#i hate new york so much its unreal

[surenqii]

average idol experience | j.yh x reader

synopsis: After being offered a vacation to new york by her company, Y/N boards the best flight of her life, sitting directly next to a man who looked like he was made by god himself.

a/n: this is my first time EVER writing a fic so pls bear w/ me if it goes off track or if its not that creative. please leave tips!! and suggestions!!

warnings: fluff, reader is a little crybaby bitch and its fucking annoying, talks about anxiety uhh i think thats it

Maybe part 1?

You had never been on a business trip before. Your company rarely allowed employees to go on trips, so hearing that you were going to New York for vacation came as a shock to you. To say you were excited was an understatement– but there were no other words to explain it. Being out of the country was a surreal experience, and you almost felt like you didn’t deserve it. You did, of course. They wouldn’t have given you the trip if you hadn’t. You had never been on a plane before, so you were terrified, and it was obvious from how much you were shaking. Boarding the plane felt unreal. Sitting in your seat felt unreal. Sitting next to the most handsome dude you’d ever seen felt unreal. The second he sat down next to you, you tensed up. You weren’t exactly good at talking to people– let alone those who looked like they came directly from heaven itself. You expected him to ignore you, or maybe request to switch seats. But, much to your surprise, he engaged in a conversation. “Is this your first time on a plane?” He asked as he sat down, having scanned over you as he fit his bag under the seat in front of him. You questioned how he knew as if you weren’t shaking like a madman. “Ah… Yeah, it is.” You spoke few words, not wanting to interact with someone you barely knew out of fear of embarrassing yourself. The man looked you up and down, giving you a warm smile after noticing how nervous you looked. “Don’t worry too much about it. This airline is safe, so you’ll be alright.” You appreciated the comfort, but not knowing how to express it, you simply smiled and nodded. Curse you and your inability to speak to people. “I’m Yunho, by the way. You’ll be stuck next to me the entire flight.” He stuck out his hand for a shake, watching you intently as you accepted it. “Y/N. Sorry for having to be your seat partner, I’m not really... the most fun to hold conversations with, to say the least.” You smiled anxiously, hoping he wouldn’t get the wrong idea. You appreciated his attempt to talk to you, you were just scared of saying something wrong. It happened a lot more than you wished it would, always ruining friendships or simple conversations with people just because you didn’t think before you spoke.  “Don’t worry about it, I’m good at carrying conversations. Sort of a part of my job.” He chuckled, lifting one leg to rest over the other as he relaxed into his seat. “Part of your job?” You questioned, eyes drifting away from him and to the people around you. A few boys were looking at the two of you– One with red hair, his features very defined. He gave a big smile as you looked at him, moving your gaze to the others. A platinum blonde??, who seemed insanely short, and a brunette with blonde streaks, who had a sly smirk spread across his face. He looked like he bites.

“Ah, yeah, don’t question it. I’m not a public speaker or anything.” Yunho spoke.

The men staring at you made you more nervous than you already were, and it was very evident on your face. You kept looking back and forth between Yunho and the 3 watching you, fear taking over your features. You hated when people stared at you. It was never good. It almost always meant they were judging you. Panic started to form.

Your lack of response alerted Yunho, who hadn’t been looking at you. “Y/N?” He questioned, concern lacing his voice as he turned his head to face you. Noticing that you were looking past him, he turned his head towards the source.

“Oh.” He huffed, giving the three a look that immediately made them turn and face the other way. Turning back to you, he waved a hand in front of your face, snapping you out of the panicked daze that had control of you.  “Don't worry about them. They’re my friends, they didn’t mean any harm, promise.” He spoke softly, not wanting to scare you more than the others already had.

You didn’t say anything back, just nodding and turning to face in front of you, putting your headphones in, and bringing your knees up to your chest. The plane wasn’t going to take off for a bit, so you had some time to calm down. Yunho didn’t seem to let up, though, watching you worriedly as you sank back into your seat. His members hadn’t meant to scare you– and he sure as hell was going to yell at them as soon as they were at the hotel– but, something as simple as a few people looking at you, setting you off concerned him a lot.

After a few moments, the plane was ready to take off. You took out your headphones, looking back up at Yunho. He was playing a game on his phone now, not paying much attention to his surroundings.

“Is the plane taking off?” You asked, still a little nervous. What if the plane crashed? Or something went wrong during the takeoff? Yunho glanced up from his phone, giving you a reassuring look. “Yeah, it is. Are you nervous?” He asked.

“...Very.” You murmured under your breath, visibly shaking. Everything that could go wrong was running through your head.

Yunho watched you with heavy eyes, contemplating to himself for a moment, before holding out his hand. You looked up at him with a muddled gaze, wondering why he was holding his hand out to you as you continued to shake. “You can hold on to my hand as the plane takes off. Having something to squeeze might soothe your nerves.” He grinned.

Everything about this man was amazing. Why was he being so nice to you? You didn’t know each other, and your presence didn’t serve any benefit to him. Maybe he didn’t want to deal with you freaking out the entire ride? You looked down at his hand, hesitating for a moment, before taking it in your own. His hands were warm and soft– it was obvious he took good care of them– and much bigger than yours. His hand completely covered yours as he held them against the armrest of the seat, rubbing your palm with his thumb. You knew he was just trying to calm you down, but it made your stomach do flips. It was endearing, honestly. This was something that couples did, not strangers.

The plane began to take off, causing you to completely stiffen and tighten your grip on Yunho’s hand. He didn’t seem to mind and continued to run his thumb across your palm. It helped to calm you down, and by the time you were in the air, you weren’t nervous anymore. You peeked over at him, a smile plastered across his face. Was he always so happy?

You let go of his hands a few minutes later, thanking him for the support and turning your phone on to play a game.

You and Yunho had talked the entire ride. You learned a lot more about him during that time– Things like the fact that he was going back home after being on a trip with 7 of his friends. He didn’t mention what the trip was, but you didn’t mind, assuming it had something to do with work, whatever his job may be. At some point, you had fallen asleep, and he was so polite to cover you up with his jacket. It made your heart flutter once you woke up. You waved to each other as you got off the plane. He made the ride a lot more enjoyable, which almost made you regret not getting his number. This guy was way out of your league, though, so you doubt he would’ve complied. You were just thankful for his soothing voice, and the way he massaged your hand so calmingly. It made the experience worthwhile. Only after getting off the plane and breaking away from each other, though, do you realize he hadn’t taken his coat back. As you walked through the halls of the airport with a smile on your face from your interactions with him, you froze when you got to the door. Hundreds of cameras, reporters, and random people stood on the other side, waiting for someone to come out. Oh, this was so not good. Opening the door, you walked out as quickly as possible, covering your face from the flashes of cameras. You knew they weren’t here for you, but reporters and fans take photos of anything that moves. You had no choice but to deal with it. Hearing some of them begin to shout “ATEEZ!”, however, piqued your interest. Was there a group here? Had they been on the plane, and you just never noticed? Turning around once you got through the doors and out of the crowd, you peeked through to see who the cause of the screams were. What you hadn’t expected, though, was to see Yunho and his friends with tons of bodyguards around them, all navigating throughout the walkway as fans screamed and took photos, desperately trying to pry their way closer. It was almost scary how determined these girls were to get close to them. For a minute, it didn’t even click in your head that this meant Yunho was famous. Only once he spotted you standing at the entrance and giving you a wave did the pieces go together in your head, and you waved back awkwardly, not knowing how to react now that you knew you had been talking to a celebrity the entire ride. That wasn’t just something that happened every day! Once they made their way to where you were, Yunho pulled his mask down, giving you that adorable smile he had given you on the plane.

“Hey again, Y/N!” He exclaimed, nodding to his friends that they could go ahead while he and his manager stayed behind for a minute. “Are you famous? I’ve never seen that many people fighting just to get a photo of someone.” You chuckled, shifting your weight to your side. You didn’t want to make him uncomfortable by being weird about it, but you weren’t sure how to go about asking so casually.” Yunho looked away nervously, not sure how to respond. “Yeah, I kinda.. Forgot to tell you about that, sorry. I should’ve warned you there’d be tons of people here before you got off the plane.” He played with the back of his hair, turning his gaze back to you. You gave him a friendly smile, the conversation not going anywhere for a minute. After a few seconds of silence, you snapped back to reality, taking off the coat he had given you and holding it out to him. “Here, you forgot this. Wanted to make sure you got it back before you left.” Everything about you was driving Yunho insane. You were way too nice, and the fact that you weren’t weird about the reality that he was a celebrity was a nice change of pace from how people usually reacted. And your face, god. The way you had this soft look about you all the time. He swore he had met an angel. “Ah– Don’t worry about it, you can keep it. I’ll just buy another one.” He offered, waving his hands and pushing the coat back to you. “I have the money for it.” Your face grew confused, pushing the coat in his direction once again. “I can’t accept this, Yunho... This brand is insanely expensive! That’s, like.. Way out of my price range, my company would wonder how I got it.” You argued, face heating up from the offer. Yunho simply smiled at you again, stifling back a laugh. “Really, Y/N, I don’t mind. It’s really cold here, and you’re not wearing nearly enough layers for this weather.” He said, looking your outfit up and down. “Just take it. You can pay me back with something else another time.” “Another time?” You questioned, which made Yunho’s face light up. Thank god you hadn’t immediately shot down the idea. “Yeah. Maybe in a few days? Or today- Whatever works for you.” Yunho mumbled …Was he asking you out? Yunho was asking you out. There's no way this is real. Are you dreaming..? “..Tonight sounds good. Give me your phone, I’ll put my number in.” Yunho handed over his phone, watching intently as you typed in your number, and then giving you the brightest smile you had seen out of him all day once you handed it back.

“My schedule ends at around 6.. I’ll call you then?” He asked gently, closing his phone and putting it back in his pocket.

“Sounds great. I’ll see you tonight.” You replied.

Well, guess it’s time to go find an outfit.

I hope this was a good read for my first fic! the ending was a little bit rushed so please leave feedback <333 ty for taking ur time to read this!

[alovelywaytospendanevening]

Peyton Place: The Novel That Shocked America

First appearing in 1956, Grace Metalious' Peyton Place blew the lid off the hypocritical conformity of small-town, postwar America. Considered the nation’s first “blockbuster” book, the novel both shocked and secretly delighted readers with its portrayal of sex, secrets, scandal, and even adultery, incest, and abortion. Selling 100,000 copies in its first month and at least 12 million more later, the book was so popular that it entered The New York Times Best Seller list a week before it was published. It inspired a film adaptation nominated for nine Oscars and network television’s first primetime soap, which once drew 60 million viewers three nights a week and helped launch the careers of Mia Farrow and Ryan O’Neal. (x)

Peyton Place was oddly familiar and yet jarringly strange not only because the novel shocked but also because in the minds of many readers the distinction between the imaginary realm of fiction and the reality of their lives was surprisingly effaced—a reality at best vaguely articulated and at times described as quite “unreal,” there being no words to express certain experiences, and thus no way to mark them off as such. Reading Peyton Place provoked an uncanny recognition, a glimpse into a somewhat frightening realm readers knew existed but could express in only a vague, inarticulate way, a taboo landscape, out of the public eye, that spoke to the silent fears and ambiguous emotions fans struggled to describe. Almost always, their stories begin with subterfuge:

“It was the kind of book mothers would hide under the bed,” a professor of English recalled.

