyong. He eyes you with something of a knowing smile and slowly uncurls your fingers, revealing the round box of strawberry lip balm he’d given you months ago.

“But it’s yours,” he mumbles as you slide the box into his hand.

“You need it more than I do,” you grin coyly, and Taeyong can only shake his head in adoration while unscrewing the lid to find it half empty since the last time he’d used it, applying the balm to his lips as you once again reach back into your bag.

He looks up as a loud rumble resounds throughout the sky, the grey clouds having grown darker with the evening, shifting and whispering among each other with a newfound purpose ready to be fulfilled.

You raise your hands up to the sky from beside him, and Taeyong turns to you curiously, his gaze following your arm to the silver strip of fabric pinched between your fingers, shimmering with infinite hope in front of the looming clouds. You turn to Taeyong, a soft smile forming at your lips as you regard him with all the world’s sincerity in your eyes; the one thing so certain in his greatest moment of uncertainty. 

A silver lining to his darkest clouds.

“Don’t forget it.”

Reaching out to him, you hold Taeyong’s hand tightly with the fabric clasped warmly between both of your palms. And as you bring his hand to your mouth and plant a gentle kiss to his skin, Taeyong finds a certain comfort in the softness of your lips; how they’re no longer chapped as they once were, and how they beam up at him so beautifully.

“Don’t ever forget it.” 

finis

© jaetaimjadore, 2022, all rights reserved

[honeymoonjin]

pairing: namjoon x jimin genre: smut, 18+ readers only word count: 5.1k

summary: namjoon has worked as a bodyguard for an upscale BDSM dungeon for long enough to know that jimin is the most sought-after dom there. it only takes one miscommunication for namjoon to discover firsthand why that is.

warnings: unedited, sexually explicit content, power bottom!jimin, sub top!namjoon, unprotected sex, degradation, light pain play, BDSM dynamics, kinda temperature play, i think that's it but i'm so out of practice so i apologise if i missed something

a/n: this piece came to fruition thanks firstly to the @armyadvocates AAPI Justice and Advocacy initiative, and secondly to the kind commissioner @goldenwallsvol6 on twitter who requested this (i'm so sorry for not including everything you asked for, i got a little carried away kdsjfdssk). please check out the AAPI initiative here, consider donating, and check out the resources that come with it.

-----

Clocking in to work has become such a routine for Namjoon that he often finds himself switching his brain off, preoccupied with half-thoughts as his body runs on autopilot.

He signs in, uses the staff changing room to replace his sweats with the company standard uniform - a tight t-shirt and slim fit jeans, the belt of which he hooks his keys on. He doesn’t actually start his shift for another couple minutes, and so he ducks to the bathroom, chews a breath mint, and stretches before heading out of the office and down the narrow hallway that leads to the den.

In fact, it takes him a few steps into the dungeon before his automatic schedule is disrupted.

It appears Namjoon is entirely alone in the facility.

His steps, taken with heavy-duty boots, echo around the hollow space with nothing but the walls to absorb them. It’s a Thursday night (he consults his phone just to be sure) and he was on the closing shift. On any usual day, he’d be starting work right at the bustling high of the BDSM dungeon, yet he finds himself wandering alone.

Shaped in a rough X, the center of the dungeon is open-plan, with more private spaces forking off. The wing he’s in is generally full of swingers and kinksters making use of costume changing stations and a room full of cleaning supplies and disposables like condoms or wet wipes. It was always the calmest section, but never dead like this.

In a daze, Namjoon glances inside the rooms anyway, half-expecting the place to burst into life at any given moment. But it stays undisturbed, and in no time he’s in the central atrium, weaving through bolted-down couches, benches and racks until he can sink onto a stool at the bar.

Coherent thought escapes him. His brain flails for a reason, but the absurdity of an entirely vacant sex dungeon has him lost for words. After a moment, in restless futility, he stands back up and goes behind the bar, back further into the mini storage/kitchen that he knows features a window.

Outside the narrow, slightly dusty frame is an empty parking lot. His heart sinks, feeling sorely left behind and out of the loop, but a glint catches his eye. Pressing his nose to the glass, he squints and peeks a somewhat familiar vehicle, pulled into the closest park to the entrance of the dungeon.

Namjoon stares pointedly at the Hyundai, racking his brain. God, who was it that had a-

A wooden scrape from behind has Namjoon jumping in violent fright, catching his forehead on the protruding frame of the window. Cursing, he whirls around and glimpses movement further inside. Another drawn-out scrape is followed by a very human-sounding huff.

Heart still racing, Namjoon makes his way out of the storage area and stands behind the bar, seeking out the presence.

“Oh, shit, you gave me a heart attack!” Park Jimin stands off to the left of the room, hands on his hips and head tilted back in relief. “I thought you were a burglar.”

“No,” Namjoon states redundantly, mouth not quite working beyond that. He knew he recognised that silver SUV - every Thursday he watched Jimin hop into it and pull away after a long night of scening. The two had exchanged words often, more than Namjoon could say for most patrons. Being the bouncer for a sex dungeon didn’t lead to that much genuine conversation, but he always appreciated the effort Jimin would put in, hair wet with sweat and lips curved with happy exhaustion but still asking Namjoon if he’d managed to work out whether it was birds or the neighbour’s cat eating his strawberry plants.

He forces himself to check back into the present when current-Jimin cocks his head with a slightly sheepish grin, awaiting an actual explanation. “I, um,” Namjoon stutters, having to avert his eyes to construct anything coherent, “I didn’t realise the club was shut, I’m honestly a little confused.”

Jimin’s smile drops, plush lips rounding in surprise. “Oh, really? Hoseok-hyung said he sent out emails to all the staff. There was a pipe leak so we called off our whole calender until Monday. Did you not get it? We’ve had troubles with work emails getting stuck in spam; something about a sex dungeon really seems to set off the detectors,” the man quips with a jovial lift of his brow.

Namjoon bites down on his tongue, offering up a silent nod of acknowledgement. He’d seen Jimin more times than he could count in black, red, royal purple. In the club he favoured leather, not buckled and studded but sleek and tight, often decorating his lithe body with harnesses, gauntlets and heavy rings instead. More often than not, he’d boast unsmudgable smokey eyes with sharp liner, cheekbones as harsh as they were dewy. It had taken a while, but Namjoon had eventually grown used to the sight, able to prevent chubbing up at the mere sight of his ass as he bent to open his car door.

For some reason, seeing him outside of that whole persona is far more intimidating. Still covered in a light sheen of sweat, that’s the only linker to the Jimin Namjoon is faced with today. He’s got chunky white sneakers weighing down his feet, long overalls rolled up at the cuffs to let some air reach his ankles. The overalls prove particularly problematic to Namjoon, as they don’t seem to have anything underneath. Namjoon can see collarbones, glorious collarbones, and the lean bare sides of Jimin’s torso. If he bent over, Namjoon would probably get a glimpse of his nipples. The thought dampens his mouth with need.

Jimin himself seems unaware of, or at least unbothered by, the way Namjoon stares  him down. Instead, he reaches down to push a cardboard box as tall as his waist across the hardwood floor closer to the bar one shove at a time. “Anyway, you’re welcome to head home. I’ll get Hoseok to add half an hour to your payslip for your troubles.”

“What are you doing here then?” Namjoon asks reflexively, cringing at how loud he’s accidentally pitched his voice.

Jimin’s face is surprisingly round without the stroke of makeup to emphasise dimensions, and when he beams at Namjoon, it softens his whole face even more. “I’m taking advantage of us being closed to install some new furniture. D’you wanna see?” He seems to reconsider, shooting Namjoon a worried look. “It is sex stuff, though.”

“I wasn’t expecting a bookshelf,” he answers honestly, and is rewarded with the bubbling sound of Jimin’s laughter, drowned out prematurely by another shove of the box. “Here,” Namjoon says suddenly, darting out from behind the bar, “let me help.”

At first, Jimin pushes while Namjoon pulls, but after a few grunts of exertion, steps back and lets Namjoon take over, not disguising the way his eyes linger on the way Namjoon’s biceps and pecs flex under his t-shirt sleeve. Obediently, Namjoon lets the bleach-blonde guide him to an open space near the centre of the room, depositing the weighty box there.

With a satisfied hum and a lingering glance at Namjoon’s body, Jimin bends over with a pen from his pocket, using the nib to pop and rip the tape on the box lid, yanking back the flaps with ferocious enthusiasm. He lets out a delighted cry upon lifting a frame of styrofoam out of the box, revealing the goods inside.

One at a time, he takes out oddly-shaped plates of metal, plastic baggies of bolts and screws, and some rubber caps. Kicking the empty box away, Jimin slots his hands back on his hips and grins at Namjoon. “Can you guess what it is?”

Namjoon takes a moment to consider the different sections of stainless steel. The largest isn’t flat, but a rectangle with a slight curve to it, the gentlest arc. The rest come in mirrored pairs, most just for structure, but four of them featuring heavy-duty O-rings. Though he works outside the play area, Namjoon can guess what those are for. “Something for bondage?” he ventures, stomach flipping when Jimin eyes glint with thinly veiled interest.

“A breeding bench,” Jimin explains, squatting to let his fingers trail down the side of one bar, “the metal feels sterile and cold for those that like it. Have you used one before?”

Namjoon feels unsteady on his feet. “No,” he answers, but the softness in his voice betrays his lack of aversion to the thought. But Jimin might think he was a dominant, too, Namjoon worries. Everyone else tended to. “Not yet,” he adds after a moment.

Jimin sucks in a silent but sharp breath, chin lifting. “I could use a hand setting it up. Would you mind…?”

“Oh! Uh, yeah, no problem.” Namjoon tries to clear his throat, but the lump of anticipation remains. “Happy to help.”

“Excellent,” the dom beams, fishing around the pieces of styrofoam to locate the printed instructions, handing them to Namjoon. As Namjoon begins to make sense of them, looking over the basic diagrams, Jimin sits down on a nearby ottoman, intended for viewing the other stations, but continuing to face his new help instead. “I’ve been wanting to get to know you more anyway,” he divulges in a honeyed tone.

“Really?” Namjoon glances up from the instructions, feeling the heat of Jimin’s gaze. Even in worn overalls and unstyled hair, the man strikes a gorgeous image, and his posture screams distinguished dominant down to the curl of his fingers. His mere presence has Namjoon feeling off-balance in the most electric way. “There’s not much to know.”

“I don’t believe that for a second,” Jimin replies immediately, deadpan. “Why are you standing outside every night when you’re just as kinky as those of us indoors?”

“Excuse me?”

Jimin leans forward, legs splayed wide and elbows on his knees. His eyes are intently focused, blazing. “For a while it drove me crazy,” he starts, “you looked so familiar. I saw you every evening and couldn’t put my finger on it. But you used to scene here, didn’t you? Years ago.”

Namjoon’s heart stops beating, sitting heavy behind his ribs instead. “You- You’re not meant to approach people you know from the dungeon outside. It’s against the rules.”

“We aren’t outside,” Jimin counters. “I want to know why you stopped. You don’t look happy, Namjoon, seeing others come and go while you’re stuck to your post. Help me understand.”

Taking a few deep breaths, Namjoon stays silent, opening his mouth seeming too daunting a task. After a moment, Jimin swallows hard and sits back again, giving up the inquisition. Namjoon chooses to continue the task at hand, consulting the instructions.

The bench itself is a relatively simple setup. There’s two long cuts of steel in an X below the main panel for stability, four legs with the O-ring bars at either end, and the rubber caps on the bottom to avoid scratching the floor. As he putters around with the nuts and bolts, using a tiny spanner provided in the baggies to tighten them, he feels Jimin’s curious gaze on him. Silent.

Eventually, the silence has its desired effect, and Namjoon lets his internal thoughts vocalise. “I played here for a while. My partner and I ended up going our separate ways, and I wanted to give him space.” He doesn’t make eye contact, pulse thudding and heating the pieces of metal he fiddles with.

Jimin takes a short moment to reply, but it feels cavernous. “It’s been years, then. Hasn’t he had enough space yet?”

Namjoon’s eye twitches. How many nights had he stayed up with that exact question in mind? “It doesn’t feel right anymore. People would know me for who I was then. And I’m- I’m not that person.” His partner, an eager sub with a need for a firm hand, had asked Namjoon one day if he was sure he was really happy being a dom, and it had entirely dismantled the place in BDSM that he’d cultivated for himself. That sub was right, and he didn’t know how to adjust his course to fit his true desire.

So he’d pulled away entirely, unable to fully leave this world, but unsure of whether it still had a spot for him inside it. He just wants to feel what it’s like to let go in the way his subs did.  And as his hands focus on constructing the heavyset bench, his mind wanders deeper in this vein, loose-lipped enough to confess it all to Jimin.

Jimin listens without judgement, not even seeming surprised when Namjoon admits to feeling more submissive, and the lack of reaction is liberating in a way he couldn’t have expected.

It’s not until the final bolt is fastened in place and Namjoon leans back, slightly breathless, that Jimin stands up and approaches him again. He crouches in front of Namjoon, eyes tender and hesitant, reaching out a hand.

Confused, Namjoon holds his out, palm-up, and Jimin takes it carefully, circling his fingers around the narrowest part of his wrist. Still, it’s too meaty for Jimin’s fingertips to connect. He squeezes lightly, carefully, before locking his gaze with Namjoon again, who swears he’s no longer breathing.

“Do you want to try?” Jimin asks. His voice is low, soft but full-bodied. “Do you want to try to let go? Club rules would apply.”

And Namjoon is nodding, and the grip on his wrist is tightening, restraining, and Jimin’s surging forward, lips on his.

His free hand comes up to hook around the nape of Namjoon’s neck. He’s held there, unforgiving, as the dom deepens the kiss. There’s no space between them, just skin on skin, tongue on tongue. It’s uncoordinated on Namjoon’s part, but so calculated and thorough on Jimin’s, like he knows the exact way to unwind him.

Jimin’s fingers scratch up into Namjoon’s hairline. He’d been growing out the length a little for winter, just enough to cover his ears, and it provides leverage for Jimin to grip on and tug, tug, tug in sharp bursts, timed unevenly enough that Namjoon is never ready. Every pull sends an electric shock down his spine, right between his legs.

He’s hard already, achingly so, and it just worsens when Jimin shifts his weight, bringing a foot forward and over Namjoon’s thigh, half-caging his body flush against his.

Jimin’s body is hot, even through the denim overalls and searing when it’s skin-on-skin. Namjoon can hear himself panting when their mouths split apart briefly, but he can’t stop his head from spinning long enough to care.

Before long, a rumbling growl escapes Jimin’s throat, and his teeth find Namjoon’s lower lip, scraping and nipping at the flesh. It’s not until Namjoon’s hand is shaking in Jimin’s grip that he pulls away, eyes wild and alight.

Namjoon must look utterly debauched, with swollen lips, hazy eyes and rucked-up hair, but his cock is screaming to be touched, and his breaths become infused with pleas for more, begging Jimin to touch him.

“God, you greedy little thing,” Jimin remarks in wonder, and a shudder takes over Namjoon’s body. Jimin quirks a brow. “Good? Bad? I don’t know what you like.”

“Good,” Namjoon insists without shame, “oh my god, good. Say m-more like that.”