“It was the first time I remember hiding anything from my husband. I kept it in the ice box, behind his beer.”

“I kept it hidden in the basement and used to sneak down there to read it.”

“I always carried it inside a brown paper wrapper. But that became pretty obvious, so my girlfriend and I slipped the dust jacket of Gone With the Wind—they were about the same size—over Peyton Place. But we still got yelled at—my teacher hated Gone With the Wind.”

“I kept it under the mattress. It was the only place close to me at night.”

“Oh, I had this big sock I’d use at Christmas. I’d shove Peyton Place down its long leg when my mother came in to say good night. It looked like a snake had eaten it.”

“In the toilet tank. We had one of those old-fashioned water closets, you know. The top had a little shelf where I hid stuff. Peyton Place sat there next to my Playboy magazines.”

“Under my pillow.”

“In a bag. A very deep bag.”

“Way up on the top shelf. My husband was short so he never much looked up there.”

“Under the lower bunk beds in the dorm. The nuns found it anyway and gave us hell. Then they took it back to the convent. We know they read it ’cause the sister who did the cleaning told us she had found it open on a table and what a disgrace it was to see it there. And I think they knew that we knew ’cause nothing was ever said about it and my folks were never notified, which was totally surprising!”

Metalious’s biographer Emily Toth tells the story of Michael True who while stationed at Fort Chaffee, Arkansas, in the late 1950s, “could walk down the center aisle of any barracks and see forty men lying on their bunks, all still in army boots, reading the paperback version of Peyton Place.” (x)

[rabbitarchives]

His children (unfinished short story inspired by Succession)

And with that, my father died. Finally. 

We stood beside his deathbed, arms crossed, eyes fixated on some part of his body, waiting. My own eyes laid on his chest, waiting for it to start rising again. It didn’t, but at the time I was so obnoxious of my fathers condition that I couldn’t fathom him actually kicking the bucket. ‘He wouldn’t do that’ I thought as I continuously stared at his body wrapped in a turquoise hospital gown. The great Callahan Howard died in peasant cloth, descending back into his roots.

Nobody cried that day. Faces dry as the desert left the building that night, walking out of the room where the cold, lifeless body of my father slept its eternal sleep. Only on the ride home one of us dared to open their mouth:

“He looked so small.” noted Barnabas, his head hanging low.

We all looked at him. I couldn’t believe that this will be the first few words uttered of him after his passing. 

For a glimpse second I smiled, picturing how my father would have reacted to this comment: shaking his fist at the direction of my brother yelling ‘I was dying, for cryin’ out loud!’. My smile lingered on for a bit then faded just as quickly as it appeared. 

Indeed, my father was a hated man. He, too, was aware of that. If more people knew about him or his work, he would have been the next Musk. Or Bezos. Or any billionaire white man with too much to say. 

Days later, gathering at my fathers place felt unreal. Our mother, Theresa, had the staff prepare some form of dinner with no luck. Nobody had the appetite to even nibble on a cashew. 

Francis, my father’s “dearest” friend, gave a small speech, however I didn't listen. Starting his eulogy with “Cal was an incredible friend and father” I knew that the whole rambling would be pretentious so instead of boring myself to death I drew my attention to the house of my now deceased father.

The home was neatly decorated by my mother and her staff: huge chandeliers, neat, marble tiles and eggshell colored walls with paintings of old New York buildings. The house of a billionaire. Tasteful yet cold, blending into the idea of what a magazine cover would look like rather than an actual person's home. Huge, pale windows allowed me to get lost in the crowd hurling below us on the streets of the big apple. The image of ants popped into my head as I regarded the hundreds of people hustling around each other. 

The monotone, almost mechanical, sound of Francis’ voice died down and the noise of the crowd took over the room. Shuffling into a corner of the room my cold hand lazily held the glass of juice. I looked like an angsty teenager in time out.

Then, like a bolt from the blue, the towering frame of my oldest brother appeared at the entrance of the hall. Fashionably (yet intentionally) late, as always. Drawing attention from all angles, like a magnet, Benedict Howard pranced through the crowd. A well bred stallion would’ve been envious of his graceful movements. 

His watchful eyes skimmed through the crowd, searching. Even in this supposed vulnerable moment he looked invincible and balletic. 

Shit. I didn’t realize I was staring so intently at him, revealing my not-so-hiding place.

A wave, an evil grin and Ben was on his way towards me. 

On his path relatives stopped the supposed heir of our fathers fortune to either offer their condolences or congratulate him on his apparent promotion. Ironically the latter was more popular.

“What a fuckin’ party, eh?” Ben finally stepped beside me, not even looking down at me, his gaze was on the people of the room immediately. 

“If he only knew Orla showed.” I took a sip, my eyes lingering on the crunched frame of the tiny woman. “She must be here for the will.”

“Like she’ll get anything.” Benedict scoffed.

I knew he could taste the victory in his mouth. After all these years of working under dad’s watchful eyes he finally got the prize he always dreamed of. Well not quite yet. Being the firstborn of a millionare family had its perks: immediate heritage of the multi-million dollar company, being well known in the business world, narcotics tendencies and so on and so forth. With all of these combined you get Benedict Howard, the pretentious coward. My lovely eldest brother was the kind of person who would laugh at a person being superstitious but fuck his ‘lucky girl’ before any important meetings.

In a nutshell, Ben was an asshole. But not as big as our father. 

“Where’s Bly?” It felt strange to say her name again.

My brother completely ignored my question.

“Who do you think it’ll be?” 

“Me.” I joked.

“Yeah, as if.” he scoffed.

I pretended to be shocked: “How could you?”

All of us were aware of Ben’s greatly anticipated heritage. I could only imagine the face he’ll make when his name gets announced on the will reading: a small raise of his eyebrows, eyes scanning the room for a second and rising up from his leather chair with hands comically pressed to his chest, fingers intertwined. “Thank you, thank you Father.” He’ll whimper looking up at the blank sealing. Fucking drama queen. 

But he was, more or less, the best option. A somewhat healthy family by his side, a closet full of suits that are worth more than the president's yearly wage and a chilling smile he carries with him everywhere he goes. 

“Chaperon?” Ben glanced down at me.

“To my father’s funeral?” I looked at him in disbelief.

“Would be good for your image.” Of course, my image. The only daughter of the Howards, the ever princess of the dynasty or as some might like to call me: daddy’s little girl. I hated that one the most. My father never called me that, the list of nicknames stopped at one: Belly.

[7upofficial]

also the fact that pasta fazool is a thing that exists is just . im about to start bullying italain americans 

[wincore]

runway (m) | jung yoonoh

pairing: model!jaehyun x fashion designer!reader

words: 18.7k

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

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

warnings: sexual content, mentions of anxiety

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There’s some nods and sounds of affirmation. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

_jeongjaehyun:

My manager told me it was good publicity

But I could take it down for you

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You don’t make the same mistake twice.

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

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

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

Do you love it? 

Of course you fucking do. 

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

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

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

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

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

You. You’re a big deal. 

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

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

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

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

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

D-1. Same feeling, new season.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“My job? What do you think, genius?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The buzzing reaches a peak before everything is drowned out.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Afterparties are not your thing. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You could have, too.

No way. You tell yourself that’s ridiculous. 

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

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

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

Afterparties are not your thing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Uh, hi,” he greets.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You freeze. 

“New York?” you manage to squeak.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What are you not telling me, Joohyun?”

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

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

“Yes.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You were not one of them. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“(name)?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sarcastic. Very nice.”  

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That’s not what I—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“(name)! Come quick!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your shoulders droop. Amateur. New. Unprofessional.

“Oh.”

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

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

Secrets. 

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

And perfection is your dear old friend. 

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

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

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

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

“No,” you deny. “Just curious.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re just so easy to work up.”

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

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

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

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

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

Jaehyun raises an eyebrow.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sour.” 

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

“Is- Is something wrong?”

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

“You’re doing two different concepts today?”

“Three, actually.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Something sets into motion, subtle but sharp.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s me, Jaehyun.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

You trail off, trying to get yourself to breathe.

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

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

“What?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But he still came all the way here.

“Aren’t you a little…overdressed?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You…have someplace to be then?”

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

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

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

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

Or is it him? 

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

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

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

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

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

“Literally zero times.”

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

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

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

“Dickhead,” you hiss.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jaehyun nods, something akin to agreement in his response. 

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

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

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

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

“Oh? How so?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your eyes flutter over his face once again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Your collar’s…”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There’s something definitely wrong with you, love.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Afterparties are still not your thing. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“(name), thank you.” 

Success feels good. Gratitude feels even better.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You know I like you, right?”

You turn around. “What?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hyung—”

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

“Hyung. I’m hanging up.” 

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

“That—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And a little bit about me.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Do you want me saying something cheesy?”

“Absolutely not.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I certainly hope so.”

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

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

[amiechuchu]

Magic, Mayhem, and All Things in Between.

There's something about magic and mayhem that just goes together so perfectly. Maybe it was because it bent the rules of science, the rules of logic.

So unreal.

So unnatural.

So chaotic.

But... Wasn't that the same as love?

[AN: It’s been awhile since I’ve written and, well, throws this at you. I hope you enjoy! I’m not a very experienced writer when it comes to things that are creative. This was also not reviewed due to time constraints of medschool HAHAH pain :’)]

Warnings: none 

Chapter 1: Problem and Hypothesis

Everything in this world was meant to have rules bound to logic – bound to science: from the concept of life till death and everything in between.

Systematic. Methodical. Logical.

Or so you thought.

It was until you were recruited by a certain Mr. Tony Stark, a very close friend of your uncle, Bruce. Confused, you asked your uncle why they needed a medical doctor. You were far from being good at grasping anything about physics, more so astrophysics. To your dismay, even your uncle was just as clueless; however, because Mr. Stark promised him that you would not be doing anything dangerous, he left him to his endeavors.

The anxiety of embarrassing yourself tugging at your throat. Your mind rambled on as you walked under the hot New York summer sun. Wiping the droplets of sweat from your forehead, you made a mental note to yourself to wear scrubs instead of slacks and a turtleneck along with your pristine white coat when in New York. Finally, you see the silhouette of the ever-popular Stark Towers. A troubled sigh came out from your mouth upon entering the building. You enjoyed the surge of sudden coolness though.

You whipped out your cellphone to text your dear Uncle that you had arrived at the lobby, asking if he could pick you up from there. Knowing your anxious tendencies, it was no surprise that he agreed, and, so, you stood there waiting, enjoying the last few moments of not being crushed by expectations.

A familiar voice called out your name as you fiddled with your phone.

Looking forward, you saw your uncle, Bruce. Your eyes lit up, and you smiled.