Jimin hums with a grin, hand on Namjoon’s neck slipping around front to fist his shirt, yanking it suddenly. “Up, then,” he barks, standing himself, “I want you on the bench you built for me. Thank God that body is good for something; it’s not much fucking use now, is it?”

Namjoon’s breath leaves him in a rush, and he gets up shakily, almost tripping over his own feet as he lowers himself back down on the end of the bench. It’s chillingly cold even through his jeans, and he trembles at the thought of touching it with bare skin. Jimin has no such qualms, however, planting his palm on Namjoon’s chest and pushing him backwards, insistently guiding him down without knocking his head on the metal.

His teeth chatter briefly, but it’s nothing compared to when Jimin clicks his tongue and reaches down to strip the thin fabric of his t-shirt off with one fell swoop, the stitches breaking as they’re forced over the broadest part of his shoulders.

Ice erupts across his back and he gasp, shooting up. Jimin’s hand prevents him from getting far, and his breathing grows loud and sharp, shivering violently as his body fights to warm up the steel. The slight arch of it slots perfectly into the divot of his spine, meaning every inch is flush against him.

“You stay where I put you,” Jimin scolds, flicking at a nipple in punishment. “It’s pathetic, isn’t it? You, lying here, asking to be degraded by somebody half your size? Pathetic. You’re lucky I’m a giving man.”

“Th-thank you,” Namjoon offers up with wide eyes. He doesn’t know the protocol, doesn’t even know how he should be acting as a sub, let alone as a sub for Jimin. He can barely believe the situation he’s ended up in, but he’s never felt so alive. The cold steel is a wakeup call to sluggish veins, his blood rushing faster than ever, most of it going straight to his dick.

Jimin huffs like he’s not quite pleased with the response - even as his eyes crinkle and glint with satisfaction - and simply hooks a finger into the waistband of Namjoon’s jeans, frowning. “Can’t even get undressed yourself. For goodness’ sake.”

Namjoon’s cheeks burn, and he squeezes his eyes shut, feeling so overwhelmed. Though it was years ago, the habit of being in control hasn’t left him, and part of him feels anxious being so vulnerable. Closing his eyes eases that, and Jimin lets him, briefly reaching up to give his upper arm a squeeze, a lilting hum asking the unworded question.

“I’m okay,” he breathes to the darkness behind his eyelids, and the squeeze returns before Jimin straightens up again, fingers yanking impatiently at Namjoon’s jeans, undoing them and yanking them off, taking his briefs with them.

The new level of nudity sends another shock of cold to his system, but this time Namjoon welcomes it with a groan, tilting his hips up so that his cock rests on his lower stomach. His fingers twitch, aching to wrap around himself.

His desire is answered, not with the delicious grip of fingers, but with the hard press of the heel of Jimin’s palm, pinning his hardness down without mercy. A moan dies in Namjoon’s throat as his body tries to curl inwards. A second hand holds him down still, leaving him unable to escape the heavy pressure.

He pants, writhing and toes curling, but Jimin just sighs softly, like he’s more relaxed than ever. “Such a waste,” he drawls, his voice blooming with all the flourishes of a Disney villain, “wanting to be treated like a slut, but what am I getting out of this? Hm?”

“U-uh-” Namjoon has no idea what to say, cracking his eyes open to seek out the comfort of acknowledgement above the level of the scene. His breath is taken away at the sight. Jimin, above him like an avenging angel, golden-haired and glittering with sweat, still fully clothed (as fully as you could call a single piece of denim). He finds Namjoon’s searching gaze and sends him a calm, dreamy smile of encouragement, before twisting his palm against the base of Namjoon’s dick, wringing a strangled groan out of the man. “You can take me,” he pants, filled with the urge to provide, to serve, “take what you want.”

Jimin tilts his head to the side, like this proposition is worth considering. As he makes a show of pondering, he taps his fingers lazily against his cock’s dripping head. Namjoon swallows the whimpers that threaten to bubble up, and forces his hips not to budge. “I’ll be honest with you,” Jimin says finally, “because you don’t deserve sugar-coating. If I was here with a fleshlight or a dildo, I would’ve come already. You’re wasting my precious time, sweet boy. I don’t want you to lay here and simper, I want you to be a good toy for me. So what’s it gonna be?”

Namjoon’s muscles are trembling; from his lips to his toes, he feels like he’s vibrating slightly, restless down to the very atoms that make him up. Jimin is patient, lazily drawing sticky patterns of precum on Namjoon’s abdomen with his pinky finger. Namjoon fights against the primal part of his brain for something coherent, replaying his words. Fleshlight or dildo. Be a good toy. Jimin was offering him the choice to top or bottom, Namjoon realises, and his cock twitches, feeling liberated and thoroughly taken apart with that heady mix of submission and power. He was giving control to Jimin, but never losing his choices.

For a moment, he does consider what it might feel like to let Jimin take him. He’d never bottomed before - at least not for anyone but his own fingers in his experimental years - but if anyone could make him feel safe, he suspected it would be the dom leaning over him. It’s once he really thinks about it that he knows he’s not ready, a thin strand of dread winding around his lungs that won’t go away until he’s stammering to Jimin that he can have Namjoon’s cock if he wants it.

Jimin sucks in a slow, pleased breath, a smile curling at his lips as he lays the weight of Namjoon’s length across the palm of his hand, looking it over. The chill of the steel beneath him is nothing compared to the iced shiver that runs through him upon being inspected in his most private area. Second most private, he corrects. Baby steps.

“I suppose,” Jimin declares finally with a sigh, “this should do. Not winning any awards, though, is it?” Namjoon’s cheeks burn with shame at the comment even as his face scrunches up in disagreement. If there was one thing to be proud of physically, it was that he could always bring his partners pleasure with the equipment he grew into.

Jimin sees the unfiltered reaction on Namjoon’s face and suddenly claps his free hand over his mouth, turning away. The giggle, impish and delicate, doesn’t get as muffled as he probably intended. “Dammit,” he mumbles, “stop being funny, that’s not fair.”

Namjoon blinks, still stark naked and hard as rock beneath the clothed and chuckling dom. “...Apologies,” he says after a pause, “but do you want to- um- are we-”

“Sorry, sorry,” Jimin says, clearing his throat and wiggling the muscles in his cheek to force the smile down. His fingers reach nimbly for the straps that hold his set of overalls on, and undresses down to skin as he takes some deep breaths as if to hype himself back into character. Once he’s done, he swings a leg over the metal bench and straddles Namjoon’s thighs with a swiftness that takes his breath away.

While it may take Jimin a second to slip back into his dom headspace after the break in mood, all Namjoon needs is the feeling of Jimin’s plump ass cheeks settling onto hs lap and he’s being smacked in the face with submission, ready to beg to feel it more intimately.

Jimin doesn’t wait for him to beg, however, rolling his body forward and down, all the way until their cocks are pinned together between their stomachs, and their noses bump. Close enough to kiss, Jimin stays right there, a breath away, and Namjoon freezes, unsure if he’s allowed to close the gap.

Pleased with the restraint shown, Jimin smirks, eyes wandering over Namjoon’s face in pure bemusement, slightly cross-eyed with their proximity. “Most toys can’t kiss back,” he mentions, a hand sliding up Namjoon’s forearm and shoulder to thumb at his jaw, tilting his head back and holding it in place, “so I figure I might as well treat myself.”

“Most?” is the final worried exclamation Namjoon manages to get out before lips are descending on his, and heat erupts.

There’s no way Namjoon could keep up. Not when his face is pressed tightly to Jimin’s, lips nipped at, tongue sucked at, and mouth thoroughly explored. Not when every inch of his front is pressed to Jimin’s, the latter’s nipples hard against the soft, relaxed flesh of Namjoon’s chest. Not when he becomes aware of slow rocking, Jimin grinding their cocks together.

It takes him an unknowable eternity of this to realise that the slow, indulgent groans passed between them aren’t all his, and that Jimin’s shifting motions are brought on by the way he’s reached behind himself with a finger slick with their shared spit, working himself open.

It’s that realisation that becomes the last straw for any of Namjoon’s reserves. He feels so - so passive, not even prepping the man who’s about to take his cock. He’s lying on unforgiving steel, body used as a grinding post and mouth deeply plundered, just a mindless toy, dumbed down to pleasure and need. He isn’t even really aware of his own body where Jimin isn’t touching it; he isn’t too sure where in space his hands are, or what his feet are doing. His lips are for Jimin and his cock is for Jimin and that’s enough to make him light-headed.

When Jimin sits up, Namjoon grunts a bit and fights for some clarity to help line himself up against Jimin’s awaiting body, but the dom just tuts and rebuffs the advances, suiting himself. Part of his weight is on Namjoon’s right shoulder as he props himself up, slowly bearing the rest down so that the head of Namjoon’s cock pushes inside.

The moan that leaves Jimin’s mouth is enough to make Namjoon’s bones shake, wishing he could hear it on repeat, and the dom certainly seems to be doing his best to make it a reality with the enthusiastic way he works his hips down in tight circles, clenching around the intrusion.

Namjoon feels like he’s floating, the hard edges of steel no longer grounding him. He doesn’t lift his hands up to hold onto Jimin, he doesn’t fuck up into him, he’s barely even looking at him with how low his eyes are lidded, but there’s liberation in that inaction.

The pressure to perform is entirely lifted, and he feels the pleasure twofold, once from his own sensation and then again like an echo with every sigh and groan that leaves Jimin’s lips.

The dom has the stamina of an athlete, lifting a leg up onto the metal base beside Namjoon’s hips to gain better leverage, and Namjoon has a front row seat to the way the muscles in Jimin’s thighs flex. They’re corded and thick, such an erotic contrast to the softness of his ass, and Namjoon feels drunk off of it.

He lets Jimin take what he wants, and he feels, and that’s all.

He doesn’t even think, not really, nothing deeper than mindless observation.

Jimin is beautiful, like nobody he’d seen before, and the lack of makeup and unstyled hair certainly doesn’t change that. It’s a reminder that he’s real, and that he’s sharing this experience with Namjoon. He sits up, leaning backwards with a hand on Namjoon’s knee instead of his shoulder, and the first time he plunges down, his whole body is wracked with a violent tremor.

“I’m close,” he pants outs, eyes flicking down to Namjoon, a lazy grin appearing momentarily, onto to be knocked off by an expression of pure euphoria as he swaps the bouncing out for grinding. He rocks his hips back and forth, Namjoon buried deeply inside, and seeks out his own end irrelevant of the body that cock belongs to.

Namjoon doesn’t care, loves the near out-of-body experience he’s having, and wills the pleasure to simmer long enough for Jimin to come first.

When Jimin gets really close, he loses some of the fluidity in his movements and becomes jagged, seizing up more and more until he’s stock still, breaths staccato and mouth wide open. The physical release follows soon after, and Namjoon shudders as hot white paints the underside of his chin and his chest.

Jimin has a hand around himself, tugging out every last drop as he sucks in desperate lungfuls of air, slowly curling in on himself until his burning forehead is on Namjoon’s shoulder. “Fuck,” he curses under his breath, chest heaving.

Namjoon reaches his end without even noticing. The pleasure throughout his whole body is so electric that an orgasm is barely a notch higher, more so a spreading warmth throughout his body. Wet where Jimin’s still joined to him, and damp everywhere else with perspiration, but it’s blissful nonetheless.

Jimin heaves himself back upright after a brief interlude, brows furrowed as he glances down at Namjoon. “Did you- oh,” he remarks, shifting a little and seeing the cum that’s split around the base of Namjoon’s cock. He lets out a deep sigh, eyes slipping closed for a moment as he tips his head back. “Okay, bye-bye dom.”

Namjoon’s mind slips back into awareness at a snail’s pace, feeling first the way his throat has dried up a little and his jaw hurts from clenching his teeth. Then his voice comes back to him, and he coughs a little, blinking up at the dom above him. “Does dom have a return date by chance? That was… fucking incredible,” he admits.

Jimin laughs, the action causing him to clench around Namjoon. With playful fingers, he reaches down and lightly pinches the fat of Namjoon’s cheeks. “You’re too cute,” he declares, before lifting himself up and off, clicking his tongue at the rush of wetness that drips down his legs. “Far out, it’s like you haven’t nutted in a year.”

Namjoon feels his cheeks heat against his best intentions. “That’s just normal.”

Jimin sends him a sharp look, searching his face. “Holy fuck,” he muses, stalking over to the nearest station to raid a small drawer of wet wipes, “and you’ve been letting that beast sit out in the cold every night instead of coming in here? Masochist.”

It takes all the energy left in his body to sit up, but Namjoon gratefully accepts a fresh wad of wipes and begins to clean himself off. “The beast doesn’t pay the bills,” he quips, already feeling more casual with Jimin after their intense shared experience.

“Then I suppose I’ll have to enjoy its company on your free time,” Jimin offers up, avoiding Namjoon’s gaze with what appears to be a shy streak as he dresses himself.

Namjoon smiles, appreciating the gorgeous sight of Jimin’s body before he covers up. Appreciating even more the way he feels so comfortable in his presence, enough to let go the way he did. “I’d like that.”

[bubble-booty-cuties]

Gym Selfies~! With A New Star~?

Let me start this by saying that if you’re not a part of my server, or actively anyway, you have literally zero context for this, but just so you know, there was a lot of build up to this!

This prompt is about technically my very first “furry” story, staring Rouge The Bat, obviously from Sonic, sue me~! I love Rouge, always have, she’s thicc and beautiful~! So of course, people finally convinced me to write some lewds about her~! Begone all who do not want, but for those who do, get ready for some thicc, twerking slutty bat~!

Here’s her outfit, for those who are curious, I LOVE this pic~!

_____________________________________

The small but thicc bat babe held the kettle bell with both hands as she faced the mirror, both of her feet planted firmly on the ground as sweat dripped down her thicc, curvy, plump body, her breathing deep but even. Slowly, Rouge lowered her positively fat ass down as low as could go, deep in a squat as her thicc, juicy thighs flexed and sweat dripped down her almost bare cheeks from the extensive work out.

Rouge had been there all morning, very early, as she usually liked, mostly cause there was less people, and those who were there were just as dedicated to their body as she was hers, which was always a treat to see~ And considering she was dressed in her favorite gym outfit, a tight pink and white sportbra that barely held back her massive breasts, showing a deep valley of cleavage, a pair of matching sneakers, and nothing but a pink thong covering her sex, she figured anyone waking up early enough to see her earned a bit of a show~

And a show she was giving~ As her ass got as low as could get, her eyes trailed from her own form in the mirror, music blaring in her ears from her earbuds, and instead found the wandering eyes of the one other person in the gym, a large stud covered in tattoos, semi-long hair pulled back, and definitely ripped~ He wasn’t bulky, he was more lean, like a fighter, and the way sweat dripped down her muscular back and chest was just what she liked~

Raising up from her squat, she saw him stare at her ass, I mean, who wouldn’t, it was quite the sight if she did say so herself, and she could see him practically forget what he was doing when she once again squat her fat ass down low, making sure to arch her back a little, safely, and give him an even nicer view~ He was twice her size, handsome, and looked like he could lift her with one arm~ She had to admit she was a little interested~

“You know, if you take a picture it’ll last longer~” Rouge’s voice cut through the relative silence of the gym, making the much larger man jump just slightly at her low, purring voice, his eyes shooting up from her twin, sweat dripping globes to her beautiful, smirking face looking back at him in the mirror, her large, pretty eyes half lidded before she gave him a little wink. “Or maybe you’re more of a ‘hands on experience’ kind of guy~”

Sadly, life wasn’t a porno, and she knew it’d take more then some heavy handed flirting to have him, say, fuck her over that bench over there, and she was proven right when she made the massive man cough into his hand and look away, obviously taken by surprise by her sudden advance, his slight blush cute on such a handsome stud. That’s okay, she liked when they played hard to get~

And the great thing about gyms~? People never wore clothing made to conceal their body, quite the opposite in fact, so when she saw him try and turn his body slightly away to hide the massive fucking snaking bulge down his shorts pant leg, Rouge knew right away that today was going to be exciting~ But, she wasn’t done with her set, so she continued her squats while listening to music, making sure to act like she didn’t see him turn back around to “secretly” stare at her ass again~

Her muscles burned exactly how she wanted them to, and sweat dripped down her cheeks like she was in a photoshoot. Yeah, she was fucking gorgeous~ What, wasn’t she allowed to love herself~? She obviously wasn’t the only one who thought she looked great considering her new nameless friend had gone back to full on staring as she finally finished her workout.