“It’s been a while,” Bruce said, pulling you into a hug, “how’s our little doctor?”

“Clueless and absolutely terrified,” you answered.

The both of you pulled away from the hug and began to walk towards the elevator. Your steps, out of tempo, as Bruce’s strides were difficult to catch up with. Walking beside tall people should be a sport, you thought.

Bruce let out a chuckle as he noticed your struggle. Slowing down, he reassured you, “Well, I’m certain you’ll do fine. You have an amazing brain, so full of potential – new ideas.”

“That’s the problem, uncle,” you sighed, “I absolutely have no idea what I’m doing here. I’m not an astrophysicist. I’m a physician! I’m a doctor, but they’re two different things!”

Both doctors made their way up to Stark Labs, chit-chatting along the elevator ride. Trying to catch up with your uncle.

The elevator doors opened, revealing a full-blown laboratory.

Your eyes twinkled in awe as it surveyed the area.

There was a main table right at the middle of the room decorated with a variety of beautiful glass apparatuses. Looking at the far end, you noticed that there was sophisticated machinery lined up. To its right, there was an isolated room, a little bit dimmer than the rest of the room. Squinting, you noticed a biosafety cabinet and smiled. A small hallway can be seen to the side of the said room. You ignored your uncle as you were entranced by the beauty of scientific experimentation and walked to check what that small hallway had to offer. It was just the reagent room.

That was a bit anticlimactic, you thought to yourself. Shrugging that thought away, you continue admiring the pristine white machines against the steel walls, the little laboratory trinkets that littered the table, and the faded laboratory precaution signs. This. This felt like home.

It did not take much more for you to realize that this entire floor was an experimental laboratory and a top-notch one at that. Giving a sigh of relief, at least it was something you were sure you could handle. You finally looked at your uncle, “So… You needed a doctor for actual doctor things?”

“Yes, precisely!” someone had answered. 

Looking back at the elevator, you see the one and only Mr. Tony Stark. He crossed his arms, “We need a medical doctor to do medical doctor-y things.”

You had mumbled a confused okay, hoping to get more context of what you are actually here in this lab for. Tony extended his arm to the duo that accompanied him. Two tall men exuding absolute polar opposite auras.

Your brow raised, still visibly confused. Your uncle giving a deadpanned look at Tony, begging him to just tell his niece the details.

“Okay…” Tony clapped, the sound bouncing off the steel walls, “Uh, Thor, Prince of Asgard, here will be your personal test subject. Reindeer games, Prince of Asgard’s brother is just here, so your uncle dearest can babysit him.” Thor, the blond, waved and gave a light hello. Reindeer games, on the other hand – you assumed he was talking about the tall, raven-haired, brooding man – furrowed his brows at Tony, visibly insulted.

Why Reindeer games, though? And Asgard what place is that? The longer I’m here the more questions I ask I swear to God.

“You see, these two are gods. Literal gods,” Tony continued.

You blinked in disbelief.

“Gods?” you asked, eyes wide-open, voice filled with skepticism, “you’re joking. I can believe mutations and possibly aliens, but gods? If you’re playing a prank on me, you have to try better than that, Mr. Stark.” You gave off a light laugh and looked at your uncle. Bruce, giving you a nervous smile, and nodded.

Oh, he’s serious.

Tony Stark smirked at you, enjoying your visible confusion. The man of iron knew you were an unbeliever when it comes to things that bend the concept of reality. Your uncle wanted it to stay that way to keep you safe from this line of work, but there were more pressing matters to attend to, or so he assumed. Again, he was kept in the dark by Tony. However, you were accepting of it so long as the data matched.

He glanced at Tony, curious at what this plan of his was. You, on the other hand, were staring intensely at the duo, mentally asking how in the world were they gods?

Your eyes met the raven-haired God's, entranced by his emerald, green ones. There was a glint in his eyes that spelled trouble, or so you’d think.

It would be a terrible lie that Loki didn’t enjoy your naivety towards the existence of Gods like him. Something in him felt like

“Mortals,” he thought, “so weak, so pitiful, so naïve.”

Tony broke the tension, “So… The reason why you’re here, little doc, is Thor here will be your personal Bugs Bunny. The goal is to identify whatever he has in his system that us, non-gods, can be able to utilize.”

Thor raised an eyebrow and muttered, "So... I'm going to be turned into a rabbit? How? Is my brother going to conjure something for that?" He looked at the other with bright eyes, excited for his rabbit-faith.

You smiled at this interaction but gave out an exasperated sigh as you tried to wrap your head around everything, “What you’re saying here, Mr. Stark, is that I come up with, say, a serum that could help turn cute little, tiny mortals like me into a god?”

Loki rolled his eyes at her statement.

How could cute little, tiny mortals like you ever turn into a god? Midgardians were meant to be used, ruled, subjugated.

Then, something clicked in him. The God of Mischief smirked. 

You looked over to him, confused. Was there anything wrong with what you just said?

“Hmmm, yeah that’s about right. Or anything really. You have free reign over your very own Bugs Bunny here, little doc. You’ve done a fair share of research regarding whatever makes the body tick. What’s so different about doing it on a god?”

You paused. He was right. Good point.

You were horribly curious regarding what makes a god, a god.

“Alright, so for the benefit of humanity, I’m here performing experiments on Thor-“

“Bugs Bunny, yes."

You could've sworn there was a twinkle in Thor's eyes.

“Alright. I’m in.”

This is going to be a fun scheme, Loki thought.

The room was filled with the sound of  your heels pacing to-and-fro. Because Tony had not given you any context regarding his request, you had no method to begin with - no plan. You held your arms close to you, with a hand resting under your chin making a stern thinker-like expression. All eyes were on you, and you absolutely hated the feeling. You now had more expectations to live up to, and, oh dear did that anxiety pool to your chest, scratching at your throat. 

A plan. I needed a plan.

Loki, observing from afar, entertained by your meltdown. It was interesting to Loki that you, a mortal who was just dragged out of the blue to participate in that Man of Iron’s scheme, was already devoted to the betterment of mankind. He scoffed at this saying. Mortals would never be on the level of gods like him. They were meant to be ruled, subjugated, and used. The raven-haired god’s eyes followed your pacing, attempting to understand how the little mortal’s brain worked, how he would be able to use her to scheme his way out of this hell hole.

He peered over to Bruce, and Bruce did the same. Except, there was anger written all over his face. His brows furrowed and lips pulled to a frown. As if, telepathically, he was telling Loki not to try anything funny to his niece or he was going to snap him in two. The god could’ve sworn that Bruce began turning green for a split second. However, this did not faze him, knowing that the uncle’s beloved niece was nearby. Loki raised a brow to him, feigning innocence, and shifted his gaze back to the pacing doctor.

You were pulled to your own world. A world filled with research designs, methods, and principles. So deep in thought, you had blocked everything and everyone in your periphery. Unbeknownst to you, the God of Thunder had put his hand on your shoulder and laughed, pulling you out of your science-inhabited mind, and laughed. Your ears rang. The sound of tinnitus followed thereafter.

“Perhaps the little doctor’s thoughts have travelled past Asgard! So, have you devised a plan that turns me into a rabbit as what the Man of Iron said?” Thor boomed, his laughter reverberating through the laboratory. You flinched, not used to sounds so boisterous.

Loud. But, a sign of reassurance. You murmured an apology to Thor for having to intervene with your internal thoughts. 

You closed your eyes and exhaled, trying to pull yourself together. Until, you felt a light tug on your shoulder. 

Curious and confused, you opened your eyes to the direction and found Loki’s gaze set on you. He gave you an apologetic smile, seeing that you flinched slightly to the loudness of his brother. You smiled back at him, warmly. 

“You don’t have to worry, little doctor,” the God of Mischief began. His voice, silvery - like ear candy - filling up the gaps of awkwardness that you had oh-so naturally set up. Shooting a glance at his babysitter, he carefully made his way towards you, as if he was trekking through landmines. “Knowing that you were just dragged into this nonsense, it’s understandable that you don’t know where to start.” 

You watched as Loki made his way to your periphery. The room filled, once more, with the slow pitter-patter of boots. 

Up close, he was tall and imposing. Raven curls slicked back and so chaotically organized, draping the sides of his face and accentuating his jawline. sharp, it could cut a man. Eyes so alluring, yet so full of mystery. Then it hit you, the god was attractive - very attractive. 

“You know, it’s rude to stare,” Loki gave a low chuckle, snapping you back to reality, “but I suppose I do have that effect on everyone.”

Flustered, you immediately put your hands in the pockets of your pristine white coat, looked away, and choked on an apology. You were having word vomit. You, a professional, was caught admiring a person - a deity - that you had just met. A shame.

“I am terribly, terribly sorry. I didn’t know what-” and so began the second wave of your word vomit.

The sound of joyful, boisterous laughter rang in your ears again, and, once more, pulled you out of your trance.

“Now, brother, you’ve just met her! No need to start bullying the maiden,” Thor echoed. Playfully, he slapped Loki’s back as a sign of brotherly affection. 

Loki stiffened at this action. “A little softer next time brother,” he mumbled and got his bearings together, “I apologize for that. I didn’t mean to. I just have the habit of playing tricks on people.” He stole a glance towards Bruce, who still had his guard up. 

The God of Mischief extended out his hand, “I am Loki of Asgard, Son of Odin, God of Mischief.”

taglist: @gaycatlord-stuff <3

[woah-were-halfway-there]

Do you have any short soft and sweet y/n and Auston content you have on mind and that it’s just like a little blurb? I’m just really craving something soft, short and sweet between them!😫

A/N: The way I wrote the first thing that came to my mind for this. Hope you like it 🤗

"It's not going to work."

"It is going to work, now stop being so pessimistic."

You let out a dramatic huff at Steph's arguing but couldn't say much else because you knew she was right. Sure, this was a last-minute decision, but deep down, you knew there was no way it could backfire.

"What if he's just, I don't know," you paused as you shifted in the backseat of your Uber. "What if he doesn't want me to be here?"

"Babe," Steph replied with a sigh, and you could picture her shaking her head at the way you were acting. "He hasn't seen you in almost two weeks. I can assure you he's not going to be mad that you flew to New York to surprise him."

She had a point, and you knew it. There was no reason for you to be nervous about if your fiancé wanted to see you or not.

You almost didn't go, to be completely honest. Being 31 weeks pregnant, travelling just was not an appealing thing to you whatsoever, and you hadn't flown anywhere since you and Auston returned to Toronto from Scottsdale about three months prior. However, you felt like you were in a rut.

Your maternity leave from work had recently started, and you felt so blah about it all. It didn't help that Auston was away, and yes, Steph helped a lot so you wouldn't get lonely. But, to put it simply, you just missed your fiancé, which is why the idea of going to New York came to be. It was only going to be for two nights, but there was a part of you that really wanted to do it. You knew you wanted it to be a surprise, though, so after letting Auston's family, your family, as well as the guys on the team, convince you that it was a good idea, you got in contact with your midwife and doctor, then booked your plane ticket.