With a breath of relief, she finally dropped the weight into it’s proper place on the rack and grabbed her phone from her bag, music still playing through her cordless earbuds, checking her messages and changing the song with a towel over her neck. All the while she made sure to keep her back to the stud still watching, slowly rocking and shaking her hips to her music knowing he was enjoying the extra jiggle she was showing~ And she had a lot more planned to convince him to come play~

First it was a selfie, slightly bending at the waist and pushing her breasts up for the camera, a nice pouty face, and showing him her fat ass just a bit more, and the camera of course~ Next came turning her back to the mirror to take a few nice pics from the back, showing off just how those sweaty cheeks swallowed up that little pink thong between them~ Some nice captions about Friday night, and the next stage of her plan was in place~

“Well if you’re not going to take any pictures, maybe you could help me with a few instead~?” Suddenly her big beautiful eyes were on the man once again, who was still surprised, but not as much as last time, and she hooked her finger at him for him to come closer, smirking devilishly at him~ “Or better yet, shoot a video for me real fast, wouldn’t you~? I’m sure you’d make a wonderful camera man, you already seem to focus on my best assets~”

“U-Uh, sure, yeah, I can do that..” Was all he said as he suddenly stood up, walking over slowly as if she wouldn’t notice the massive hard-on damn near knocking his knees down his shorts, worse still since standing up straight he was twice her size, her face literally coming up to said bulge as he finally stood in front of her. “So do I use your phone or..?”

Rouge cocked her wide, sultry hips to the side and put her hand on her left hip, looking at the massive throbbing bulge in front of her face before looking up the man’s cut, tatted body appreciatively, before she seductively smiled up at the man without a hint of shame or hesitation.

“And here I thought a guy twice my size could handle all this, guess size doesn’t matter after all~” She purred as she stepped in close and pushed his hips back, walking him back until he sat on the bench she had her gym bag on, right next to the mirror. “Though I’m sure someone as big as you has never had to deal with that before, have you~?”

“Just calm down big guy, just sit back, relax, and make sure it’s recording before you start staring at my ass~ Again~” Rouge stood between the man’s legs proudly and confidently, her massive, bouncy breasts inches above his bulge as she played some music on her phone and handed it over to him, camera at the ready.

The man was stunned, used to some attention from attractive women, sure, but this thicc little bat had him ready with camera in hand to record her ass and he didn’t even know her name. He was overwhelmed, surprised, and harder then he’d ever been in his entire life. Fuck he loved shortstacks. And the moment she turned away and took a few steps forward to give him a fantastic view of that ass, he pressed the record button and the show began.

With some little leg stretching, Rouge started by gently shaking her fat ass side to side, letting those shiny, sweaty, extra fat globes wobble and jiggle a bit while bending forward at the waist, pressing that ass up and out for the camera. This wasn’t the first time she’d shaken her ass for a camera, and it wouldn’t be the last if she had any say in the matter~

With a little show of flexibility, Rouge grabbed her ankles while wagging her massive, lewd hips side to side, rubbing her hands slowly up her long, smooth legs before grabbing her own knees as the bass of the music dropped, her eager camera man moving the cam in closer, and Rouge decided to get to why she had 100K followers~

With a nice hard drop of the music Rouge looked over her shoulder with a grin and a wink and dropped her ass up and down, twerking those massive, shiny globes of meaty ass, bouncing those twin cheeks to the beat while that tiny little pink thong was swallowed up between those hungry mountains of cake~ Those huge, plump, juicy thighs flexed as she twerked like a whore for the camera, sweat dripped down the warm valley of her ass while the camera caught every detail in 4K, she even blew a nice lewd kiss to the camera while she wiggled her little tail~

Both of those cheeks jiggled and rippled with every move she made, and she decided she wanted a little more energy before she got to the main act~! Suddenly, Rouge dropped that fat, bubbly ass down low to the ground, raising her arms above her head and letting those massive cheeks spread apart with every twerk of her wide, slutty hips, showing that little thong for just a second before her cheeks met together in a nice, loud, meaty clap of flesh on flesh, and she couldn’t help but grin at the way her camera man’s cock throbbed and twitched against his shorts~!

Suddenly she dropped on all fours as began twerking that ass faster, bouncing that ass while she was face down ass up, her wings laid out flat at her sides while the camera focused on her extra curvy body, and just as she kept her upper body down, and lifted her ass up high with her toes planted on the ground, Rouge dropped her ass down, her legs in a deep, perfect split as she threw her bubble booty up and down to the music.

“Still getting this, handsome~?” Rouge looked back at the man who was practically drooling, just to get a dumb nod as he once again adjusted his cock in his pants. “Sigh, do I really have to spell this out for you~?”

With a strong flap of her wings, Rouge was once again standing, or, twerking in a nice squat, throwing that jiggly ass in a circle while she clapped her cheeks for the cam, every single inch of that smooth, creamy skin wobbling in HD on the small screen before she that she had enough foreplay~

With a sudden step up onto some dumbbells, Rouge was the perfect hight to back that booty up and drop it down on the stud’s crotch, pressing those warm, meaty, sweaty cheeks against that massive snaking cock through his clothes before beginning her show once again, twerking those wide, slutty, birthing hips like a pro, grinding and rubbing that cock between the hot valley of her ass while she looked back at him with a raised eyebrow, as if daring him to tell her he doesn’t know what it is she’s asking for~

“Oh fuck-!” The man growled but kept that bouncing bubbly booty in frame as it twerked right up on his cock, so close the camera could see the droplets of sweat as the dripped down her cheeks and thighs, down her lower back, and he just couldn’t resist giving those meaty cheeks a nice hard smack~!

“Hmm, you can do it harder then that~!” Rouge grabbed the man’s thighs and began throwing her ass back for him, knowing that her prey was right in her palm, and all she had to do was make sure he couldn’t get away~

Suddenly, the busty bat babe with the bubbly booty reached back and grabbed the waistband of her new lover’s shorts, yanking his shorts down as quick as she could and letting that massive bitch breaker spring free into the open air, thicker then her wrist and so long and heavy it slapped down with a nice weighty, meaty slap between her sweaty asscheeks, and right across her lower back~!

“Son of a bitch-!” The stud could barely handle the view of his massive, veiny, steaming hot cock between those velvety cheeks, or how huge it looked as it went up her lower back, FUCK he loved shortstacks! And the moment the little bat babe started twerking her ass even harder, sandwiching his cock between those hot, slippery cheeks while she bounced her twin globes of meaty ass, milking each and every inch of his cock in long, rough, jiggly grinding bounces, he damn near snapped there!

“Fuck, you are huge~” Rouge was getting excited, she could feel his cock leaking precum between her asscheeks like a leaky faucet as she bounced and twerked her ass on that pole, knowing he was going to split her in fucking half~! She had half a mind to choke on that cock if she wasn’t so hungry for an ass pounding~!

Suddenly, he felt those massive cheeks clap on his cock over and over again while she grinned evilly back at him, and he could only grit his teeth and resist the urge to throw her phone across the room, only barely remembering to record his own cock trapped between those clapping cheeks as they went up and down his cock before they started clapping on the very tip of his cock.

“What do you say we skip the dinner and flowers and skip right to the anal, huh~? I bet you can’t wait to fuck this fat fucking ass~! Stop holding back and-!” Suddenly Rouge felt the man grab her by the wide hips and heard her phone get thrown into her bag, the music following but still audible, and suddenly she felt her entire world turn around before she was bent over the bench the stud was just sat on, her toes reach hard to find the ground before finally finding purchase, just for her to realize she was quite literally bent over with her ass raised as high into the air as she could get it.

She was just about to make some smart ass comment about handling a lady with care when she felt that massive cock slap down between her cheeks again and right across her lower back, reminding her how big the cock about to stuff her ass really was~ The feeling of the massive stud’s hands grabbing her hips reminded her just how much bigger then her he was as well, and she just knew he was gonna fuck her like a fleshlight~!

“It’s about time, I thought I’d have to start sending smoke signals~” Reaching back, Rouge pulled her thong aside and revealed her tiny, needy little puckered asshole right next to the man’s massive bitchbreaker, covering her own little cunt with her hand and looking back hungrily at him with her best set of ‘fuck me’ eyes~ “When I said anal, I meant it~ You better fuck my ass as hard as you can, I wouldn’t want all this to be for nothing~”

The man didn’t even respond, simply giving that extra fat ass a nice hard smack that left a nice red mark on her smooth skin, and Rouge knew her prey wasn’t getting away now even if he wanted to~

Grabbing the edge of the bench, and giving her ass a few more playful bounces to the music, Rouge held on as best she could as the stud grabbed his massive prick with one hand and lined up that massive tip with her tiny asshole, and she could only grit her teeth in pleasure as she felt his strength behind his hips, where he suddenly slammed that cock tip against her little pucker for all of a second before forcing that cock half way into her tiny, needy, slutty little asshole so hard the entire bench rocked along with her body, but he didn’t stop, he was only halfway in, giving her ass another smack and grabbing both hips, he yanked the slutty little bat bitch back and slammed his hips forward until her ass clapped back onto his waist with as much strength as he could muster.

“FUCK~!!” Rouge couldn’t help the yelp of pleasure as she was suddenly stuffed fuller then she could remember, her ass rippling with that nice meaty clap against his hips, and she could only roll her tongue out and her eyes up as she felt his hefty nuts smack her dripping cunt, and they were just starting. Though starting implied a build up, and there was anything but that~

“GRRR!!!” The man snarled as he suddenly yanked his cock out of the tightest little fuck hole he’d ever felt before slamming back in even harder then the first time, then again, and again, yanking his new fleshlight forward and back to meet his thrusts or yanks out to make his slamming twice as hard, and hard it was as suddenly the entire gym was filled with the wild, frantic, meaty clapping of flesh on flesh as he stuffed that slutty little bat as hard as he fucking couldm slamming and pounding that ass and little asshole like a wild animal while she started screaming and squealing in pure, unbridled pleasure~!

“Y-YES~!! YES~!! YEEESSS~!!! OH FUCK YES~!!” Rouge’s entire fucking world rocked and bounced as she was rammed and railed by the massive, strong, wild beast suddenly rearranging her guts with his massive fucking cock, she could barely hear her own squeals over him clapping her cheeks so hard she knew she’d be sore later~! Her perfectly manicured nails dug into the leather of the bench as she tried to desperately hold on for dear life, her shoes barely finding grip on the ground as they slipped here and there sometimes, and the entire steel and leather bench rocked and knocked against the ground, only adding the sounds of the brutal, vicious buttfucking she was getting~!!

And brutal it was, the man’s pace was like a jackhammer as he railed and fucked the little slutty bat’s asshole like a wild beast, just gritting his teeth in a snarl as he took out all his post workout stress on that fat jiggling, rippling ass, even going so far as to smack that fat ass like a stress toy, clapping those cheeks as fast as he fucking could while his nuts dripped with the bat’s dripping juices, even his abs burned from how hard and fast he was slamming that extra fat and slutty ass~!!

“FUCK MY ASS LIKE THE WHORE I AM~!! USE MY ASSHOLE LIKE A FUCKTOY~!” Rouge could barely tell up from down as her things fell to the ground with a clatter, and she couldn’t give a damn~! Her big, beautiful eyes crossed and rolled up as drool dripped down her chin, teeth grit, and she could only squeal like a buttslut getting her fix, cause in that moment, where her entire world rocked and bounced so hard and fast she could feel the bench under her creak with strain, she knew that’s exactly what she was, a needy buttslut getting her fix~!!

Suddenly, Rouge couldn’t hold on at all, as his already brutal and vicious pace double in intensity, and he brutally and frantically railed that extra fat ass so hard and fast it sounded like a drum from how loud he was clapping his hips against that fat, juicy set of cheeks! She couldn’t hold on, but she didn’t need to as he held onto her hips and used her like a fleshlight while she could only stay bent over to take it~!

When she felt him finally snarl and slam in balls deep one final time, Rouge could only scream so loud she was sure every person outside could hear her pretty voice as he roughly slammed in like he owned her little asshole~! And suddenly, Rouge felt the man blow his extra hot, stringy, thick, bubbly load deep in her asshole while he yanked out half way just to continue slamming in to fuck her through his and her climax~!!

And suddenly, he stopped as his last nut was stuffed deep inside her ass, and all the sound in the room stopped besides their pair of heavy breathing, and the sudden wet pop and lewd sounds of his cum pouring out of the slutty bat’s little gaping backdoor~

And just like that, Rouge was satisfied, and the stud laid down on his back, sweat dripping down their bodies, and both completely tired.

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

Water washed down the sultry curves of Rouge’s body, down each and every perfect line of her body while she rinsed the rest of her expensive shampoo out of her hair, sighing in deep, lovely relief as she turned off the hot water and stepped out into the gym washroom, gently drying herself off with a beautiful smile.

And once she was finished drying off, slipping on a pair of little booty shorts and a new sports bra, she was perfectly applying her make up once again, winking in the mirror before looking for her phone in her bag, not spotting it, she snapped her fingers in realization. Stepping out of the locker room, Rouge casually strolled up to the still panting ad sweaty man on his back, just to find her phone on the floor next to the bench she was just railed on.

“Hmm~” Rouge picked up her phone, looked down at the strong, muscular, handsome stud, and reached into her bag to pull out a piece of paper and a pen, writing her phone number on it before dropping it next to him.

“That was fun, don’t you think~? Let’s do this again sometime~ Call me~” And just like that she walked away from the scene of the ‘crime’, a sultry sway in her wide, sexy hips while her ass jiggled with every step, already thinking of what to have for lunch while the stud behind her wondered if he could survive doing that again.

Fuck he loves shortstacks..

[gainerstories]

Lifeguard Off Duty: Chapter 4

Read prior chapters here 

Bradley noticed one of his gym buds, Jeremy, approaching him as he placed weights back on the rack. He and Jeremy were just acquaintances, occasionally chatting in the locker room or juice bar, but they had a camaraderie.

“Shirt’s riding up there, bud,” Jeremy chuckled.

Bradley looked down to see that his Under Armour shirt had indeed ridden up to reveal a sliver of his belly. He felt his face flush red with embarrassment. He knew he had put on weight after the first two months of his new job, but was hoping it wasn’t that noticeable.