"I guess you're right," you finally mumbled in response.

"I know I am. How far away are you from the hotel are you now?"

"About five minutes, I think."

"Ok, well," she replied. "I'm going to go then and text Mitch. They should be getting back to the hotel any minute now. You better keep me posted on how this goes, though."

"You know I will," you chuckled. "Thank you again for helping with all of this. I'll talk to you later."

"Bye!"

Once you hung up the phone, you looked out the window at the scenery around you.

New York was incredible on a regular day, but during Christmastime, it was unreal. You had been to NYC during December before. Still, instead of being there at the beginning of the month like you were at that moment, then you attended the ball drop ceremony with your sister, Mya, on New Year's Eve during your first year of university.

That seemed like forever ago, but looking at all the lights and decorations as you drove by reminding you of the magical aura that the city seemed always to have and helped you feel even more excited to see Auston.

After a few moments, you knew you were very close to the hotel. You texted Mitch to see where they were. Having a cousin that played on the same team as your fiancé had its perks, and this was one of them. Because of him, you were able to pull this kind of thing off, and of course, the other guys wanted nothing more than to help you surprise their teammate as well.

When Mitchy didn't answer, you opted to text Mo, and just as your Uber pulled up to the hotel, he responded, saying that they were in the lobby. Suddenly, you were nervous again.

However, with a deep breath, you grabbed your small suitcase, thanked your driver then exited the vehicle before making your way up the stairs and into the building.

As soon as you walked through the revolving doors, you easily spotted the guys.

They were all standing to the left of the lobby a bit, talking as they waited by the elevators, and it didn't take you long to spot Auston. He had his back to you and wasn't taking much part in the conversation as he typed away on his phone.

Ironically, your phone then buzzed with a text from him asking if you were ok to FaceTime in a few minutes. It was a tradition the two of you had, usually in the evening after dinner during away stretches. As Auston is getting ready to wind down for the night, he'll always call you, and the two of you will talk until one of you is too tired to continue. The fact that he was so oblivious to you being right behind him made you smile as you texted him back, telling him to call whenever.

Some of the guys noticed you, and it was apparent they were struggling to keep a straight face as you smiled at them. Then Mitch spotted you, and he lit right up but tried to play it cool so he wouldn't blow it as John subtly waved you over so you could surprise your fiancé.

"Hi, uh, sorry to bother you guys," you started, grinning widely as you saw Auston completely halt his movements. "I was just wondering if one of you could point me towards the check-in desk?"

At that, Auston whipped right around. He recognized your voice, but the absolute disbelief shown on his face proved that he wasn't 100% sure and needed to confirm.

"Oh, my god," he breathed out before closing the space between the two of you as fast as he could and engulfing you in a tight hug. "W-what are you doing here?"

"I wanted to surprise you!" You explained as you squeezed him, but cursed yourself as you felt tears welling up in your eyes. Damn pregnancy hormones. "I missed you."

"Holy fuck, and I missed you," he replied before pulling away to look at you. Almost immediately, he was gently cupping your face and using his thumbs to wipe away your tears. "Oh, babe, please don't cry."

"I'm just really happy, Aus. And these hormones are not going easy on me."

"I know, baby. I, wow, I can't believe that you're here. How was the flight? Are you feeling alright?"

"Give her a chance to breathe, Matts," Freddie spoke up, making everyone chuckle.

"Yes, I'm ok," you told Auston as you let him pull you back towards his chest again, watching as he scowled at his teammate.

"Leave me alone," he huffed before leaning down to place a soft but quick peck on your lips. Once he pulled away, he moved to stand behind you and wrapped his arms around to your front, making sure to rest his hand on your stomach as he leaned his chin on your shoulder. "I missed my girls."

"And we missed you, babe."

You then glanced over your shoulder at him and gave him another kiss.

"So sappy, always," Mitchy spoke up before walking over to hug you as well, initiating the same reaction from the other guys too. "How are you feeling, though? You good?"

"Yes, Mitchy, I promise I'm fine," you told your cousin as you hugged him back, then moved to hug Freddie, then Mo. "The flight wasn't that bad. Hopefully, when I go back in two days, it'll be as smooth."

"Two days!?" Auston asked excitedly from behind you.

"Yeah," you stated as you turned back to face him again. "You're stuck with me for two nights. It looks like I'll have to come to your game tomorrow, I guess."

He just grinned widely and shook his head.

"Damn, because I absolutely hate the thought of that. Why would I want to spend two nights with my hot ass fianceé, hmm?"

He winked, then pulled you closer again, knowing it'd get a rise out of some of the guys, particularly Mitch.

"Ok, chill, please," your cousin scoffed. "My room is next door again. She's already pregnant, Matts. Give me a break."

"Sucks to suck," Auston replied, and you quickly hid your face against his chest to avoid any further embarrassment. But, it wasn't long before Auston was pinching your sides to get your attention again. "Ready to go upstairs?"

"Yes, please."

And so started your little surprise visit to see Auston on the road, and it was absolutely worth it.

[just-another-ficwriter]

Seconds To Midnight

Pairing: Sweet Pea x Reader

Words: 2400ish

Warnings: Underage drinking, a lil heart break, pregnancy 

Summary: Y/N and Sweet Pea share a lifetime of New Year’s together, some better than others.

Notes: Filling my ‘Midnight Kiss’ square on my @riverdalebingo​ card! The next few days are gonna be a flurry of super late Christmas Eve/New Years posts as I attempt to catch up!

10...

They still can’t believe they’ve convinced their parents to let them stay up passed midnight. Not even when the five of them are crammed into a booth at the Wyrm arguing over a pack of cards and sharing bottles of soda way past their usual 10 year old bedtimes.

By the time the ball drops, Jug’s already asleep, the cheering from around the bar barely making him stir. Fangs and Toni decide to mock the adults around them, pouting at each other and making ‘kissy’ noises. Y/N laughs along with them, pretending to gag, but Sweet Pea doesn’t miss the way she blushes when she looks over at Gladys and FP once more.

A tint that deepens a dark red when he leans over and places a quick peck to her cheek.

“Happy New Year Y/N.” He whispers, thankful that the others are still too distracted to notice.

“Happy New Year Pea.”

9...

By the time they’re 13, they care a little less about their parents permission, opting to swap the warmth of the Wyrm’s crowds, for the back of Fang’s brothers truck, at the edge of the car park instead. The same way Jughead’s opted to switch them for Archie Andrews and Betty Cooper.

The huddle together for warmth, gazing up at the stars, and even though no one will admit it for a fear of being deemed ‘uncool’, everyone’s excited for the burst of fireworks about to come.

When the first explosion sounds off, Sweet Pea misses the look Toni gives him, her eyes switching fiercely between him and Y/N.

But she doesn’t give up.

“I dare the two of you to kiss.” She blurts out the challenge, and Sweet Pea hears Y/N suck in a breath beside him.

“What?” He chokes on the word, eyes casting from her down to his lap, not missing the way Y/N’s leg brushes against his, suddenly aware of how close they’d been sitting.

“It’s midnight.” His best friend shrugs, the streak of bright pink hair falling off her shoulder. He can still remember her Grandmother’s face the first time she’d seen it, Toni’s first act of outright defiance. “You have to kiss someone.”

“Then you kiss Fangs.” Sweet Pea’s hand gestures wildly between the two of them, both gagging in unison. 

“That would be like kissing my sister.” Fangs’ nose scrunches up with the statement, and Y/N can’t help but laugh.

“But-“

His fight is already lost, now three against one as the girl besides him sits up straighter, rolls her eyes and simply grabs his face. “Oh Pea, just shut up and kiss me!”

He’s too distracted by the warmth of her palm against his skin, feather light fingertips dancing across his cheek, to see her closing the gap between them. 

He sees fireworks even when he closes his eyes.

8...

At 15, Y/N’s forced to spend New Years at her grandparents. Their first one apart in 6 years and Sweet Pea feels her lack of presence more with every passing second.

He misses her when Toni talks about last years celebrations and sneaking on the Wrym’s roof, when she text him early so her words don’t get caught in a signal back log, when he sees Jug squeeze Betty’s hand.

He wishes she was there to share the beers Fangs has managed to steal for them and make fun of the way Archie follows Veronica around like a lost puppy, wondering how their two opposite friendship groups somehow became intertwined to ring in the new year. 

And when the count down ends, he watches as Toni kisses Ginger, turning to tell Y/N she owes him $5, before remembering she’s not there. His heart sinks a little a further as he struggles to understand the feeling swarming in his head.

He’s not interested in the fireworks that year.

7...

When they’re 17, everything just goes wrong.

They’re at their first official New Year’s Party, thrown by none other than Cheryl Blossom, as they desperately cling onto the last parts of their high school selves, months before they all leave the town behind and disappear to different colleges.

Some partying to celebrate the year that everything changes, others to forget what lays ahead.

They dance too much, they laugh too hard, they drink more than they should.

One minute she’s in front of Sweet Pea, the next she’s gone.

The panic sets in, once the ball drops, and he only catches a glimpse of her over Josie’s head once the singer starts pulling him towards her. Y/N laughs at something Reggie Mantle whispers in her ear, the sound piercing into Sweet Pea’s lungs.

He hadn’t planned on kissing her at midnight, yet now it’s he can think about.

But he’s too late. 

He’d never make it in time, not with Josie hanging onto his arms. Not with the way Reggie’s already leaning in to do the one thing he’s always been to afraid to do. 

He wants to look away, but he can’t, even when he’s sure his heart won’t take it. He watches as Reggie’s lips press firmly against hers, watches the way she kiss him back and does the one thing that would stop him screaming out over the crowd. 

He kisses Josie and pretends it her.

Her eyes blaze like fires when he finds them again, and Sweet Pea doesn’t see it back then but everything changed in that swift couple of seconds, a silent, wordless disagreement that tears them apart.

Distance grows between them, not just physically as she leaves to chase her dreams in New York City and he stays, ever attached to Riverdale.

His heart shatters at the thought of the next New Years Eve without her.

But thinks maybe its for the best.

6...

“Y/N will be there.”

Sweet Pea still declines the invite politely, but he can tell by the triumphant glint in Toni’s eyes that she knows she’s won.

There’s no way he’d turn down the opportunity of even a glance at his former best friend after three years. 

So he finds himself dressed to the nines, hiding away on the rooftop of Toni and Cheryl's penthouse apartment, because of course they have one of the best views in New York, trying to forget the image of her dressed in red. 

It doesn’t take her long to find him, and he doesn’t need to turn around to know it’s her creeping up behind him. He can feel her presence the minute she steps out, like it’s coded in his DNA. He hates it as much as he loves it.

“Hi.” She breathes out the greeting, tiptoeing across the unsteady ground between them. It’s the first words she uttered towards him since she left for college and the sound makes his heart sing. 

“Hi.” He parrots back, there's so much more he wants to say but that's all he can manage. Her eyes meet his, locked together, unaware of the countdown being called out below.

And then she laughs.

And he does too. 

Laughs over the stupidity of it all, laughs because its them, laughs until it hurts, until the fireworks explode around them surprising them both back to silence.

“I’ve missed you.” He feels her hand close over his, fingers squeezing his tight.

He feels like he can breathe for the first time in a long time. “I’ve missed you too.”

5...

This time its him that finds her on the roof, eerily similar to their moment two years prior. 

They’ve been trying for the last few years, piecing the remains of their broken friendship back together. But it’s not enough.

Not for him. 

Maybe not for her.

The thought rips through him, his chest exploding with pain, and need, he has to tell her. He can’t wait any longer. 

The idea alone burns its way into his lungs until he can’t breathe, until he can’t think straight.

“I love you.” The words slip out the same time the noise below them erupts into a chorus of the number ten. He can hear it all around him, from people in the building next door, from people down the street.

She just stares at him, eyes wide with a hint of something he doesn’t quite understand.

“You don’t have to say it back.” He panics, trips over his words and the way she looks at him. “I just want you to know.”

He’s whispering into the dark, but she can hear him, over the chanting, over the beating of her own heart drumming clear in her ears.

“I just love you.” He falls into a spiral, confessions pouring out as he plunges downwards like the countdown under their feet. “I always have, I probably always will.”

And as the ball drops, and the crowd underneath explodes in cheers, their friends, she’s suddenly pulled back into reality.

Her eyes soften at the sight before her, Sweet Pea’s bashful grin luminated by the glow of the fireworks in the distance, their light dancing off his skin.

And she does the first that comes to her mind, the only thing she’s wanted to do every New Year’s Eve since she met him.

She kisses him.

4...

At 25 they find themselves back on the roof. 

That roof.

Their roof.

A location so sentimental to their relationship. 

Relationship. 

The word feels so weird in Sweet Pea’s thoughts, the concept of her being his girlfriend still so foreign to him, still so unreal, even after three years.

He loves her. 

More than he’s loved anything ever before in his life, he’s sure of it. And he’s sure she loves him too, even if sometimes he doesn’t understand why, but lord knows she does.

Which is why he finds himself down on one knee, velvet ring box held tightly in his shaking hand, surrounded by candle light and rose petals that float in the wind. He can feel wet tears streaking lines down his cheeks that mirror her own as she nods out her answer, not trusting her own voice before she pounces at him. 

His back hits the floor the same time fireworks light up the skyline and his heart swells in bliss when she slips the ring onto her finger, a perfect fit.

“Did she say yes?” Fangs calls from across the roof, head peering around the door, Toni just behind.

“She said yes!” Sweet Pea sings back, a permanent grin on his face. 

It’s only seconds later the two dive on the couple still sprawled out on the floor, four sets of limbs, four sounds of laughter, embracing in celebration.

3...

The tell tale signs are there all night, he doesn’t understand how he didn’t see it sooner.

She professional switches out her vodka orange for plain juice, gags at her usual favourite fancy foods that Cheryl and Toni insist on serving every year, and has ran to the bathroom more than once in the last three hours.

But he doesn’t fit the puzzle pieces together.

Not even when she slots her hand in his, half guiding, half pulling him towards the roof and presents him a neatly wrapped gift once they’re surrounded by cold night air.

It’s only right she thinks, to tell him here, on the very roof top he confessed his love, where he asked her to be his wife only a year before. It has to be here he finds out this too.

He stares, confused down at the box held in his hands, feeling guilty that he has nothing to give her. She laughs at him, a sound that still sets his heart alight as she encourages him to open it quick.

The excitement takes over, racing to reveal its contents before the countdown sounding below hits 1, his fingers make light work of the paper.

When he lifts the lid of the box he’s sure he’s stopped breathing.

This can’t be real.

Two blue lines stare back at him, clear at the dead of midnight and he chokes out a sob.

“You’re?...” He can’t finish the sentence, can’t get his tongue to move and say the words. Her eyes glisten with unshed tears, nodding her head in confirmation.

He can’t help but drop to his knees, his hands gently cradling her barely there bump, his heart so full of love.

“I’m gonna be a Dad.”

2...

Of course they get married on New Year’s Eve.

It’s their day, no matter how much Toni and Fangs tease them about it. But their friends draw the line at a roof top wedding.

Sweet Pea can’t describe the day as anything other than a god damn dream.

He’s wanted this for so long it’s hard to believe it’s actually happening.

She looks a vision in white, too good to be true and he couldn’t ask for anything more.

As he twirls his now wife in his arms, their baby girl nested up against Toni’s chest just a few feet away, he’s so overwhelmed with love that he can’t help but cry.

It starts as a gentle shake from his chest, vibrating through his shoulders before the tears fall fast and he has to hide his face in her hair.

Tears pool in her own eyes as she pulls him closer, whispers how much she adores him into his neck, claims she’s the luckiest woman in the world.

He’s not afraid to admit this might be his favourite New Years Eve.

1...

At 30 there’s no lavish parties.

No roof top confessions, no pregnancy announcements, no engagements, no Wrym.

Just them and their closest friends sprawled out in their living room, discarded pizza boxes on the coffee table, their three year old asleep upstairs.

And when those around them start counting down, Sweet Pea cups her cheek, tilts her head towards his so he can see her eyes staring back.

“I love you.” He whispers, so honestly, so raw. He feels her smile into the kiss that comes next. He doesn’t care that his friends might see them, not like that shy ten year old hidden in a booth 20 years ago daring to plant a peck on his best friends cheek. No, he wants everyone to see how happy his is now, how far they’ve come. “Happy New Year Y/N.”

“Happy New Year Pea.”

Riverdale Bingo Holiday Masterlist

Forever Taglist: @p-marie-sp

Sweet Pea Taglist: @80sand90simagine @wildberryyyy @hopelesslylosttheway @be-gay-do-crime-cutie

[pollylynn]

Title: Innervation WC: 1000

“What kind of link?” — Agent Mark Fallon, Countdown (3 x 17)

It says something not great about her, she thinks, that she is focused on lasts. On a day when she and he saved the world—or New York, which is the part of the world that matters—all she can seem to think of is what if they hadn’t? If the bomb had gone off, if no one had pulled them out of that freezer, Martha and Alexis hadn’t, if Josh hadn’t. If, if, if . . . 

Her head is full of ifs, and every one leaves her with a different last to consider. And her mind seems hell bent on considering every single one before the sun rises over New York again. 

They’re not exactly morbid wonderings, her mind’s urgent collection. Or not all them are, anyway. In a dark compartment of her mind, one of the ifs—one of the lasts—has to do with the rising pitch of Fallon’s voice as he cried out, I’m sorry on endless repeat. In a dark compartment of her mind, she wonders how close that moment brought him to his wife’s death, to the last moment of that last phone call. 

That last is the first to come to her in the middle of the night. She awakes, shivering, and inches her way out of bed with Josh settled and breathing evenly. She pads as softly as she can to the bathroom, to where her thickest robe hangs. She Pink Panther tiptoes down the hall to the couch and scares  every blanket she can find plus a wool coat or two. She piles everything high and tugs them, one by one, up to her chin and waits for the chill to subside. She waits for her heartbeat to slow and that raises a different kind of chill. It takes her to the last in the freezer. 

She is still piecing that together. Her memories of everything from the moment they started taking fire in the warehouse to waking in the back of the ambulance come to her out of order, untrustworthy, and with stark, upsetting force. She thinks she sees Jamal alive there with an incongruous glass of water. She sees the white expanse of the projector screen and thinks to herself they should sail right out of there on the rolling waves of condensation. She turns her face into the couch cushions and wills herself not to see any of it, real or unreal or anywhere in between. 

It works, but what fills the void is more terrifying. She feels instead. She doesn’t shiver—that’s not what the cold was like at its worst. She aches. Her fingertips, her toes, the tips of her ears and the end of her nose burn with terrible fire. 

It hurts to breathe. It hurts for her heart to beat and she remembers, with perfect clarity, that particular last—how she spent the precious little energy left in her body to lift her hand to his face, even though she couldn’t feel the point of contact, her skin on his. She remembers with perfect clarity making a choice to use the last breath in her body, the last thought her mind would form to tell him, to tell him, to tell him. I just want you to know how much I . . . 

She lies there with it, curled into herself, curled on her side with her face still pressed to the couch cushions. I just want you to know . . . It tries to stop her heart. It tries to stop the blood in her veins and steal the breath from her lungs. It’s a last so terrifying that her mind moves on to the second time she almost died today, the second last her mind insists on facing in the middle of the damned night. 

Their argument in the car clangs around inside her head, hard enough that she has to laugh. She has to press her blanket-wrapped knuckles to her temples to try to stop the reverberations. She feels the accelerator of her unmarked beneath the ball of her foot, its stiff spring fighting her as she tried to coax more speed out of it. She feels the wheel trying to jerk free of her iron grip and finding itself no match. She hears the crackle of the radio blasting out the message from the chopper overhead—black van, Broadway, seventy-second. She remembers sliding her eyes to his side of the car for her last-ever I told you so glare and thinking she’d better make it a good one. 

It’s harrowing, all of it, but a grin spreads across her face. A feeling, a moment, perfectly recalled rises in her to trace silver, tingling sparks through her veins as her attention fixes on the last last, staring down the menacing red timer. Her attention fixes on the literal big-bomb-clock end of the world and it’s all there—the sensation of her heart hammering against her ribs, her blood galloping in her veins, her breath a ragged thing. It’s all there, but it’s background, this time. 

It’s incidental music or stage business or something, and the main event is the way he takes her hand. There are literal seconds left in the world—for them and for so many they love and don’t love—and he takes as many  of them as he can to wrap his hand tight around hers, to look at her straight on. I just want you to know how much I . . . 

She hates that she was wearing gloves. She hates that her fingers were too frozen to enjoy the feel of stubble friction tugging at the loops and whorls of her fingerprints. She hates that in their last moments they each sought the other’s skin and circumstance denied them. 

She hates it. It’s the thought she sails on off to sleep. It’s almost the thought, but there’s a grin and a tingling trace of silver sparks through her veins, and they whisper. 

It wasn’t the last. 

It wasn’t. 

A/N: Tired. Behind. Brain dead. This is all I got. Not a thing. 

images via homeofthenutty

[soopersara]

So I tried sitting down and watching LoK again and yeah...I couldn’t get through it lol, idk if it’s an avatar thing but Korra was kind of entitled and selfish. But Kyoshi exists so it might be because of aang lol, hated what they did to katara’s character, I loved mako and Bolin tho. Kind of wished they had never met Korra 😬 do you have any opinions on the characters from lok?