“Shit, thanks for the heads up,” Bradley replied. “Goddamn office job.”

“No problem, mate. Here’s a tip: I always go vegan when I’m starting to feel a little thick in the middle. Always works.”

Bradley turned even brighter red and awkwardly laughed, “thanks, I’ll try that.”

Humiliated with the realization that not only had he gotten chubby, but that people were noticing, Bradley headed for the treadmill. He had barely done any cardio in the last two months, which he knew was partially to blame for the added pudge. That, and the fact he’d developed quite the sweet tooth.

He mounted the treadmill and began with a light jog. Horrified, he felt his belly bouncing with each step. Not only was his stamina low, but the extra pad of fat rising and dropping at his waist was somewhat painful. Within minutes he was profusely sweating and struggling to keep his pace. For the first time in his life it dawned on Bradley why fat people didn’t work out: it was uncomfortable!

He turned off the treadmill and collected his things to go home. He’d had enough for the day. Stopping on the way, he grabbed a salad per Jeremy’s suggestion. Time to slim down, Bradley told himself. There was no way he would allow himself to end up like Eric. When he arrived home he was dismayed to see that he had some leftover doughnuts from the bakery left on the kitchen counter. Without a second thought he threw them in the trash, and proceeded to eat his salad.

As he undressed for the shower, Bradley surveyed the damage he’d done in the last couple months. Most of the weight was concentrated on his midsection in the form of an increasingly prominent spare tire. He squeezed a hearty handful with one hand. He’d never been this fat before and was strangely enraptured by the supple fleshiness of his belly. His thighs had also grown in circumference along with his butt, though they couldn’t compete with the fat deposits on his belly and love handles. There was no questioning the fact he’d put on weight, nor was there any questioning the fact that he had to lose it. Bradley had always been a ripped muscle stud and he wasn’t going to give that up for a dumb job.

After showering, he laid in bed scrolling through his phone trying to fall asleep. Unexpectedly, a hunger pang struck his stomach. The salad was simply not filling enough. He tried to ignore the hunger for about an hour before his belly was aggressively growling. Intrusive thoughts of delicious Muffin Tops donuts resting in the trash can crept into his mind. Finally, half asleep, he wandered to the kitchen in the nude and dug out the box of pastries. With vigor he devoured all four doughnuts within minutes and went back to bed.

The next morning, Bradley got dressed for work acutely conscious of the way his lower half filled the legs and seat of his pants. He could still get them buttoned, but it was tight. Especially when he sat down. Similarly, his T-shirt and sweater fit, but didn’t leave much to the imagination. This was a good sign he needed to drop some pounds. He drank only a vegan protein shake for breakfast and headed into work.

On his way in, he surveyed Malcolm who seemed to look fatter and messier by the day. Bradley took this as a warning sign. For the rest of the morning he resisted the temptation of partaking in Eric’s sweet-smelling treats. He craved the rush of sugar and dopamine that accompanied sweet indulgences, but he refused to submit.

Before lunch he approached the coffee cart, with Peter looking dapper as ever. The young man’s dark hair was slicked back today, revealing his chiseled face and glittering smile. Bradley couldn’t help but feel enamored as he stepped up to order a black coffee.

“You wanna try that cinnamon roll today,” Peter coyly suggested while flashing a smile.

“I shouldn’t…” Bradley responded sheepishly.

“Are you sure? They’re fresh.”

“New diet,” Bradley regrettably admitted and patted his belly. “I shouldn’t.”

“Diet? You look great,” Peter responded. “Here, it’s on the house.”

As Bradley walked away with his coffee and cinnamon roll he noticed something was scrawled on his receipt. He looked closer and it said: “You’re a cutie. Hit me up. XXX-XXX-XXXX, Peter.” Bradley grinned to himself. He hadn’t been with a guy in ages and frankly a man had never given him butterflies like this. His gay interactions were usually purely sexual, but something about Peter excited him. He actually wanted to get to know him better.

The note from Peter put a pep in Bradley’s step for the rest of the day. His self-confidence that had shriveled from the prior days’ events had now ballooned. Without hesitation he devoured the cinnamon roll, which was just as delicious as Peter had promised. However, the treat didn’t satiate his sweet tooth, but left him wanting more. Absentmindedly, he nibbled on some of Eric’s snacks and at the end of the day stopped by the coffee cart even though Peter was no longer working. Ordering another cinnamon roll, thoughts of Peter rattled around in his mind.

Once he arrived home, Bradley proceeded to put some chicken and vegetables in the oven to bake. Once he finally sat down to relax he heard the faint sound of a seam tearing somewhere in his pants. Suddenly, all his insecurities rushed back into his mind. He hadn’t even considered going to the gym today; he had been so distracted by thoughts of Peter. Plus he had eatedn all those sweets throughout the day- what was he thinking?

Bradley stood up and removed his tight chinos to examine them. Sure enough, there was a hole right in the ass of his pants. 

This is a co-authored story by gainerstories and gainingfiction.

This chapter is written by gainerstories.

[johannstutt413]

(requested by mathmaticalknight)

“Hmph.” Angelina gave the Doctor a sidelong glance as they sat in his office. He’d asked her to be his assistant a while back, and she was sure something would have come out of it by now, but nope! It’s like he actually brought her in to do work! And I mean, sure, she was pretty good at paperwork - working as a courier helped with that - but still...It didn’t help he seemed biologically incapable of taking a hint. Who knew their HR lead was so dense?

Speaking of dense…“Doctor! Let’s go shopping!”

“Can’t. Working.” He glanced at his assistant, who was totally typing up a report right now and not just randomly pressing keys into a word processor. “Hey, Angie, you want to go shopping with her?”

“Eh? Um, sure, I gue-” Before she could even finish the word, the Nian had pulled her out of her seat and was dragging her to the shuttles.

The Vulpo began to float, essentially turning her into a balloon bobbing behind her captor to avoid scuffing her shoes as much. “Do we need to be going this fast?”

“You only have one life, kid. Why waste it walking from place to place?” In short order, they made it to the shuttle depot, and Angelina returned to earth. “What did he call you again? Angie?”

“That’s right, Miss Nian.”

She waved her off. “No ‘miss’ necessary. What kind of shopping do you like doing? I’m not too picky about where we go, as long as it’s not up here.”

“A music store, I guess.” The Vulpo shrugged. “You know, normally, the Doctor’s the one who goes with you on these trips, so I dunno what the plan is...Why didn’t he come today?”

“Who knows? You like him, right?” She hopped behind the wheel as a slightly stunned Angelina took the passenger’s seat.

A bit of blustering later, and she replied, “H-how did you-”

“It’s so written on your face, it’s not even funny,” Nian replied, smirking. “You’re like a starstruck puppy. Adorable.”

“I...Was it that obvious?”

The Nian chuckled. “I said it was, didn’t I? He doesn’t know?”

“Apparently not.” She pouted as her driver parked them within walking distance. “He should, though! I’ve given him all the hints.”

“And you haven’t told him directly?”

Angelina wasn’t quite floating, but she was definitely starting to hover. “Well, n-no, but-”

“So tell him, then.” Nian started walking towards the music shop. “If you really like him that much, why keep waiting around?”

“...I guess I could do that.” She sighed, but her mood was immediately boosted as they entered the shop and were hit with a wave of sound.

The Nian shuddered. “So loud. Angie, is that-”

“I love this band!” Whatever her companion was trying to tell her was entirely unimportant right now, as her near-favorite song was on, and it was time to jam. “What were you saying?”

“It’s nothing.” No, it had been something, but it didn’t matter. The Vulpo was literally walking on air, dancing around the store as she enjoyed the ambient music and argued with herself about whether she should buy a guitar or not for the umpteenth time. It was the polar opposite of the norm for these shopping trips, where Nian was putting in all the energy and the Doctor sponged it up...and it was so cute when Angie found a record she’d apparently been looking for and squealed.

Wait, was it happening again?

“Alright, I’m good~” Angelina found the Nian near the front, shopping bag in hand. “Somewhere you want to go next?”

“I had a few ideas. There’s a couple places that sell some stuff that might help get the point across to our oblivious friend.”

The Vulpo blinked. “You’re going to help me?”

“We’re here to shop, so I might as well get something.” She smiled. “Besides, I want to see how you look in it myself.”

“Oh, so we’re buying clothes, then?” Angie had thought of that, but in the end, she didn’t think it would help that much. Still, Nian seemed to know what she was talking about, and it was always fun shopping for new clothes to wear, so maybe it was worth a shot after all.

Their first stop gave her some doubts almost immediately, as a Rebbah with extensive facial piercings gave a feral smile upon their arrival. “Well, look what the Aslan dragged in. How’s it going, Nian?”

“Ah, you know how it is.” She gestured towards the Vulpo. “I’m actually buying something today, but for her, not me.”

“Really? Interesting. What can we do for you, little lady?”

It should be noted the shop clerk is a solid few inches shorter than Angie. “Um, well I’m looking for something that’ll get this guy in my office to notice me-”

“Say no more.” The Rebbah stepped out from behind her counter and ushered the pair deeper into the cavalcade of leather and cloth that was the apparel on offer. “Follow me. Do you know your sizes in Yen measurements?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She waved her hand. “Please, call me Becky. Let’s have those before I walk past too many more racks.”

For the next hour, Nian and Becky turned Angelina into a canvas to paint with belts, straps, studs, and occasionally actual fabric, eventually setting on a outfit that could probably double as light armor for someone with the Vulpo’s natural dexterity in a pinch. After a moment to get over the shock of seeing herself in something like this, there was no doubt in her mind that it was actually pretty badass, and since the Nian was the one buying anyway, there wasn’t any harm in taking it home with her. Things became a little more interesting when the Rebbah said she should probably wear it for the rest of the day to break it in, but if that was the professional recommendation, who was she to judge?

“I don’t know what I was expecting,” Angelina admitted as they left the store, “but I like it a lot more than I thought I would. You said you’ve never bought anything from there before, but Becky seemed to know you pretty well.”

“Usually the Doctor and I just browse and talk with the friendlier clerks. Becky gets a decent amount of business, but not a lot of conversation. How hungry are you?”

She shrugged. “I could eat right about now. It’s nearly time for lunch.”

“Then I know just the place.” Nian immediately turned down an alleyway. “How are you with spicy food?”

“Um, I like a little heat, but once it starts to hurt, that’s where I stop. Although there is this one brand of, like, pepper-flavored soda I can’t stop drinking.” The Vulpo glanced around, a little nervous about their current location.

The Nian stopped seemingly in the middle of everything and knocked four times on a seemingly random brick; a few seconds later, stone and steel began scraping against each other and themselves as a doorway-shaped part of the wall sunk into the sidewalk beneath them. “Well, this place has options if you’re not feeling adventurous.”

“Not feeling adventurous? What do you call this, then?” She traced along her current outfit with her free hand; the other had her normal clothes in a shopping bag. “Bring it on! I can take it!”

“Heheh. That outfit really boosted your confidence, didn’t it?” Nian had hoped it might. Angie was a nice girl, but just like everything in life, a little kick made her better.

Angelina smirked. “I guess it does. We going or not?”

“Alright, alright, keep your shirt on.” Not that she hadn’t seen it all already. “Oh, and there’s this chili pepper drink you have to try while you’re here.”

“Drink as in alcohol?...I guess a little wouldn’t hurt.”

A few hours later, Nian walked into the Doctor’s office with a leather-decorated Vulpo-balloon in her off hand. “We’re back! How was work?”

“Finished.” He looked up at his assistant, who waved from the ceiling. “Went to the Underbelly?”

“Yep! Did you miss me? I know I missed you~” The Nian let go of her, and Angelina floated over to her favoritest person ever to land in his lap.

As usual, this didn’t phase him. “New clothes?”

“Do you like them?” She leaned towards his face. “We got them for you~”

“I do.” And without a moment’s hesitation, he kissed her.

...Nian blinked, sure of what she’d seen but unsure if it’d been real. “Did you know this whole time and wanted to wait for her to make a move?”

“Yes.” That was the last word the Doctor said for a while, as Angelina didn’t need much more encouragement than that.

“Gotcha.” She stood there for a little bit before nodding to herself and leaving the office. ‘A job well done, I’d say...I wonder who else’s life can I change before dinner?’

[wolfliving]

Account of Lord Byron’s Greek residence

*I’m hard put to believe a word of this highly-colored account of Byron’s house in exile, but it’s hard to get more Romantic than this.  Extra points for the lack of paintings and the heaps of books covered with scrawled notes.

ACCOUNT OF LORD BYRON'S RESIDENCE, &c.

"The world was all before him, where to choose his place of rest, and Providence his guide."

IN Sailing through the Grecian Archipelago, on board one of his Majesty's vessels, in the year 1812, we put into the harbour of Mitylene, in the island of that name. 

The beauty of this place, and the certain supply of cattle and vegetables always to be had there, induce many British vessels to visit it—both men of war and merchantmen; and though it lies rather out of the track for ships bound to Smyrna, its bounties amply repay for the deviation of a voyage. 

We landed; as usual, at the bottom of the bay, and whilst the men were employed in watering, and the purser bargaining for cattle with the natives, the clergyman and myself took a ramble to the cave called Homer's School, and other places, where we had been before. 

On the brow of Mount Ida (a small monticule so named) we met with and engaged a young Greek as our guide, who told us he had come from Scio with an English lord, who left the island four days previous to our arrival in his felucca. 

"He engaged me as a pilot," said the Greek, "and would have taken me with him; but I did not choose to quit Mitylene, where I am likely to get married. He was an odd, but a very good man. The cottage over the hill, facing the river, belongs to him, and he has left an old man in charge of it: he gave Dominick, the wine-trader, six hundred zechines for it, (about L250 English currency,) and has resided there about fourteen months, though not constantly; for he sails in his felucca very often to the different islands."

This account excited our curiosity very much, and we lost no time in hastening to the house where our countryman had resided. We were kindly received by an old man, who conducted us over the mansion. 

It consisted of four apartments on the ground-floor—an entrance hall, a drawing-room, a sitting parlour, and a bed-room, with a spacious closet annexed. They were all simply decorated: plain green-stained walls, marble tables on either side, a large myrtle in the centre, and a small fountain beneath, which could be made to play through the branches by moving a spring fixed in the side of a small bronze Venus in a leaning posture; a large couch or sofa completed the furniture. 

In the hall stood half a dozen English cane chairs, and an empty book-case: there were no mirrors, nor a single painting. The bedchamber had merely a large mattress spread on the floor, with two stuffed cotton quilts and a pillow—the common bed throughout Greece.

 In the sitting-room we observed a marble recess, formerly, the old man told us, filled with books and papers, which were then in a large seaman's chest in the closet: it was open, but we did not think ourselves justified in examining the contents. On the tablet of the recess lay Voltaire's, Shakspeare's, Boileau's, and Rousseau's works complete; Volney's Ruins of Empires; Zimmerman, in the German language; Klopstock's Messiah; Kotzebue's novels; Schiller's play of the Robbers; Milton's Paradise Lost, an Italian edition, printed at Parma in 1810; several small pamphlets from the Greek press at Constantinople, much torn, but no English book of any description. Most of these books were filled with marginal notes, written with a pencil, in Italian and Latin. The Messiah was literally scribbled all over, and marked with slips of paper, on which also were remarks.