I don’t have many strong opinions on LOK in general. I didn’t plan on ever watching it, but after I introduced my then-roommate to ATLA, she insisted on watching LOK too, and I was just kind of... there. I remember being baffled from the start because the world felt entirely different, and yet LOK happens within the lifetime of characters from the original series. And without actually seeing the progression in technology, making a leap from ATLA’s time period to LOK’s feels artificial to me. Not to mention the westernization of the world - how did we go from a low-technology Asian-influenced world to steampunk 1920s New York? I’m not saying that it couldn’t have happened (although where in-universe did the westernization come from?), but since I didn’t see the progression, I don’t buy it. I might have given it a pass if so much of the original Gaang wasn’t still alive, but uh... they were. Actually, I think the whole show would have benefitted from leaving the original Gaang out entirely and allowing Korra and the new characters to exist independently, but I guess having the old Gaang make appearances was good for marketing? Maybe? I don’t know. Either way, bringing in the characters from the original series lends LOK to more comparisons with ATLA, and many of those comparisons aren’t exactly favorable.

And this is a matter of personal taste, not an objective criticism of the show, but the pro-bending bored me to death. I hate stories centered around sports. I just do. I hate them. I’m not particularly athletic, I’ve never enjoyed participating in sports, I have no interest in watching them in real life, much less watching fictional stories that make a sport (real or fictional) a central part of the plot. I’m fine with the idea of bending being turned into a sport on a conceptual level, but make me watch it, and I’ll be bored out of my mind and look for LITERALLY ANYTHING ELSE to do. 

So between the changes to the way the world felt and the pro-bending, I was barely paying attention to LOK. I think I liked Bolin? Mako was... there. I wasn’t fond of Korra, but then I wasn’t fond of Sokka or Zuko until later in ATLA, so maybe I could have liked her after some additional development and growth, but that didn’t seem to happen, and frankly, I just didn’t care enough about anything else in the show to finish it and find out. So by probably the third episode, while my then-roommate was still trying to watch, I was completely tuned out. Pretty sure I fell asleep in the middle of some episodes and I didn’t bother to ask what I missed, because I had so many other things I’d rather be doing. I caught bits and pieces of the show up through... probably the end of season 2? But nothing caught my interest enough to make me tune back in, and my then-roommate gave up on the show too. 

So basically, LOK failed to catch my interest in the first few episodes, and I’ve been blissfully ignoring its existence ever since. Guess it just goes to show that as much as I appreciate cool visuals, it’s the worldbuilding and writing that really hooks me, and LOK just... didn’t have what I was looking for. The worldbuilding would have been fine if it existed independent of ATLA, but the writing wasn’t great, and I’m more than happy to pretend none of it ever happened. Even at the cost of losing characters who probably did have unrealized potential.

[wcsleys]

                                                𝒊𝒏𝒕𝒓𝒐𝒅𝒖𝒄𝒊𝒏𝒈 ...

new york’s very own wesley sangster was spotted on broadway street in bolvaint loafers . your resemblance to jacob elordi is unreal . according to tmz , you just had your twenty-fourth birthday bash . while living in nyc , you’ve been labeled as being headstrong , but also  meticulous  . i guess being a taurus  explains that . 3 things that would paint a better picture of you would be empty scotch glasses, aviator sunglasses on a sunny day & mischievous grins .  his parents believe he got rid of his drug addiction in rehab  & cis male , him/he 

ok so hihi i’m nicole but feel free to call me nicky !! here’s my MESS of a child ; wes . here’s a few headcanons about him, i’ll set up a page for him later i promise. in the mean time, here’s me rambling. 

wesley sangster is the youngest child of arabella sangster ( née : winters ) & mercutio sangster. 

he has an older sister but they are not as close as they used to be since she spends her days travelling with her fiancé. 

THE SANGSTERS : they come from old money, like big bang old. they own a scotch business, for centuries now, and it’s one of america’s favourite & most popular drink ( among middle aged white men amirite )

wes has been drinking scotch ever since he could remember. he was pretty sure that his father dipped his baby bottle in it. it has become his go to drink. 

he spent most of his childhood in alabama. he only moved to new york when he was 14 in order to attend high school there. his father decided to relocate to new york because he felt like he could have a better control of the business. 

by moving to new york, mercutio broke the promise he made arabella when they married ( and were madly in love ), that they wouldn’t move out of montgomery. but they fell out of love and he prioritized his business over his family.

wesley HATED his first months in new york. it was nothing like back home. they used to live in a huge ranch ( it looks something like this ), he used to do horse back riding, he loved the outdoors and he liked peace and quiet. new york was nothing like it, the people were fake, the honking is incessant and you could barely see the stars at night.

ever since his father made that decision, their relationship became tense. he no longer had time for wesley or his wife. wesley caught on his father’s new ways and he grew a grudge for the older man. he also noticed his mother involuntarily changing in order to please mercutio, leaving her values behind alongside her son. 

within a year, wesley lost ( not physically ) both his parents to the city. at first he did not want to change, he wanted to stay true to himself but the city got to him too. he adapted to the hedonistic ways of its inhabitants. 

he was a completely different person from the moment he started high school and once he graduated. 

he, of course, studied business in hopes to get his father’s business ( truly he had no choice in it ), he is working for his father but often likes to ignore his responsibilities. 

PERSONALITY 

ok so wes is very different from who he used to be. he still has a little southern charm his mama taught him when he was younger. his little accent is endearing. he’s the type to bring a girl flowers etc.

he still loves the outdoors, stargazing, horseback riding, loves homemade food over anything else. he’s quite the avid reader but dropped but is slowly losing the knack for it once he started attending new parties.

he’s quite the flirt, its pretty subtle, but he’s very charming in the way he is. his manners, way of talking. 

he’s not a big fan of liars, fakers anything like that ‘ miss me with that bullshit ’. 

he’s pretty outgoing but keeps a tough guy facade on, he calls it his new york persona. it’s his way of fitting in. he won’t tell you much about ‘ back home ’ as he calls it. he became proficient in small talk.

SECRET

when wes turned eighteen he started hanging out with the wrong crowd. he felt left out of his past life and was sick and tired of fighting everything. he easily feel into the consumption of hard drugs. he’d take them any chance he got. it made him feel at peace somehow and he enjoyed it. 

one day his parents found him in his bed, not waking up. it was a drug overdose he barely survived. the sangsters were scared for him and sent him to rehab where they thought he would get better but .. no. 

although it did help him somewhat control his habits, it did not stop him and it’s never long before he relapses again. 

HEADCANONS

has a southern charm, his mother comes from alabama and has kept certain manners. you can spot the slightest southern accent in his voice & he has the habit of bringing flowers on a date. also knows how to ride a horse because he did a bit of horseback riding when he was younger.

he always vacationed in the hamptons as a kid. they had a decent house there and it was always when he let himself go. as he got older, he loved to throw parties with his group of friends. you could also say that summer in the hamptons made him a little flirt. he realized quick that the girls really dug his vibe ( especially after he got abs ) and every summer he had someone by his side. they were called his summer girls.

his family moved to new york. he was really bummed out about it because he loved the country, open spaces & nice weather. he had to adapt to the city but every chance he got he likes to go back to alabama. if you catch him daydreaming it’s because he’s thinking about their ranch back in alabama.

i have a wanted connection page here for ideas but i’m down for any angsty plot !

[liithium]

new york’s very own lorraine “raine” isaiah was spotted on broadway street in manolo blahnik heels . your resemblance to liz gillies is unreal . according to tmz , you just had your twenty fifth birthday bash . while living in nyc , you’ve been labeled as being heartless , but also ambitious ...

i guess being a geminiexplains that . 3 things that would paint a better picture of you would be the scent of burnt matches , leather jackets , the sound of 80s soundtracks on repeat  . ( my parents were con artists in their younger age and its how they became rich and gave me the life i have today )  &  ( cisfemale & she/her  )

HELLO NEW PALS. my name is jules and i am from ny and i miss home sm so i’m blessed to be here. i’m gonna put this on my blog somewhere but here’s all the info on my gal pal raine here for the moment.

the basics ––– –

name:  lorraine widow isaiah

nicknames: raine, “if you have a death wish then call me by my full name”

age: twenty five

Birthday: may 25th

gender:  Female

relationship status: single

physical appearance ––– –

hair: dark brown

eyes:  blue

height: 5′8″

distinguishing marks:  has a scar just below her left eye

tattoos:  way too many to name

piercings: ears, nose

common accessories:  she always wears rings, bracelets and necklaces that have to match her outfit ofc

personal information––– –

profession:  arts dealer

major: graduated with a major in business/ minor art history

hobbies:  sketching, painting, DRINKING, shopping, ruining people’s lives

languages:  english, russian, italian

birthplace:  long island, new york

relationships ––– -

children:  none

parents:  isla marshall-isaiah, mother. lazarus isaiah, father.

siblings: none

other relatives: none worth speaking about.

wanted connections ––– –

friends ofc

someone who she can confide in

ENEMIES bc we love drama

ex-flings/current flings aaallll the flings

additional information ––– –

** i will write a full bio which will be posted on my page hopefully soon but here are the major points for her

violence, and alcohol tw !!!!

raine grew up with very tough parents. they had a difficult life ( ties into her secret ) and they taught her young how to defend herself and wasn’t rly shielded from anything. her childhood wasn’t rainbows and unicorns bc they wanted to toughen her up

she is wicked smart. always best in her class. as much as she has a mouth on her she can get physical as well

mini hc #1 after she got in trouble for her first fist fight her parents got her a celebratory cake

she grew up in the city but spent a lot of time out east on long island because “better views for painting” in her opinion

her parents have money which she used to her advantage to get her name out there and network

definition of “ work hard, play harder”

she sells her own artwork and also deals in the sale of valuable art pieces. she has a small gallery at the moment that shes trying to build up.

is pissy towards those from chicago tbh bc she’s worked hard and will be Mad(tm) if they invade her space personally

fashion til the day she dies, her mother always had designer everything and she learned it all from her

she learned how to fight from her father aka bad bitch who won’t take no shit

she found out in her late teens about what her parents used to do for a living and how they got most of their riches from conning people across the country before they settled down w their real identities in nyc

she doesn’t hate them for it she fights wanting to go down that road sometimes bc she got most of her toxic traits from them and her upbringing

raine Loves a good party, get her a bottle of jameson and she’s good to go. loves every single formal event or red carpet she can go to and since she’s pretty well known there isn’t an invite that she won’t get... unless she caused a riot which has probably happened...more than once.

in conclusion she is a bad bitch w big dick energy. she’s used to her big personality being v offputting so she overcompensates being extra w everything

this is a whole big mess im all over the place idk man BUT PLS COME PLOT W ME ON HERE OR DISCORD I WANT ALL THE PLOTS PLS N TY

[thelostnymphaeum]

I'm with you 'til the end of the line.

Entry: 004

// Cinema //

Marvel Cinematic Universe

MARVEL MANIA

Superhero movies were not my thing. The only superhero movie I have watched as a kid was Spiderman. I am not into sci-fi or superhero movies albeit being a huge fan of cinema. But during this quarantine, I decided to experiment with my taste and try to indulge in a new set of genre – the Marvel Cinematic Universe. These movies were a far cry from films that are to my liking, such as “Brooklyn” and “What’s Eating Gilbert Grape”. I used to find superhero movies corny or cheesy, because they were not based on real people and I fancy movies that tackle the inner spectrum of humanity. Additionally, I used to think that actors who choose to be in these movies are not “real actors” because portraying a superhero does not really seem to me as a role where you have to internalize the character. I was probably the only person in my class who did not cry when someone said “I love you, 3000” after the Endgame came out, and the only one who did not get the “Wakanda forever” reference. That changed because yester night, I finally finished the entire MCU. I came in with a viewing guide from my friends and I came out feeling like I just had a whole cultural experience.

THE AVENGERS

I like all of them. Except maybe the Captains. I don’t like Captain America. I understand that he’s supposed to be the poster boy of “superheroes” where he’s all righteous, courageous, virtuous and kind to everyone – but that does not seem realistic at all. His character just seemed predictable and bland for me. Maybe that’s why I prefer Tony Stark, he is more dimensional. He is someone who is unapologetic, makes mistakes, smart, arrogant; but his heart will always come from a good place. During battles, it’s always Tony Stark who is thinking of ways to end them (like how to diffuse Ultron at Sokovia) so I feel as if it’s him that should be leading them. Captain America only lead them because he was born in 1918 (just kidding, don’t eat me Steve Rogers stans).  He also looks way too good. It’s unreal. What a knucklehead (Loki will agree with me on this). Jk. Anyways, he earned plus points from me when he returned the infinity stones successfully. As for Captain Marvel, I don’t think I need to explain why I find her insufferable. 

A little piece about Spiderman. I like this reboot of Spiderman, and Tom Holland deserves all the hype he got because he worked so hard for his movies. No one can beat Tobey Maguire of course, but we are all just glad that Tom did not ruin Spiderman for us. The only thing I did not like about his reboot was that he relied too much on Mr. Stark. Tobey’s Spiderman never relied on anyone, he was just his own superhero. But for the sake of integrating him into the MCU, I guess that they have make this fun and fresh Peter Parker juvenile in order to be able to develop his character more. So I think I’ll give it a pass.

I personally like the Thor films the best. Because it was based on Norse mythology. Because of Loki. Because Anthony Hopkins is in it. I dislike the Captain Marvel movie the most.

ENDGAME THOUGHTS. We did not need Captain Marvel. Thor did not deserve to become a drunkard and a greasehead – he’s a freaking Norse God! Why was Pepper Potts at the final battle against Thanos? Thank you, Doctor Strange. Tony was genuinely and undeniably- the heart of the Avengers.

SCORSESE, COPPOLA & PEWDIEPIE

Along with its colossal popularity, the MCU movies have also acquired prominent detractors. Prior to watching the entire MCU, I would have probably agreed with Scorsese, Coppola and Felix (here is his “controversial” video on “I don’t like Marvel movies”).

“Honestly, the closest I can think of them, as well made as they are, with actors doing the best they can under the circumstances, is theme parks. It isn’t the cinema of human beings trying to convey emotional, psychological experiences to another human being.” – Martin Scorsese

"Martin was kind when he said it's not cinema. He didn't say it's despicable, which I just say it is." – Francis Ford Coppola

Parts of it are true, on the basis where the entire plot lines are predictable and it’s not the kind of cinema I learned to love as well. Marvel movies usually follow the same backbone. This is a huge reason why some cinephiles don’t like them, because the mystery is gone and it’s all obvious. After watching all of them in a 3-week streak, I could pretty much sum up the Marvel movie plot line into this:

The protagonist is in a helpless or vulnerable position.

The protagonist meets someone who can help them.

The protagonist works hard to get to his pre-final form and along with it, learns to fight in the name of eradicating the bad guys. 

The protagonist finds out that her/his master is not all-good.

Chaos but then they forgive and understand the master.

2-3 battle fights, the last one is usually the peak battle where we see the protagonist in final form.

I like movies that tackle more about realism. I like seeing actors play roles that depict humanity as humans. I’m not a huge fan of special effects or super powers either. When Scorsese said that they are “not cinema”,  I understood it because there are no intricacies or space for a different form of expression when you’re doing mega franchise films that are meant to sell to the general public. Which brings me to another point, that MCU is largely a business profit. These movies are made by mega corporations in the film industry, and it might also hinder other smaller filmmakers from showing their films if a titanic franchise is showing on the same week as theirs. Comic book fans are enormous in numbers which is why there is such a huge following for these movies even if they use the same plot lines all throughout. Humans are slaves for nostalgia, and people like to see the characters they have read and admired during their childhood come to life. Because of that, these corporations will try to capitalize on that and make more movies for as long as they can, and in a sense, you can see that they might be doing it only for the sake of money and not of art any longer. This is what the disparagers would say; that there is very little artistic values to these films because they are made to be sold, not appreciated for its artistry. 

“Many of our grandfathers thought all gangster movies were the same, often calling them “despicable”. Some of our great grandfathers thought the same of westerns, and believed the films of John Ford, Sam Peckinpah, and Sergio Leone were all exactly the same. I remember a great uncle to whom I was raving about Star Wars. He responded by saying, “I saw that when it was called 2001, and, boy, was it boring!” Superheroes are simply today’s gangsters/cowboys/outer space adventurers. Some superhero films are awful, some are beautiful. Like westerns and gangster movies (and before that, just MOVIES), not everyone will be able to appreciate them, even some geniuses. And that’s okay.” – James Gunn, Guardians of the Galaxy Director

Here’s my two cents on this whole hullabaloo. Art is expressed in different ways. Just because something is popular does not mean that you should hate it or feel as if it lacks creative value. For one, I think that if the Norsemen would see the Thor films, their jaws would drop. Art in these movies is seen through the elaborate special effects and costumes. A lot of people work behind the scenes to make this kind of art form. They are not any less of an artist. The effects are wonderful, amazing and beautiful. Sure, they don’t have meandering plot lines or mysteries that are meant to make you think. But they are able to show art in a way that is along with the times, showing the capabilities of what computer generated imagery could be. It gives us the fantasy that otherwise would not be achievable in real life (for all I care, my favorite scenes are seeing Spiderman glide across the buildings of New York).

These movies are intended for children and teenagers (adults are there for the sake of nostalgia or lighthearted entertainment, I guess?). For kids, it inspires them that they can be anything they want to be. For teenagers, it might be a good footing for their moral compasses. For me, it just inspired me to get fit (hehe). My point is, these movies are made to cater to a particular type of audience, and the others are there just for the spectacle. If all the movies were Scorsese or Coppola, what would the kids watch in the theaters? Kids would not understand “Taxi Driver” nor would be a good foundation for their morals. It was a classic and it deserves the reputation it has, but after only a certain age will you be able to appreciate it, and only if you had a particular knack for appreciating films. MCU movies are made for people who just want to have a good time; you don’t have to like high-brow or art-house movies to understand it, and that’s all there is to it. It’s made for entertainment, what’s so wrong with that?

And the actors – a lot of them played the characters so well which made me realize that taking on a superhero role does not lessen your credibility as an actor. My particular favorites are Tom Hiddleston, Benedict Cumberbatch, Scarlett Johansson, Tom Holland, Mark Ruffalo and Robert Downey Jr. (bonus points for Anthony Hopkins, his range, man, his range). They were able to bring their roles to life in such a distinct way that it would be hard to never associate them as superheroes, which of course, is a double-edged sword. As a starting actor, that could be a bubble that is hard to get out of. For example, Tom Holland as Spiderman; people will always associate him as that, and how many of you has actually seen the movies he has done aside from MCU? It might be hard for him to bridge his career from being a huge franchise film protagonist into doing films to his own preference. MCU movies make the popularity and the money; indie films – not as much. 

I don’t think that the existence of MCU is throwing away the spotlight from smaller filmmakers. Because back then, I simply chose not to see MCU movies because I was not interested. People will find ways to support art that they like, and just because MCU existed, it did not hinder me from looking for movies that I like. The cinema is made by individuals who like to create movies. There are different ways to express them. There are different subscribers to different genres. To each their own. But then again, I am not working in the film industry, so I can’t speak for them, I can only say what it’s like for a movie buff like me.

These are the movies that make up people’s childhood. These are characters that gives reason for people to bond together. When Tony died, the entire world felt like they lost a father. If it’s able to touch lives as much as any other film, why should we discriminate against it? Love is love, after all.

[andrcs]

hey  friends  waddup  !  i’m  jen  ,  just  turned  23  (  n  am  already  feelin  it  )  ,  from  the  gmt-2  tmz  ,  n  i  go  by  she/her  pronouns  .  i  had  about  ,  like  ,  half  an  hour  of  sleep  today n  i’m  actually  redoing  this  entire  intro  because  as   i  was  editing  the  finished  version  to  post  it  ,  i  accidentally  deleted  the  whole  thing  n  tumblr  wouldnt  let  me  have  it  back !  it’s  fine  i’m  fine   :-)  anywho  i’m  gonna  let  yall  go  n  learn a  lil  more  about  our  friend  andre !  hopefully  u  like  him  but  if  u  don’t  thats  ok  bc  sometimes i don’t  either !!

𝐈.    𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐓𝐒  :

𝐧𝐚𝐦𝐞   :   andre  harris  solomon  .

𝐧𝐢𝐜𝐤𝐧𝐚𝐦𝐞   :   n/a  .

𝐛𝐢𝐫𝐭𝐡𝐝𝐚𝐲   :   august  fourth  ,  1991  .

𝐳𝐨𝐝𝐢𝐚𝐜 𝐬𝐢𝐠𝐧   :   leo  .

𝐨𝐜𝐜𝐮𝐩𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧   :  cco  of  solo  conglomerate  .