The old man said: "The lord had been reading these books the evening before he sailed, and forgot to place them with the others; but," said he, "there they must lie until his return; for he is so particular, that were I to move one thing without orders, he would frown upon me for a week together; he is otherways very good. I once did him a service; and I have the produce of this farm for the trouble of taking care of it, except twenty zechines which I pay to an aged Armenian who resides in a small cottage in the wood, and whom the lord brought here from Adrianople; I don't know for what reason."

The appearance of the house externally was pleasing. The portico in front was fifty paces long and fourteen broad, and the fluted marble pillars with black plinths and fret-work cornices, (as it is now customary in Grecian architecture,) were considerably higher than the roof. The roof, surrounded by a light stone balustrade, was covered by a fine Turkey carpet, beneath an awning of strong coarse linen. Most of the house-tops are thus furnished, as upon them the Greeks pass their evenings in smoking, drinking light wines, such as "lachryma christi," eating fruit, and enjoying the evening breeze.

On the left hand as we entered the house, a small streamlet glided away, grapes, oranges and limes were clustering together on its borders, and under the shade of two large myrtle bushes, a marble seat with an ornamental wooden back was placed, on which we were told, the lord passed many of his evenings and nights till twelve o'clock, reading, writing, and talking to himself. "I suppose," said the old man, "praying" for he was very devout, "and always attended our church twice a week, besides Sundays."

The view from this seat was what may be termed "a bird's-eye view." A line of rich vineyards led the eye to Mount Calcla, covered with olive and myrtle trees in bloom, and on the summit of which an ancient Greek temple appeared in majestic decay. A small stream issuing from the ruins descended in broken cascades, until it was lost in the woods near the mountain's base. 

The sea smooth as glass, and an horizon unshadowed by a single cloud, terminates the view in front; and a little on the left, through a vista of lofty chesnut and palm-trees, several small islands were distinctly observed, studding the light blue wave with spots of emerald green. I seldom enjoyed a view more than I did this; but our enquiries were fruitless as to the name of the person who had resided in this romantic solitude: none knew his name but Dominick, his banker, who had gone to Candia. 

"The Armenian," said our conductor, "could tell, but I am sure he will not,"—"And cannot you tell, old friend?" said I—"If I can," said he, "I dare not." 

We had not time to visit the Armenian, but on our return to the town we learnt several particulars of the isolated lord. He had portioned eight young girls when he was last upon the island, and even danced with them at the nuptial feast. He gave a cow to one man, horses to others, and cotton and silk to the girls who live by weaving these articles. He also bought a new boat for a fisherman who had lost his own in a gale, and he often gave Greek Testaments to the poor children. In short, he appeared to us, from all we collected, to have been a very eccentric and benevolent character. 

One circumstance we learnt, which our old friend at the cottage thought proper not to disclose. He had a most beautiful daughter, with whom the lord was often seen walking on the sea-shore, and he had bought her a piano-forte, and taught her himself the use of it.

Such was the information with which we departed from the peaceful isle of Mitylene; our imaginations all on the rack, guessing who this rambler in Greece could be. 

He had money it was evident: he had philanthropy of disposition, and all those eccentricities which mark peculiar genius. 

Arrived at Palermo, all our doubts were dispelled. Falling in company with Mr. FOSTER, the architect, a pupil of WYATT'S, who had been travelling in Egypt and Greece, "The individual," said he, "about whom you are so anxious, is Lord Byron; I met him in my travels on the island of Tenedos, and I also visited him at Mitylene." 

We had never then heard of his lordship's fame, as we had been some years from home; but "Childe Harolde" being put into our hands we recognized the recluse of Calcla in every page. Deeply did we regret not having been more curious in our researches at the cottage, but we consoled ourselves with the idea of returning to Mitylene on some future day; but to me that day will never return.

 I make this statement, believing it not quite uninteresting, and in justice to his lordship's good name, which has been grossly slandered. He has been described as of an unfeeling disposition, averse to associating with human nature, or contributing in any way to sooth its sorrows, or add to its pleasures. The fact is directly the reverse, as may be plainly gathered from these little anecdotes. 

All the finer feelings of the heart, so elegantly depicted in his lordship's poems, seem to have their seat in his bosom. Tenderness, sympathy, and charity appear to guide all his actions: and his courting the repose of solitude is an additional reason for marking him as a being on whose heart Religion hath set her seal, and over whose head Benevolence hath thrown her mantle. No man can read the preceding pleasing "traits" without feeling proud of him as a countryman. 

With respect to his loves or pleasures, I do not assume a right to give an opinion. Reports are ever to be received with caution, particularly when directed against man's moral integrity; and he who dares justify himself before that awful tribunal where all must appear, alone may censure the errors of a fellow-mortal. Lord Byron's character is worthy of his genius. To do good in secret, and shun the world's applause, is the surest testimony of a virtuous heart and self-approving conscience.

THE END

[the-secret-garden-library]

Loose Tie

Alright, if y’all know me, y’all have an little bit of an idea that Azumane Asahi is my favorite Haikyuu character of like... EVER.

(So don’t be too surprised when a good portion of my personal writings with be centered around him lol)

((This was my very first fic for the Haikyuu fandom and my first written fic in almost ten years too!, so it’s a little rough. Just...be gentle!)

And with no futher interruptions, enjoy!

https://archiveofourown.org/works/7708843

~ Jae ~

Azumane Asahi

Thinking back, maybe you shouldn’t have teased Asahi that much when you should have been working.  Your glass hearted boyfriend surprisingly turned out to have just a little bit more backbone than what you had originally known him to have.

Next time, you were going to pay EXTRA SPECIAL attention to the stories of his days as Karasuno’s Ace when his old teammates would come over.

However, that wasn’t going to do you any good right now.

Not that you particularly minded of course.

  He slammed you against the wall, immediately attacking your neck with bruising kisses.

  "We don't have much time so we're going to have to make this quick", Asahi growled, hitching a leg up around his waist and ground his hard erection into your core.

As his hands ran along your sides, groping and fondling his favorite parts, you worked on pulling your shirt over your head before clawing at the buttons on his. Impatient and pressed for time, he tore off his shirt, popping the last few buttons and sending them everywhere. Asahi latched onto the swell of your breast, suckling and tonguing your skin.

You fumbled with his belt, jolting when he bit you hard on the side of a breast, determined to mark you. You groaned and your hands shot to his head to hold him there, finally giving up about the belt.

He groaned against you skin and viciously tore at his belt, finally getting it undone before hands grabbed your hips and slipped underneath your skirt. He ripped your panties to shreds and, surprisingly, ran a few fingers along your folds to check to see how wet you are. He wasn't disappointed. You were soaked and the needy cry that ripped from your throat only added to that.

He avoided your clit, thumb pressed just barely next to it as he dipped his fingers in your heat and began toying with you. Deft fingers played your cunt like a finely tuned instrument, scissoring and stroking the spots you loved best, prepping you to take his thick, fat cock.

You collapsed on his chest, tremors racking your body as he teased your dripping cunt, pushing you closer and closer to the edge. You pulled him down in a bruising kiss, almost tipping over the edge into oblivion....

Until he yanked his hand out of you and from out under your skirt.

Pulling away from you, Asahi pushed his jeans just enough to pull his cock out and started strongly pumping it. He bit at your lips, pushing and pulling until you could even feel the bruises starting to form.

   "I can't wait any longer. I need you now", not hesitating a second longer. He lifted you with one arm, using the wall to support you both as he lined himself up with your core. Eyes smoldering with lust, his hips shot forward and he buried his throbbing member into you. Even though you were more than ready for him, his thick cock still stretched your cunt and you choked back a scream.

   "Ngh…" he grunted, stilling as he felt your walls clench and throb around his cock, the tight wet heat of your cunt wiping all reason from his mind, "Fuck....you feel so good." His head dropped down into the crook of your neck as he waited. But you were impatient.  Wrapping your arms around his shoulders, you began pulling yourself up just enough to start rocking back on his cock. He finally got the idea and started slowly thrusting into you, listening to your soft sighs and moans. You squirmed against him, enjoying the way how deep he was hitting into you but getting a little frustrated with how it seemed to barely bring you closer.

  "Baby...." you purred, pulling yourself closer to him to whisper in his ear, "Baby....I need you...I need you to fuck me," You finished, taking an earlobe between your teeth and pulling.

 Asahi stilled, listening intently before snarling and picking you up, spreading your legs out far as he began to pound into you. His pelvis began hitting your clit deliciously and he bit your shoulder before moving up the column of your throat and nipping at your jawline. You began to claw at his shoulders and back, trying to hold on to him at such a fast pace.

  "Like this? You want me to take you like this?" he ground out, snapping and angling his hips up into you.

  "Yes! Just like that!" you cry out, breathless as you grabbed the back of his head to kiss him, suddenly fighting over control of the kiss.

  "Mmmm...so good, so tight," he hissed against your lips, feeling you tightened even more at his words.

  "Touch yourself," he demanded, slowing down until he was just grinding into your clit. "I want to see you play with that pretty little clit of yours" he said, leaning back and watching as your hand shot down to gently press and tease like he had asked. You let out a sob, feeling your orgasm start to rush towards you once again as he resumed slamming into you once more. You could feel yourself grow impossible wet as he watched you with lidded eyes.

  "Ah... ah, ah! Baby, I'm… I’m…!" you moaned as he twisted his hips at your hitched breathing, angling himself to pound mercilessly on that one sweet spot he knew that would send you lunging over the edge. You came with a soundless cry, tears springing to your eyes as waves of pleasure shot through your system. He grunted, your tight cunt already becoming impossibly tight and he faltered for a moment, his hips slowing down but never stopping.

  "That's right baby girl", he cooed, focusing on prolonging your orgasm as much as possible, "Cum for me". He pulled out of you, still hard and throbbing, as you and your body calmed down.  He gently lowered you down, holding you close to him.

  “Asahi…”, you breathe, clinging lightly to him as you felt the weakness in your legs slowly go away. Feeling something stiff incessantly poking you in the stomach, you look down to see his cock still weeping and red. You reached out for it and gently palmed it, smearing his pre-cum around the head.

  “You shouldn’t hold yourself back like that you know”, a sultry smile makes its way across your face and you begin to slowly stroke him, “What am I going to do with you? You’re always such a gentleman when it comes to taking care of me”. You drop down on your knees, cupping his sack with one hand and you begin to pump his shaft. Asahi groans and he leans against the wall as you finally take the tip of his cock into your mouth.  You swirl your tongue around the very tip of it before lightly bobbing your head just past the thick head.

  “Fuck! Just like that, you know exactly how I like it, don’t you?”, he groans, fisting a hand into your hair, “That’s it baby, nice and deep”.  You smile as best as you can, looking up at him with big eyes as you take him further into your throat till you almost reach the base.

Using a hand, you start massaging whatever else you can’t seem to reach and start moving your head.  Your eyes start watering from the sheer size of him.  It’s getting a little harder to breathe, and while you try your best to hold on just a little longer, he begins to throat fuck you. While you usually let him have his way with you, unfortunately, today was not going to be one of those days.

You pulled back quickly, lightly panting for breath as you licked it one last time. A whine died in his throat as Asahi watched you walk away from him, hips swinging seductively. You bent over the desk, legs wide apart and pussy winking at him like an invitation.

  “Well? I know you like doing it like this so…” You trailed off as you turned slightly towards him and winked, crooking a finger to draw him near, “So what are you waiting for, stud?”

  His eyes grew dark, watching you tease him even more like that and he marched his way over to you and pulled you with him to the ground. He forced you on all fours, not that you minded, and slapped your ass. The sudden swat made you yelp more in surprise than in pain before the tingle set in and proceeded to arouse you even further.

  “Look Asahi”, you teased, reaching under with a hand to spread your lower lips apart more, “See how wet you make me? Only you can do that to me, you know?” You smiled, watching him get riled up again in a way only you could make him.

  “I see.  Such a pretty pink pussy just dripping for me? I must be such a lucky man so…” he grabbed your hips and shoved himself back into you, “Feel how grateful I am!”

He started a brutal pace, both hands pulling your hips up and forcing your chest and face to rest snugly against the floor. Asahi snapped, going deeper within you at a punishing pace.

  “Asahi, oh Asahi!”, you scream out, cunt still very sensitive to the movement just nearly tipping you over the edge.

  “God, you’re so tight like this”, he grunted, slowing his hips and slowly drawing himself out before pushing back in, “Your pussy just wraps around my cock so nicely”.  Asahi leaned over you, his sturdy chest laying across your back as his deep voice rumbled past your ear.   You shudder and your head fell back to rest against his chest, the sound of your bodies coming together and the ticklish feeling of his breath past your ear.  You tried moving your hips against him, meeting him thrust for thrust.

  “There we go, just like that”, he purred, straightening up as his hands went to your hips and started pulling you against him, “Spread your legs a little bit more for me, alright? I want to make sure you won’t forget this, especially after how you were teasing me earlier”.  Asahi grunted, the memory spurring him on even more.

  “Such a naughty girl”, he grinned against your skin and snuck a hand to grab one of your breasts, rolling and pinching the nipple with his fingers.  You screamed, body tensing as your back arched and forced the both of you on your knees.  He began kissing the back of your neck, his powerful thighs helping keep him thrusting up into you.

  “Look, do you see just how beautiful you look right now?”, he gently grabbed your jaw, leading your eyes to look at the visage of your coupling in the slim mirror used to decorate the office.  You watched him nose the column of your throat before latching on, working on making a mark to last while his dark eyes watched you in the mirror.

  “Ride me”, he commanded, his hands dropping to his sides. You did as he asked, and started bouncing on his lap. Asahi wrapped his arms around you, hands going to cup your breasts and fondle them.  You watched through lidded eyes, watching as he drove into you.

  “I love you…”, he quietly uttered against your skin, head ducking behind to hide from you.  You gasp, trying to turn around to look at him but his arms kept you from moving around too much.

  “Asahi…I…”, you begin but was cut off as he grabbed you, a hand massaging a breast as the other reaches down to where you two are joined and finds its way back to your clit. Pressing down, pulses of intense pleasure shoot through your veins, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of your breast and Asahi begins to roughly fuck you once again.

   “Asahi, cum with me baby. I’m going to cum!”, you wail, your hand reaching back and pulling his head to you to kiss him as you start to feel your second orgasm swiftly approaching. He grunts as you seal him in a bruising kiss, his fingers and hips working quickly to send you over the edge with a loud drawn out moan. A few more pumps of his hips into your suffocating tight heat and he follows right after, long ropes of creamy hot cum painting your insides. He crushes you to his chest as his body twitches, wringing out every last drop into your body and you shiver.

  He fell back, bringing you with him and he cradled you to his chest, his head on top of yours as he avoided looking into your eyes.

  “Asahi. Asahi, look at me”, you ask sweetly, pushing back on his chest to look up at him as the threads of your orgasm faded away.

  “Mmm…”, he began, a red blush crawling up his chest to color his face, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean for that to slip out.

  You paused, looking straight into his eyes. “I love you, too, Asahi,” you confessed firmly, thumping your hands into his sturdy chest. “And I would cry if you take back your profession of love to me!”

  “N-No! I do love you! I really mean that I love you!” he frantically clarified to you, as you began faking sniffing noises as if you were really about to cry. You knew that he would do anything in this world just so that you wouldn’t cry, and the guy still hasn’t gotten the drift that you use it to tease him or to get something you want.

  A wide smile spread upon your lips. You threw your hands around his neck, and gave him a gentle kiss upon his lips. “You finally said it! And without stammering this time too!” you said, overjoyed by the development your boyfriend has overcome. For the past three months, you had been trying to get him to tell you how much he loves you, but it’s either he stammers or he cowers, so you had stopped a while ago, thinking that it’d be better to just let the guy himself say it voluntarily.

  You were brimming with happiness, causing it to transfer to him. He smiles upon seeing your blissful face, and a meek grin also curves on his lips. There is nothing else in this world that he loves to see other than your sweet, genuine smile.

  He huffs out, which surprises you, and you witness as the red hue takes over his features. “I-If only I knew how happy you’d look just hearing it from me, I would have said it a long time ago,” he says, covering his face with his large, calloused hand.

  “What do you mean?” you question, an eyebrow lifting up in confusion. Upon thinking a little bit, you came to a conclusion. “Oh no, it’s okay! Don’t worry about it! It’s more important that you said it now, right?” you said, waving off his needless worry, and thinking, maybe you teased him just a little too much for today.

  “I love you,” he says it for the second time. The three words came out of his lips a lot firmer than the first, free of worry and full of confidence. “I really love you.”

  Your eyes widened, and your face turns into a beautifully deep shade of crimson. His stare at your eyes became more solid and unyielding. Without anywhere to hide, you buried your head into his chest, still inflamed from your boyfriend’s sudden confession. Who would’ve thought your weak-hearted man could say it with such a dignified air?

  “And I-I’m sorry about treating you so roughly,” he says, making you look up at his face, which is also heavily tinged in red.

  “Oh no, not at all,” you said, a slight smirk forming upon your lips. “In fact, it was quite enticing to have experienced that side of you,” you said with a glint in your eye (that he totally misses), leaving out the fact that from this experience, you now know what to do to bring out that sex beast inside him next time.

[iloveyouthree-thousand]

and even if I’m gone, there’s always a place for you here

Tony leaves something precious behind for Peter. 

(This is my coping mechanism)

//

“Oh, Peter, come on in,” Pepper said, opening the door and stepping aside to allow the teenager in.

He just nodded his thanks as he brushed past her, stopping just inside the door. He felt out of place in the small house. The last time he’d been there was under much different circumstances, and he tried to push those memories into the back of his mind.

“Can I get you something? I know you just got out of school, I’ve got some snacks in the cupboard--,” she started moving toward the kitchen, rummaging through cabinets stocked with snacks that clearly belonged to the five-year-old living in the house.

“I’m okay, Ms. Potts, thank you though,” Peter said, still standing like a statue in the front entryway, as if he was afraid to walk any further.

Pepper looked older than he remembered, and he had to keep reminding himself that he’d missed out on five whole years: five years of moments, of memories, of moving on.

“How’ve you been, Peter?”

“I, uh,” he stuttered, trying to find the right words, “I’ve been okay, I guess.”

He didn’t want to tell her that the last three weeks had been a roller-coaster of emotions, that coming here had ripped open the stitches in a wound he thought was healing.

“I miss him too,” she said, and he had to fight against the ugly sob trying to force its way out of his chest, because Pepper had enough hurt of her own without having to comfort a teenager that didn’t even really belong there.

“You, um… you said you wanted to show me something?” He hated the way his voice cracked as he tried miserably to change the subject, but to her credit, Pepper just smiled and gestured toward the stairs.

Four rooms lined the narrow hallway. The first, he assumed from the mess of toys and Avengers gadgets, was Morgan’s. The master bedroom was next door, and a small but cozy room with a perfectly-made bed sat just across the hall.

Pepper stopped in front of the last room.

“It was originally just supposed to be another guest room, but we had all this stuff that we couldn’t just… at first I thought it might be unhealthy.”

He was about to ask her what she was talking about, but the question died on his lips when he looked past the door frame.

There was a twin bed, just like the one in Morgan’s room, but this one had a familiar dark green quilt and Jurassic Park sheets. Above the headboard was a Star Wars poster that Harrison Ford had autographed, next to a periodic table of memes and a framed photo of Stephen Hawking.

A desk sat in the far corner against the window, and he recognized the AP History textbook he’d been looking for sandwiched between two R2-D2 bookends along with a few notebooks and reading assignments he’d forgotten at the compound over the years.

“When I found out I was pregnant, he wanted to get away from the city and start over after… everything. We started moving things, and we just kept finding these little things of yours all over the compound and he couldn’t...” she bit at her lip, which had started wavering, “I think it gave him hope. If we had this room all set up for you, then it was like you had to come back.”

The tears that Peter had been so valiantly holding back came pouring out with a vengeance now, and Pepper pulled his shaking body into her own.

“I wanted you to know that he never forgot about you. You meant a lot to him, to us. You were a part of this family too, and it didn’t feel right to not include you in our new home.”

They stayed like that for a minute, just holding onto each other, until the convulsing sobs melted into a dull ache.

She pulled back from him, using her thumb to wipe the watery mess from his cheeks before guiding him into the room.

“He recorded a couple things before--,” she took a breath, unable to finish the sentence but Peter understood. Her back turned to him as she reached into the closet. Above a rack of clothing--some were Peter’s, some had been stolen from Tony’s collection--was a device no bigger than a phone.

“I only watched the first few minutes,” she admitted, setting it up on the desk as Peter took a seat on the bed, “but I think you should see it. I’ll give you some space.”

Pepper brushed his hair from his face and gave him a small smile before she disappeared from the room.

“Hey, kid. Pete. Mr. Parker. Underoos. Take your pick.”

Peter had to blink his eyes a few times, because all of a sudden Tony was right in front of him. Or, at least, an incredibly realistic hologram of him was.

“You have been an excellent… how should I say… protege, if you will. Smartest kid I know, aside from Morgan of course, but she gets her brains from her mother.”

He almost had to laugh, because it was all so surreal, having Tony Stark quipping jokes in front of him as if wasn’t gone. As if Peter’s whole world hadn’t been flipped on its head.

“I can’t claim you, of course. You’re Parker through and through. Still, when I look at you, Pete, God, I just feel like I’m doing something right. Someday you’re going to blow my whole R&D department out of the water and I really hope I’m alive to see it,” Tony’s smile faltered, “But there’s a more-than-decent chance that I won’t, hence this video.”

He paused, as if debating on what he was going to say next.

“You know, I had this dream—right before this whole shit storm started—that I had a kid. It was so vivid… I really thought it was real. And the weirdest part is that, for the first time in ever, I wasn’t scared. And then I was on that donut ship headed straight into the star-studded abyss and all I could think about was how twisted it was that, after being haunted by the idea for years, I was finally ready to be a dad—and I was going to be robbed of the chance. I just kept seeing that little face from my dream, looking at me with all the trust in the world, like I could do no wrong. I've never felt that overwhelming sense of responsibility before, and I didn't think I'd ever feel it again.”

Tony laughed drily, shaking his head up at the sky and looking almost like he was holding back tears.

"And then your rebellious, teenage ass disobeyed my orders and climbed onto that god damned ship, and I had to watch as you started disappearing in my arms while your stupid little lamb face stared up at me and that beautiful and horrible feeling came flooding back. When you were gone, I felt that. I'll always remember the feeling. That was real."

He took a sharp breath and pressed his lips into a thin line. “Look, I’ve made a lot of mistakes in my life, kid, and I’ve learned to live with my regrets. I have this one particular regret, though, that I’ve been losing some sleep over.” 

He took another deep breath.

“Okay, here goes nothing. Serious Tony moment. If this all goes south… I need you to know that you’re my family just as much as Morgan and Pep and Rhodey and Happy are. Honestly, I don’t think I could’ve asked for a better big brother for my little girl. I hope I get to see you on the other side of this, Pete, but if not… you are everything I ever wanted to be, kid, and more. I love you, I’m obnoxiously proud of you, and I should’ve told you that more often.”

Tony gave one last wistful smile at the camera, and then the recording cut out.

Peter didn’t know how long he sat there on that bed, trying to process everything that had just played out in front of his eyes. He was still in a daze when a tuft of dark hair peeked into the room.

“Mommy asked me to give this to you,” she announced, handing him a folded up piece of fabric and jumping up onto the bed next to him.

“Daddy made them. I have one too, but it doesn’t fit me anymore.”

Peter held up the gift in his hands, revealing a red T-shirt with the words Mark I printed across the front in gold lettering. Morgan, as if to prove her point, pulled out a much smaller shirt, with Mark II printed in identical font.

“I’m Morgan,” she said.

Peter smiled, clearing his throat to try and hide how choked up he was, “I’m--,”

“Spider-Man,” she finished, grinning, “I know all about you. You like cheeseburgers, like me. And you can stick to walls and shoot webs out of your hands.”

He laughed, “All of that is true. But you can call me Peter. Spider-Man is just my pretend name.”

Morgan frowned, “Can I call you Petey?”

“Of course.”

“Good,” she declared, and then added softly, “because daddy used to call you Petey.”

Peter’s not quite sure what about that sentence sets him off--maybe the way Petey feels intimate, like something a parent would call a child--but suddenly he’s choked up again.

Morgan didn’t hesitate, she just wrapped her little arms around him.

“Come on,” she said a moment later, “Mom made cheeseburgers for dinner.”

Peter spent the evening having dinner with the Starks, and by the time he was ready to leave, he didn’t feel so out of place in the lake house anymore.

Pepper walked him to the door, and whispered, “Don’t be a stranger, okay?”

“Yea,” Morgan added, much louder, “Come back and play! I wanna see how you swing with your webs!”

“I’ll be back soon, I promise. And I’ll teach you how to swing. How does that sound?”

“Awesome!”

“Oh, you two together are going to be all kinds of trouble,” Pepper frowned, but she couldn’t hold back a laugh when Morgan giggled maniacally.

Because this, this little family they’ve created, is exactly what Tony would’ve wanted.

[ask-de-writer]

Genii’s Junk (1 part) – A tale of the Bizarre Borderland

Return to the Master Story Index

Return to the Bizarre Borderland

GENII’S JUNK

by

De Writer (Glen Ten-Eyck)

© 2014 by Glen Ten-Eyck

2581 words

Writing begun 06/19/14

From an idea by Alte Seely, who wondered what a Bizarre Borderland junk yard would be like.

All rights reserved. This document may not be copied or distributed on or to any medium or placed in any mass storage system except by the express written consent of the author.

//////////////

Copyright fair use rules for Tumblr users

Users of Tumblr.com are specifically granted the following rights. They may reblog the story. They may use the characters or original characters in my settings for fan fiction, fan art works, cosplay, or fan musical compositions, provided that such things are done without charge. I will allow those who do commission art works to charge for their images.

All sorts of fan activity including but not limited to art, stories, musical compositions, plays or anything else is ACTIVELY ENCOURAGED.

///////////////////////

There were a few old, gnarled trees out in front. The building itself was totally unremarkable. Just an old, cheap sheet metal structure. The peeling, sun-faded sign read “Genii’s Junk – Worth anything or not, I buy it or sell it. If you need it, I have it. But it may need work!”

I parked in the shade of one of the trees and strolled into the slight gloom of the cool interior. There were dozens of racks holding the multitude of things that Genii wanted to keep out of the weather. The sun in Border County is infamous for destroying anything that it shines on, if it shines long enough.

It had obviously not shone on Genii enough to do any harm! Lovely young looking lady. Appearances are deceiving. She is lovely enough to look at, yes. Young? Define your terms. I know for a fact that she helped to found the Ottoman Empire. Lady? Try calling her human if you want an earfull of excellent profanity without a single sleazy four letter word.

Like everyone in North or South America, if you trace back far enough, there are immigrants in the woodwork. Genii is one, sort of. She has been in the same location since at least 1530. That is the year, not the time on a 24 hour clock.

She told me herself that Cortez was one cranky customer.

Today, there was a slight individual with a large head hidden by a bigger hat at the counter. Genii had the oscilloscope and a big, hundred function multimeter out on the counter and three big power leads with clamps and adapters.

A long, too many jointed finger pointed at a stud on the device sitting on the counter. His (?) somewhat squeaky voice demanded, “Positive One go here! Not over there, stupid human!”

Genii’s lovely face curled into a snarl, showing her many fangs. “Watch who you call HUMAN, you gray trash!”

Settling some, she explained patiently, as if to a retarded three year old, “This is the anti-gee element of a 1942 Star Sweeper. From 1951 on, you are right. For any earlier models, if you want to do that test hookup, put your gold on the counter now. You will not be alive to give it to me later but you WILL have destroyed the unit.

“This is from one of the two that US Airforce took down outside of Roswell in 1947.” She turned to a LONG shelf of manuals and other books that sat on top of the massive number of scroll pigeon holes. Taking down a much thumbed manual, she expertly flipped through pages and pointed to a picture for the customer.

“There. Manufacturer’s Manual for the 1942 Star Sweeper. Hookup diagram and warnings…” The Gray examined the manual in something like shock.

“Where you get this? I give you two pound gold for it.”

With a sour expression Genii pointed over her shoulder at a sign in at least a hundred languages. One of them was the same as the one in the book. It read, “NO WRITTEN MATERIALS FOR SALE AT ANY PRICE!”

He (?) started to say something more, while trying to put the manual under his (?) coat. Genii, with a disgusted look, leaped over the counter like an acrobat. She hit the customer with both feet at shoulder level, flattening him (?). She took back the manual and hopped back across the counter to put it away.

She also took the device off the counter and lifted the oscilloscope back to its rack of test equipment.

The test leads and other gear went neatly back to their places. Brightening, she turned to me.

“What can I do for you today, Jimmy?”

Flipply I replied, “You could sell me your bottle, my dear, but I have heard a rumor that your personal home is not for sale.

“Actually, I was looking for a carpet. Something that isn’t a Belgian knock-off of a real carpet.”

Lighting up, she asked, “Hand loomed and knotted or machine made?”

“Hand knotted, I think, Genii.”

“What about a dubious one? I have one out on Aisle 34, about a four or five hundred yards down. I’ll loan you a yard wand to get you there. It is between the NC-2 and the De Haviland bomber. There is a rack there. I am sure that you will have no trouble finding it.

I snickered. “Anything on YOUR aircraft rows is fun. What do you have that is new to you?”

Genii grinned in delight. How about an X-B70? It needs a little work!”

I chortled, and asked, “Which aisle? I should have no trouble seeing a Valkyrie if it is anything like reassembled.”

Genii handed me a wooden pole with a wide bicycle type seat and handlebars on it. With a grin, she said, “Aisle 36! Have fun!”

Leaving the disgruntled Gray behind, I took the handlebars, activating the “Yard Stick” and took off. In only moments, I found the Aisle 34 marker and swooped around the turn, scooting down the Aisle.

The NC-2 was a great locator. The giant WW I sea-going biplane was totally intact. It had a 103 foot wingspan. For wood and wire technology there were few that ever matched its sheer size and NONE that could match it for range and load.

It was meant to launch in Maine and fly antisubmarine patrol all the way to the Florida keys, non-stop. The Great War ended before it and its three sister aircraft were finished.

Congress canceled the contract without payment. Curtis (the C of NC-2) went ahead and finished all four planes on their own dime, while Congressmen all got on the “They will never fly” and “defrauding the War Department” band wagons. When all four launched from the factory in Virginia and flew up to Maine, the world was astounded.

When they refueled, they took on as passengers those few Congressmen and Navy personnel still championing the NCs as practical aircraft. They then flew, non-stop to the Florida Keys, exactly as designed, except that they were carrying almost a 20% overload in passengers, instead of bombs and depth charges. That feat blew away the whole world at the time.

It also shut up the NC program critics more effectively than if they had been hit by the bombs that the planes were designed to carry. Congress quietly tried to pass Curtis the money that they were due, so that the US Navy could claim the aircraft.

Later, the four made a trans Atlantic Flight. The NC-1 disappeared in thunderstorms. Some wreckage was found. The NC-3 was forced down at sea. It was taxiing on only two engines when found. The tow to the Azores caused enough damage to the plane that it could not continue.

The NC-2 got to the Azores a day before the NC-4. It refueled. The weather being good, it took off for Lisbon and was never seen again. The NC-4 landed in the Azores, refueled and later landed safely in Lisbon harbor, the first airplane to fly the Atlantic. It is now in the Smithsonian Air and Space Museum.

I made a note to ask Genii how she managed to get the NC-2 and set my yardstick down by the rack of carpets. They followed that old law, 90% of everything is crap.

Genii, as usual, was right about it not being hard to find the one that she had spoken of. It had a clearly later, and phony, Antwerp label sewed on. The work had been carelessly done. The metal needle used to sew the label on had damaged the port side lift and control spells, unless my Pocket Dowse and Spell Strength meter was wrong. Judging by the fringe and warp damage, it must have been some crash.

As I rolled up the carpet and strapped it to the Yardstick, I heard a warning siren. It was coming from the vicinity of the X-B70, whose huge nose and forward canards jutted above the intervening aircraft.

No chance to look at it, then. I headed back in to the shop. I got there just before the unearthly scream of the six monster jet engines being fired up. It sounded like the X-B70 was a live bird. If Genii was going to that much trouble, she very likely had a cash customer for it. I wondered who it was.

Sometimes Genii would talk about customers and sometimes not. It was never wise to pry. There was someone new at the counter. The Gray was still there. Still complaining.

Genii turned her back on him and told him, “You are right. I did not sell to you. I will not sell to you. You tried to shoplift PRINTED MATERIAL from ME! I have not let any written things go since Caesar screwed up our deal and BURNED the Library at Alexandria! You have only seconds left to get out of here alive! Go!” She was reaching under the counter when the Gray left - - at a waddling run.

Turning to the new man at the counter, she smiled very professionally and asked, “Sorry about the scene, General. What can I do for the Air Force today?”

Self-importantly, he replied, “What was that? It sounded like a jet engine test!”

Serenely, which is a bad sign with Genii, because it means that she is absolutely certain of her legal footing, Genii replied, “It was. X B-70 engine test. Starboard #2 engine began to develop vibration, so we aborted the test.

“It is ALL covered in my salvage contract. Do you need a copy?”

Sourly, the General replied, “Why bother? You can’t sell it if it is operational. Mass weapon laws.”

Smiling with her fangs but not her lovely eyes, Genii replied, “Loophole big enough to fly a carpet through, General. If I am not selling it on Earth, the laws don’t apply. I am not selling it anywhere that you have any authority.”

Voice hardening and chilling some, like maybe a glacier, she asked, “Do you have any actual business here?”

“Where are those ten computer stabilization systems that we ordered!” More a demand than a question. Bad way to make points with Genii.

Her face froze. “I have been forced to cut off all credit to the United States Armed Services. Proper notices were sent according to the contract. The reason given is failure to render payment of the agreed form or amount. Further, the Military Procurement Office has sent formal notice of refusal to pay and stated that I will receive only 1/10th of the outstanding total and that only by a check drawn on the Government.

“This has totally canceled our contracts and agreements. I filed a notice of repossession for all of the following items.”

She fished out a file box and gave the thunderstruck general a list. She also handed him a file of correspondence.

“That file and notice are copies of the originals. You may keep them or return them. Neither you nor any other armed service gets anything until I have my gold on the counter.”

I will give the General this. He took the whole file and settled himself at a large table. He began at the front and started working though it. Soon he was on a cell phone.

I was walking beside the Yardstick, guiding it with the handlebars. I brought it up to the counter and asked, “Got a Merlin S-multimeter, Genii? I want to check this out pretty carefully. I am certain that this is a Second Caliphate carpet but as near as my Pocket Dowse can show, the counterfeit label was sewed in with an Iron or Steel needle.

“Looks like that caused the control failure that made it crash.” I shook my head at foolishness. “Can you believe knowing enough to get a carpet like this and then sewing in the phony label for tax dodging with a steel needle? It shorted or blew out all the port side lift and control spells.”

Genii grinned hugely which showed off her big fangs wonderfully. She hopped across the counter again. She had five different willow wands and a very well worn Merlin in her hands.

She helped me to unroll the carpet. I showed her the weave and fringe damage that led me to think that the carpet had collided with something pretty solid at high speed.

Genii nodded agreement and plugged the biggest of the wands into the Merlin. Between us, we made sure that the original starboard spells were all intact.

The port side was a total loss. Between that steel needle and the impact damage that distorted the weave, and with it the spells, it was going to have to be totally reworked from fringe to fringe.

She looked up, shaking her head. “I got this out of the Lord Carleton Estate. I just paid a flat fee for it all. I was pretty sure of what this was but that was a LOT of stuff to sort. Drove my Yard Imps nuts.

“I just set it over in aircraft and hoped for the best. You lucked out, Jimmy. This IS a genuine and restorable Second Caliphate. I already have it priced.

“Yours for only five ounces.” She grinned again. I may be weird but I like Genii’s grin, fangs and all. She was holding out her hand.

Like a true gentleman, I dropped in three one troy ounce Krugerands and two Chinese Pandas. Genii, being Genii, closed her hand about them. When she opened it, the coins were gone and a receipt was in their place. It looked for all the world like a magic trick. Which it was. Real. Not slight of hand.

With the General expostulating fiercely into his phone in the background, Genii helped me roll the carpet snugly and secure it with straps for transport.

Carpet over my shoulder, I walked to the door. Looking out, the Gray and a companion were going over my rig, big jumper cables in hand.  They were trailing down from the nearly antique Type A saucer hovering overhead,. They were trying to find the hookup points for a jump-start. One was gabbling in Gray, “No Anti-gravity! How it fly?”

Door partly open, I called back inside, “Genii! The Grays are trying to swipe my rig from your parking lot!”

Snaring her fiercest, Genii came barreling out past me. She had what looked like a shotgun in hand. The double boom sounded like a shotgun all right. The result was not your normal shot shell hit on the tough hull alloy of the Type A saucer overhead.

The blue fire blast was something to behold. A visible hole about a foot across started to trail smoke most impressively. The saucer tilted some and sailed across Genii’s Yard Fence. A few moments later the array of crashes and the crunch of failing metal announced the end of the saucer, and probably, some expensive junk. The Grays ran like rabbits while Genii was reloading. Definitely not normal shotgun ammo.

I stowed my find and climbed under the cloth sunshade of my rig and, taking out my control wand, lifted my old Mohgul Carpet and took off for home. As I flew, I reflected that if Genii had lost some junk in the crash, she had gained a whole, nearly intact Type A saucer for salvage. I think that she was going to come out ahead. As usual.

–THE END–

Return to the Master Story Index

Return to the Bizarre Borderland

[unixcommerce]

Jewelry Displays for Craft Shows and Beyond

If your small business sells jewelry, you need to find ways to show off your products. Displays can help you make your products easily accessible at craft shows or special events. And they can also help dress up photos for online sales.

There are different display options for each major category. For example, some are made specifically for necklaces while others just display earrings. You can also create DIY jewelry display to highlight special pieces an arts and craft audience will appreciate. Depending on what products you sell, the options below may be of interest to a craft show.

If you’re looking for ideas for jewelry displays, here are some products to consider.

Best Jewelry Display SetBest Lucite Jewelry DisplayBest Hanging Jewelry Display Gems on Display 9 Piece Champagne Pink Leather Jewelry Display SetMooca 7 Pieces Set Clear Acrylic Jewelry Display Stand for RingMyGift 3-Tier Wall-Mounted Wood Jewelry Accessories Organizer with Chalkboard Buy on AmazonBuy on AmazonBuy on Amazon

Best Jewelry Displays to Consider

Each jewelry business must find great craft show displays and photo props that work for their specific needs. Below is a more full list of options broken down by category so you can find the right products for your needs and budget.

Best Jewelry Displays for Earrings

Whether you sell dainty or statement earrings, a quality display can make your creations stand out and keep them organized. Some of these showcase just one product at a time, while others provide spots for multiple products. There are also multiple brands, colors, and materials to choose from.

Yuson Products Brown Wood Earring Display Stands for Shows

This custom made Yuson earring case includes multiple rows to stack earrings in basic paper packaging. It’s made from pine wood. So it’s attractive, lightweight, and durable.

Beadaholique Jewelry Display, Black 3 Piece

Beadaholique includes three small black velvet stands. They’re small and simple, this means they won’t distract from your pieces. They’re especially well suited ii you want to make great statement earrings to stand out.

SUNEED Earring Holder Organizer

This earring organizer from SUNEED includes a wood base and three rows of iron earring holders. It can hold 34 pairs of earrings. And it can accommodate everything from posts to long statement pieces. So it’s perfect for those who sell a big variety.

BanST Gold Metal Earring T Bar Stand

This BanST earring stand holds just one set of earrings, making it perfect for pieces you want to promote or photograph for your website. It comes in a gold finish to complement gold pieces. But there are other finishes available as well.

Sooyee 360 Rotating Earring Holder and Jewelry Organizer

At a craft show, you may want a rotating case to show off lots of products to customers easily. This acrylic option from Sooyee works for both stud and dangly earrings. It holds 78 pairs, so there are many display ideas to be had. And the simple design won’t distract from your products.

Best Jewelry Displays for Bracelets

Bracelets can range from luxurious gold chains to costume bangles. A quality stand can give more display ideas to show multiple products at once and highlight special pieces. And it can make it easy for customers to access their favorite designs. Here are some to consider.

Evelots T-Bar Bracelet Organizer

This classic bracelet organizer from Evelots is covered with black velvet to provide a classic look and protect pieces. It can showcase multiple items at once. And it’s easy to remove and replace items as they’re purchased.

Bright Creations Rustic Wood 2 Tier Jewelry Holder T Bar Display

This Bright Creations t-bar holder offers a rustic look. Made from paulownia wood material, it has two levels to show off tons of pieces at once and add dimension to your pieces.

Mooca 6 Pcs Set Wooden Hand Form Jewelry Display Bracelet Ring Stand Holder

If you want to show what your bracelets might look like on an actual wrist, consider this pack from Mooca. It includes six hand-shaped stands that can hold both bracelets and rings.

Juvale Bracelet Pillow Display 12-Pack Velvet Jewelry Display Pillow

Bracelet pillows provide an easy way to show off bracelets individually. You can place them in a case or small container. Some may even use them for photos. This one from Juvale includes 12 pillows measuring 3 by 3 inches.

Ikee Design Wooden Rotating Two-Sided Jewelry Display Stand

This wooden stand from Ikee Design rotates, making it perfect for showing many pieces. It includes hooks that are spaced out perfectly for showing off bracelets. Although it looks simple, there are many display ideas you can play with to make your pieces stand out.

Best Jewelry Displays for Necklaces

Necklaces are popular both at craft shows and online. Whether you sell simple pendants or beaded pieces, a quality case can help customers get an idea for how each piece might look on them. So it can really inform their buying decisions, in addition to showing off your beautiful pieces and making them look great. Here are a few different types.

Umbra Trigem Hanging Organizer

This hanging necklace display and organizer from Umbra can actually work for multiple jewelry types. But it leaves enough room to make it perfect for neckpieces. It’s brass and includes three tiers and a tray at the bottom.

7TH VELVET Black Velvet Necklace Easel

This pack from 7TH VELVET includes six separate easels that hold one necklace each. They show off what necklaces might look like on. And the velvet protects each piece.

Mooca Lightweight Wooden Freestanding Necklace Easel Display Stand

This wooden necklace display from Mooca includes spots for seven different necklaces without having them overlap. It comes in four finishes and is perfect for a booth with a craft like, rustic or traditional look.

Darice Burlap Necklace Bust

If you’re looking for a realistic bust to show what your pieces might look like on, consider this option from Darice. It comes in a gray burlap finish. So it offers a great upscale look without distracting from each piece.

MyGift Set of 2 Barnwood Adjustable-Length Necklace Storage Holder

This necklace display from MyGift allows you to hang multiple products from sawtooth ridges at the top. It comes in two wood finishes and offers adjustable height.

Best Jewelry Displays for Rings

Ring displays not only show customers your products. They can also help to keep your items organized at craft shows or wherever you keep your online inventory. Below are some of the different types and options to consider.

Mooca 7 Pieces Set Clear Acrylic Jewelry Display Stand for Ring

If you want a display idea to highlight each ring on its own, this set from Mooca includes seven lucite holders. They come in various heights to add dimension and variety to your cases or craft show display.

ZLY Jewelry Rings Display Tray

Those who have a lot of rings to show off might consider this tray from ZLY. It holds 100 items and includes velvet surfaces to protect each one.

KESHENG Modern Marble Ring Holder Tower Ceramic Cone

If you want to show off statement pieces or find ring holders for photos, this KESHENG product may be perfect. It has a marble finish and comes in a set of two simple cones.

Oirlv Linen 3 Slots Ring Earrings Display Trays

This linen tray from Oirlv shows off just a few rings or sets of earrings. It’s covered in light gray linen for a classic look that won’t distract from your products. And it’s small enough to easily transport to craft fairs.

MyGift 3-Tier Wall-Mounted Wood Jewelry Accessories Organizer with Chalkboard

This ring holder from MyGift hangs from the wall. So it’s perfect for craft fair booths that offer mounting space. It has a wood finish and includes a chalkboard. So you can write a short description of your products or promote prices or specials.

Best Jewelry Displays for Other Pieces

Some jewelers may carry pieces other than those listed above, including broaches, hairpins, and cuff links. If your small business sells any of these other items at events or online, consider these unique options.

Gems on Display 9 Piece Champagne Pink Leather Jewelry Display Set

This set from Gems on Display includes nine pieces that display various types of jewelry. They include all the basics, but also have small trays for other pieces that don’t fit traditional options. Each one is made from light pink leatherette for a consistent look across a craft fair booth.

Angelynn’s Cufflink Organizer

Those who sell cufflinks at craft fairs may love this organizer from Angelynn’s. It mounts to the wall and comes in four finishes. It can show off up to 92 pairs.

Y&Me Wooden Jewelry Tray with Lid

This tray from Y&Me can be used for almost any type of piece at a craft show. However, the sections are large enough for unique pieces like eye-catching brooches. It’s also covered to protect one of a kind items.

SSWBasics 12-Peg White Wire Countertop Rack

This SSWBasics countertop display includes adjustable pegs. So you can use it to showcase pretty much anything, including products like keychains.

FLYPARTY Enamel Pin Wall Display Banner

Those who sell small enamel pins or similar items may like this hanging canvas from FLYPARTY. It’s an affordable banner that comes in two colors. And you can easily hang it up at your craft show display table.

Best Jewelry Photography Props

This category includes great jewelry display ideas that are especially good for photography. These items should be relatively muted so as not to distract from each piece in photos. They should also not reflect light or hold tons of pieces at once.

GemeShou BanST 5pcs Acrylic Jewelry Display Tray Resin Earring Tray

If you want to take photos of your products lying flat on an attractive surface, consider this BanST set. It includes five acrylic trays that are made to look like natural gems.

Mooca 6 Pcs Jewelry Display Risers Stacking Nested Set

This set from Mooca includes six jewelry risers that you can use both as a craft show display and photo prop. You simply lay items flat to view them off on a simple yet sophisticated surface.

QILICHZ Necklace and Earring Bust Jewelry Display Bust Stand

This bust from QILICHZ is great for both necklaces and earrings. It shows what your products should look like on an actual person.

Monrocco 2pcs Female Mannequin Hand

For bracelets and rings, this Monrocco set includes both a black and white plastic hand. It can help you create eye-catching images and demonstrate how multiple pieces might look together.

N’ice Packaging 2-Pack White Leatherette Wrist Watch Bracelet Jewelry Showcase

For bracelets and watches, this N’ice leatherette showcase allows you to photograph pieces on a plain background while holding them in place instead of laying them flat.

How do you show jewelry for sale?

You show jewelry for sale in the way that best shows the whole piece as it will be used. For example, earrings should hang. Bracelets should be placed on round bars. Necklaces should be placed on busts. You will get better jewelry display ideas as you look at more displays.

How do you display jewelry at a craft show?

When you are at a craft fair you can have a wide range of pieces. Whether it is DIY jewelry or an eye-catching antique piece you bought at an auction, make sure all of your jewels are easily accessible so customers can see them up close. You’ll likely want to show off multiple pieces at once. So you might consider racks that rotate or containers that hold multiple pieces next to one another.

If all else fails, you can make your own DIY jewelry display to truly showcase your jewels in a craft booth.

How do I photograph jewelry for online sales?

You should include multiple photos of jewelry pieces in each product listing. One should include the piece on a plain background and at least one other should show what it looks like on a model. Make sure the jewels are clean and shiny. But avoid using a flash and keep the light even using reflectors to avoid glare in images.

Here are more business photography tips.

Image: Depositphotos.com

This article, “Jewelry Displays for Craft Shows and Beyond” was first published on Small Business Trends

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[manbehindtheshadows]

Retribution-- Drabble edition 1/6

The lights went out. 

The computer screens flickered as they were immediately put on backup power. A soft red glow illuminated the cramped office space, fading in and out as the wails of the emergency alert blared throughout the lab. Eins eyes shifted upwards at the commotion of the cracks of thunder, shuddering foundation, and cries of injured Pokemon, before taking his focus back to the bright screen in front of him.

Moving 372 items (1.3 TB)

From Alpha PC to S Drive (S:)

The boy was closing in much quicker than he anticipated. Even considering the hole blasted into wall as an advantage, it didn’t seem to slow his pace in the slightest– of course Ein had Venus to blame for that. He couldn’t be more than thrilled to explain that to Nascour once he had dealt with the child–perhaps then he would finally pull his head out of his ass and consider hiring a more efficient group.

But it was too late now.

Once he had disposed of the child, Cipher was on their own. He was no longer going to associate his grandfathers- no- his project with a clown fest guaranteed for failure.

Moving 253 items (851 GB)

From Alpha PC to S Drive (S:)

He tugged gently at his upper lip, eyes in deep ponder. Out of all the reports he had gotten so far, twenty-six shadow pokemon had been snagged. Six shadow pokemon were in the lab, but considering the boys catch rate and considering all previous admins weren’t able to stop him, the peons wouldn’t stand a chance.

Moving 187 items (422 GB)

From Alpha PC to S Drive (S:)

Two of those Pokemon were legendaries. Damn those two, damn those two insufficient wastes of space, and damn him for bending to Evice’s will and being foolish enough to hand those legendaries to the other admins. He knew they couldn’t handle what he was giving him- He knew that. 

Moving 98 items (104 GB)

From Alpha PC to S Drive (S:)

Eins fingers shuffled at his belt, observing the pokeball in his tense grip. He still had a chance at this. He may had given the strongest Shadow Pokemon to Evice already, but he still had his pride, his trump card– his Raikou. He knew how to play his cards- Even if the kid did bring the other two to use against him, one Rain Dance would render one useless and one Thunder should take the other out in one hit.

Moving 2 items (18 MB)

From Alpha PC to S Drive (S:)

…24 years.

He’d been at this project for 24 long years.

He was not Miror B.

He was not Dakim. He was not Venus.

He was the true head of the Shadow Project, Nascour and Evice be damned. 

Francis Stein be damned. He would win this. 

A flicker of the monitor caught Eins attention. The last of the data had been back into his personal external drive. All of Ciphers PCs had been completely wiped. Just one last thing to do…

>Run— cmd

C:\Users\Alpha\Windows\system32

C:\Windows\System32>del *

C:\Windows\System32\* Are you sure (Y/N)?_

There was no hesitance striking the Y key.

“Good.” He sighed under his breath. Within seconds the monitor collected dozen of error messages as the computer seemed to internally collapse on itself. He glanced down at the dozens of emptied discs scattered across his desk, “These discs have been scrubbed of all data.” He finally placed his hand on the PC tower, finger held firmly onto the power button until the bright LED glow of the monitor flickered off, sealing thousands upon thousands of dollars of equipment next to unsalvageable. 

“That’s done it….”

He turned around just in time to see two figures adjacent to his server rack, “Waah!” Ein yelped, nearly leaping out of his skin. A couple of discs fell off the desk as he stumbled to keep his balance. “How did you get in without my notice!?” 

Neither of the figures said nothing. The further one-- smaller, feminine build, pulled themselves closer behind the other figure, whose features began to reveal themselves in the crimson light of the alarm: leather trench coat, studded platform boots, light messy hair with the shades-- all features recognized from Ciphers blacklist posters. 

“Ah…” Ein flinched, “I see.” There was absolutely no doubt in his mind that before him was the primary thorn in Ciphers side. “You must be the much-talked-about Wes.” “I am.” The shady figure answered curtly. Not much of a talker, this one.

“Little did I expect to see you here.” 

If that was truly him then… 

Callous, lackadaisical eyes locked onto the softer, innocent ones of the young girl behind Wes-- The single chink in the armor of the Shadow Pokemon Plan that had brought them to this point- The Shadow Girl. Ein’s face gradually displayed a faint yet unhealthy smirk, as if he just noticed some unsuspecting poultry he was about to throw in his meal alive. 

“Rui, stay back.” Wes ordered. 

So she has a name now...

The girl shuddered as he placed himself between prey and predator, amber eyes glaring daggers at the Head Scientist. Ein hummed under his breath. 

“I am Ein. I am in charge of this Shadow Pokemon Lab.” His hand emerged from his jacket, clutching a Pokeball. Eins’ simper grin slowly began to fade into a scowl as he slowly began to approach his opponent.  No more toying around.

“No one must interfere with our Shadow Pokemon Plan.”  he began to zero in on the prey that had gotten far too close in impeding his life’s work. “I won’t allow it.” 

Behind the Cipher Admins near impassive expression, the sound of his heart pounding rang through his ears like war drums. Twenty-four years of arduous and mind-numbing study was now on the line. It felt like his entire life was built up for this moment. He was going to take back everything these two wretches and the other lowlife admins had pulled from under him. He defeated the snagger here, and he would be free of Ciphers constant attempts to control his project.

Ein’s eyes seared into those of the snaggers; steel blue and amber hues melded with the carmine rays of the alarm.

“Let me acquaint you with the power of my Shadow Pokemon.”

[snarkwrites]

FFT: galentines; john shaw

Notes:

Okay, so... Did I mention I totally fell in love with Dean Ambrose’s character John in the movie Lockdown? Because yeah, yeet, oops. This is a result of that. And maybe at some point, I might revisit this whole.. Idea.. of mine. Idk. For now, this is part 1 in a two part thing.

Summary:

Valerie and John were a thing years ago. Now they work together. But there’s lack of closure and BOTH PARTIES are still in love. Maybe drinks are had and maybe John does the sober boss thing and takes Valerie home?

Pairing:

Detective John Shaw x OFC, Valerie.

Warnings:

alcohol tw, flirting and angst.

“It’s over-commercialized bullshit, that’s what it is. No one is ever going to tell me any different.” Valerie was turning the glass upside down as soon as she slammed back her shot of tequila and shaking her head at the bitterness.

“Aren’t you worried you’ll get called into the station. By our boss and your partner, the hardass?” Tess teased Valerie just in the hopes that it’d get Valerie ranting and raving about her crush on the man in question because she was almost certain that she’d seen Officer Shaw walk into the bar earlier, flashing his badge around, looking all official. And Tess really, really, really wanted to see Valerie stick her foot right in her mouth at last. The tension between the two when they were all on the clock was almost enough to make everyone around them squirm in anticipation. It was almost as if they knew each other before they started working together on the force. Several times Tess got the feeling there was something neither of them were telling her, but she let it alone. She let them keep insisting things were complicated because somehow, she got the feeling they were beyond that.

For about 3 seconds, the words of her best friend almost sobered Valerie up. But she started to laugh and she shrugged. “I told him I get tonight off. Because Valentines Day.” Valerie giggled and shook her head, glaring at the rest of her friends when they immediately chimed in “Crime doesn’t take a night off.” her three best friends all mimicked Officer Shaw.

Valerie bit her lip, grabbing for the bottle of tequila between the four of them and after taking a lime wedge and shaking some salt onto the back of her hand, she took another shot. “Do you guys k-know how f-fucking hard it is w-working with John Shaw?”

“Oh god, here we go.”

“Hey, somebody should record this.”

“D-don’t y-you dare. With those f-fucking arms and those e-eyes, holy shit. Man is a walking w-wet dream. I c-can’t fuckin f-focus when he walks into my o-office.” Valerie was off to the races, ranting on without a care in the world and her friends were all sitting back and quietly giggling. At one point during the most filthy part of Valerie’s rant on the things she wanted Officer Shaw to do to her and a few things she wouldn’t mind doing to him, Tess caught sight of Valerie’s partner -and their boss, nursing a bottle of water and sitting at the edge of the bar, staring right at Valerie intently.

He did it all the time.

The next thing Tess knew, she was getting a text from an unknown number. The mystery was solved as soon as she opened the text though and Tess smirked to herself as her eyes scanned the message Officer Shaw sent her.

← Thought Valerie had a hot date or somethin’ tonight…

Tess had plans already, she was meeting a guy she swiped right and matched on Tinder with -if he bothered showing up. Their other two friends Rita and Addie had taken an Uber over to the bar after their shift at the hospital and were leaving as soon as their husbands got off work from a local steel factory. Tess had a feeling she knew exactly what Officer Shaw was getting at though, and just the thought that she might be right and this might be a damn good chance to play matchmaker between Shaw and Valerie. And that’s exactly what she set about doing, with her answering texts.

→ No sir. Not us. Never. ;P

→ Valerie got dumped earlier, so she’s havin’ a rough night. I think she started drinking at 5-ish?

→ I gave her a lift here, but if my Tinder guy ever shows, I’m getting outta here because I plan on getting l a i d tonight, sir. So.. Val is deffo gonna need a ride.

→  But then again, she’s the only one you were really askin’ about, am I right? ;P

As soon as she’d responded, she put away her phone. She spotted the red and black plaid scarf that her Tinder date mentioned he’d be wearing and she took two more rapid-fire shots, standing as she wiped her hands down the front of her jeans. “Ladies, my ride awaits. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do tonight. If you do, name it after me.. Or don’t. I’m outta here.”

Valerie gave a laugh and called out in a cheeky tone to her best friend, “ Wrap it up! You don’t know where that dick’s been, sweetheart!” her level of drunkenness making her usual drawl even thicker and much more pronounced. She stood, sliding off the barstool and she started to make her way towards the back, with Rita and Addie in tow.

Walking isn’t really a word for what she was doing. Stumbling was more like it. Rita and Addie flanked her on either side, holding her steady until she came to a stop in front of the old jukebox sitting next to a pool stick holder mounted to the back wall of the bar. After digging around in her pockets, she finally found a ten dollar bill and she set to straightening it, pouting and swearing when that task proved to be just a bit more difficult than she anticipated.

“Girl.”

“Give me that, holy shit.” Addie reached out, taking the badly wrinkled bill, smoothing it over the edge of the machine before slipping it into the slot. “No stripper anthems tonight.”

“Aw, c’mon, whyyyy.” Valerie whined and pouted, but burst into laughter. “Fine. W-we’re listenin t-to metal.”

“Oh god.”

“She’s gonna be so hungover tomorrow. Christ, Rita, her hair is gonna hurt.” Addie grimaced as Rita glanced over towards the end of the bar. Spotting Valerie’s partner sitting there nursing a glass of water, she got Addie’s attention as Valerie wandered over to the rack of pool sticks and grabbed one, chalking the tip.

“Okay, so here’s my thought. Tess has already told the guy that Val is gonna need a lift. When Mike and Danny show, we’ll kinda herd her over there to him.”

“We can’t do that, Rita.”

“We can and we are. Because it’s about time they both acted on the way they feel. Guy’s always around, Addie. He wouldn’t show up here if it weren’t for our wildcat best friend. And you know what Tess keeps saying, they’re always fighting. Think, Addie.. How’d it start with you and Danny?”

“Ooh. Good point. Okay, fine. I’m in. But I don’t like it. And he better not be a dick about it.”

“Somehow I don’t think he will, Addie.” Rita mused as she nodded in the direction of Officer Shaw. Valerie’s laughter and Sad But True by Metallica shattered the otherwise quiet bar and Rita gave a wink to the officer sipping water as his gaze flickered from her to Valerie, settling on Valerie who was currently racking the table for a game while trying to sing along with the song and wiggling her hips to it.

“At least she’s not at home ugly sobbing into a pint of ice cream like with Ben.” Addie mused as Rita nodded in agreement and reached for a pool stick. “C’mon. I feel like tonight’s that night, Val. Tonight I’m gonna push you right off that champion throne.”

“R-rita, I l-love you but n-no. N-nope. You’re h-horrible at t-this.”

“No, you’re just a little hustler. That’s all.”

Valerie squealed, smiling at her in a goofy way. “Awww, bitch, y-you always say the sweetest shit.”

“Okay, sugar. Get the stick and get ready for your beating.”

They were about halfway into the game when Rita and Addie’s husbands showed up to collect them and Rita wandered past Officer Shaw, leaning in to whisper, “Okay, stud. She’s gonna need a lift. Don’t be an ass. It’s been a rough day for her. When you two got into it earlier? She’d just finished crying in the employee bathroom while textin’ me.”

John’s gaze left Rita and settled on Valerie, watching her like a hawk. Ozzy Osbourne was playing now and Valerie was taking a long sip from the forgotten bottle of tequila. He grimaced and nodded in her direction as he asked Rita, “Any reason why?”

“Yeah, her ass of an ex, Ben. He dumped her over text.”

John grimaced again, finishing off his bottled water as he glanced at the time on his phone screen and stood. “The four of ya be careful.” he told Rita as Rita nodded and then told him, “Have fun wrangling her, Officer. Use the cuffs if you have to.”