𝐈𝐈.   𝐁𝐀𝐂𝐊𝐆𝐑𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐃  :

during  the  solomon’s  dynasty  ,   the  family  had  its  fair  share  of  tumbles  and  quite  a  few  scandals  .  great  uncle  abel being  arrested  after  trying  to  steal  half  his  brother’s  fortune  was  one   was  a  big  example .  may  god  bless  the traitous  bastard’s  soul  .  also  cousin  denzel  ,  declaring   in  the  middle  of  thanksgiving  dinner  he  wanted  to  be  a  opera  singer  ,  of  all  fucking  things  ,  and  giving grandpa  harrison  an  almost  stroke  ,  could  be  counted  .  no  matter  what  ,  though  ,  nothing  prepared  the  family  to  watch  the  solomon  fortune’s  heiress  coming  home  on  her  christmas  break  during  her  freshman  year  in  college  with  a  baby  bump  and  no  father  to  claim  the  child  she  carried  . 

in  the  following  years  ,  with  the  slightly  judgemental  help  of  all  of  her  closest  relatives  ,  but  most  of  all  ,  the  never  ending  support  of  her  parents  ,  gaia  solomon  managed  not  only  to  get  her  college  diploma  ,  enter  the  family  business   and  help  solo  grow  into  the  biggest  media  conglomerate  of  the  western  hemisphere  ,  one  that  had  a  solid  hand  over  pretty  much  all  aspects  of  media  and  entertainment  .  chances  are  if  you  wanted  to  publish  or  sign  a  record  label  deal  or  be  on  a  tv  show  ,  sooner  or  later  you  would  encounter  someone  from  solo  .  but   she  had  also  manage  to  raise  with  the  utmost  love  and  care  ,  no  lack  of  sacrifices  ,  and  a  healthy  amount  of  ear-pulling  ,  a  man  she  can’t  help  to  be  most  proud  of  .

andre  solomon  never  knew  who  his  father  was  ,  or  cared  to .  and  as  far  as  his  mother  was  concerned  ,  he  didn’t  have  a  father .  as  a  child  ,  he  never  felt  like  he  was  missing  anything  in  life  ,  there  was  no  angry  void  aching  to  be  filled  ,  no�� painful  moments  to  remember  his  childhood  by  .  he  had  been  happy .   no  matter  how  busy  his  mom  was  ,  she  was  always  loving  and  attentive  whenever she  was  around  ,  played  baseball and  football  and  soccer  with  him  whenever  he  asked  her  to  ,  and  grandpa  harrison  was  always  available  if  the  boy  ever  needed  a  guy  figure  in  his  life .  of  course  ,  there  were  some  bumps  and  bruises  along  the  way  ,  and  a  pinky  finger  he  never  fully  got  the  feeling  back  , but  it  was  a  beautiful  ,  fulfilling  childhood  .

as  a  teenager  ,  recently  acquainted  with  a  never  seen  before  freedom  ,  and  just  out  of  puberty  ,  andre  grew  more  acquainted  with  getting  in  trouble  .  thankfully  ,  nothing  like  cousin  gina  , who  had  to  cut  off  a  part  of  her  ear  after  piercing  it  by  herself  with  her  tenth  grade  friends  .  while  rambunctious  and  mischievous  ,  he  was  always  to  smart  to  get  caught  doing  something  that  could  get  him  in  any  kind  of  real  trouble  ,  and  by  then  ,  the  family  knew  that  they  could  trust  andre  to  not  be  too  irresponsible  ,  and  even  if  they  didn’t  ,  at  least  he  had  both  ears  intact  .

 a  full  grown  adult  ,  after  getting  his  marketing  degree in  northwestern  university  ,  andre  followed  his  mother’s  footsteps  and  worked  hard  to  climb  the  organizational   ladder  and  reach  the  cco  position ,  becoming  one  of  his  grandfather’s   valued  advisors  along  the  way  .  these  days  ,  he  works  hard  to  keep  his  image  clean  and  his  professional  life  very  well  separated  from  his  private  one  ,  being  very  succesful  at  it  thus  far  .

𝐈𝐈𝐈.   𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐒𝐎𝐍𝐀𝐋𝐈𝐓𝐘  :

andre can  definitely  be  considered  a  little bit   too  cocky  in  his  confidence  .  he  knows  his  strengths  and  doesn’t  believe  in  fake  humility  ,  always  eager  to  be  praised  by  whatever  actions  .  also  very  focused  ,  he  feels  as  if  he  knows  exactly  what  he  deserves  in  all  aspects  of  his  life  ,  and  doesn’t  hesitate  to  work  for  it  until  he’s  satisfied .

he  is also  ,  however  ,  a  very  fun  loving  individual  .  andre  believes  in  the  motto  work  hard  ,  play  hard  .  and  you  can  definitely  find  him  going  on  expensive  trips  to  exotic  locations  or   some  rich  person  adventure  more  often  that  he’d  like  to  admit  .  is  constantly  surrounded  by  a-list  celebrities  or  clout  chasers  who  attach  to  him  due  to  his  connections  into  the  industry  .  and  as  being  the   center  of  attention   is  one  of  his  favorite  things  ,  he  absolutely  adores  it  .

very  ,   extremely  sarcastic  and  definitely  not  the  most  outwardly  affectionate  person  ,  it  takes  a  lot  to  get  him  to  soften  up   ,   but  andre’s  also  extremely  loyal  to  those  he  knows  are  his  real  friends ,  and  always  makes  sure  that  they  are  with  him  no  matter  where  he  goes  and  what  he  gets  .

is  known  to  be  quite  the  ladies’  man  ,  and  often  lives  up  to  the  reputation  ,  even  though  he’s  settled  down  quite  happily  a  few  times  during  his  adulthood  .  he’s  not  averse  to  relationships ,  per say  ,  but  also  doesnt  want  to  jump  in  carelessly  ,  specially  when  he’s  not  felling  the  situation  .  is  frequently  engaged  in  some  sort  of  drama  with  the  girls  in  his  life  and  even  though  he  claims  to  dislike  it  ,  he  loves  all the  attention  he  gets  from  them  ( ew , i  hate  him  ,  he’s  gross  )

𝐈𝐕.   𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐍𝐄𝐂𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐒  :

childhood  best  friend  /  chicago  native  ( 1 / 2 )  :  people  who’ve  known  him  since  before  he  hit  puberty  and  became  cool  and  who  are  with  him til  this  very  day  .  they  might  not  be  best  friends  for  whatever  reason  but  still  are  closer than  most  friendships  out  there . ( pearl , )

flings /  could  be  past  or  present  :  could  also  range  from  the  silliest  to  the  most  angsty  stuff  ,  andre  definitely  has  the  repertoire  for  it .

ride  or  dies  (  2 / 6  )  :  truly  ride  or  dies  ,  his  closest  group  of  friends  ,  the  ppl  that  are with  him  no  matter where  he  is  and  the only  people  outside  his  family  he’d  do  whatever for  . ( devin , watson )

exes  /  chicago  native  (  2 /  2  )  :  i  have  some  ideas  about  them  but  lets  just  say  one  would  have  ended  in  decently  good terms  and  one  would  not . ( vera , aurora )

friend  with  interests  (  0 / 2  )  : andre  has  a  lot  of  ins  with  the  media  industry  ,  and  this  person  would  definitely  have  an  ulterior  motive  to  hang  around  him  ,  whether  he’s  realised  it  yet  or  no  .

flirtationship   (  1 / 1  )  : first  of  all  i  hate  that  word  my  GOD  but  also  ,  would  be  a  kind  of  thing  where  they’d  both  be  feeling  each  other  but  for  some  reason  things  just  wouldn’t  progress ? ( elissa )

there is a  lot  more  but  i’ve  just  written  this  thing  twice  in  a  row  n  my  brain  is  currently  just  2  neurons  barely  communicating  so  i  should  probably  quit  while  i’m  ahead  ?  but  pls  message  me  bc  if  u  want  to  know  some  more  about  andre  or  come  up w  plots  or  just  talk  about  how  hot mbj  is   n  how  unfair  it  is  that  the rpc  doesnt  gif  him nearly  enough  ?  or  we  could  also  talk  abt  something  i  might  be  delusional  rn  so  i  have  a bunch  of  interesting  topics  ok  bye  thanks  for  sticking  around i  love uuuu

[loplainlointhemorning]

people frequently get asked about who’s influenced them as musicians, but are there artists out there that you’ve heard and your response is like “I never ever want to sound anything like this”

There are plenty because, though I’m pretty easy to please musically, I’m not very good as a genre person and I tend to cherrypick the best artists and then throw away the rest as imitators. For example, there’s plenty of punk bands that I think are just regurgitations of better/more interesting bands, and I’m always afraid that I’ll sound like them instead of clearly being influenced by bands that I like. For example, I would never attempt to write anything that sounded like The Sex Pistols, The Dead Boys, Flipper, The Dead Kennedys(whose politics I respect but whose music isn’t anything I haven’t heard before), etc., I don’t want to write anything that sounds like three washed out chords and a slimy masculine voice complaining wanting to kill himself or hating the government- I like both of those topics as songwriting topics(huge fan of The Stooges and Nirvana obviously) but there’s a particular ineffectiveness in the way those bands deliver them that just leaves me cold, and especially in the case of the Pistols, just kind of embarrasses me. You have to have some level of charm or originality when you say the same thing over again and the problem with a genre like punk is that you can easily bend its DIY no talent necessary charm into something that excuses laziness instead of encouraging ingenuity, therefore I only actually like a handful of bands that fall under the punk umbrella as opposed to every obscure Real Punk Band™️ that ever existed. I wouldn’t have done well on the Olympia scene lmao.

Also, there are plenty of artists I look up to who do shit musically that I would never want to repeat even if I like their work. I like Nick Cave a lot but let’s be honest, his ego is 90% of his music and he’s more of a writer than he is a songwriter. I understand he’s following in the footsteps of artists like Cohen and Dylan, and I think arguably even Tom Waits, but all three of those artists could respect when they were doing page-writing and when they were writing a song. Nick doesn’t seem to have that filter....And I’m not even opposed to doing spoken word songwriting myself, but once again, I’d want to do it more in the style of Harry Partch because that’s more interesting to me than like....Moody piano. He can make his own particular style work for him obvi but when that happens it’s because his emotion overrides his naturally deadpan tone, so something like Skeleton Tree is an honest to God masterpiece that I couldn’t touch in my lifetime, while The Boatman’s Call is painful to listen to unless it’s the right day. Regarding my own music I’m working the best I can to have an actual Singing Voice, because I think it’s easier to convey emotion if you’ve got more than three notes, and when I sing something and it sounds like Nick Cave I basically never want to sing again.

Iggy also does plenty of stuff I wouldn’t want to repeat- I think he’s a very passionate, excitable person without a whole lot of musical talent, so he does his best work when he has a musical force behind him that can actually give him a platform for his natural abilities(i.e., spontaneous lyric writing). However, when he doesn’t have a musical force to bounce himself off of he seems to be sort of stuck when it comes to what he’s able to accomplish. Despite him denying it I think he’s Very aware of his own image/what’s expected of him, and I think it’s a little bit hard for him to divorce himself from that, so in terms of ‘trying new things’ it takes him three albums to break into something interesting instead of someone like Bowie, where it was two at most ever in his career. Not a single good, well respected artist from the 70’s was able to handle the 80’s(because of how nasty and wealth-oriented they were, look at what mainstream rock music turned into) and Iggy gave it his best shot and got some decent work out of it- However there was a lot of backwash from that period that I wouldn’t ever want to sound like. This remains true throughout the 90’s as well, though once again there ARE some good songs, they come from him being able to break away from who Iggy Pop is supposed to be into what he wants as an artist. I that if I manage to have a career in music I would want to A) never have a solid image or expectation from a crowd and B) I would want to have a good enough grasp on music to be able to support myself without needing somebody behind me.

Beyond all of that analytical shit, there’s also bands that I just fucking hate, which I’m sure are more along the lines of the answer you expected instead of 3 paragraphs that took me an hour altogether.

THE MOST IRREDEEMABLE BANDS IN MUSIC HISTORY

- The New York Dolls. You know who likes the New York Dolls? People who like every single Cool Obscure Punk Band, and all of the hair metal icons who also don’t have anything original to say, any musical talent, or any creative power whatsoever. The New York Dolls paved the way for straight men in the 80’s to dress up in terrible drag and continue the grand rock n roll tradition of fucking pubescent girls. They are not glam rock and they barely qualify as punk. They’re proto glitter metal. The New York Dolls are not fun because they’re trashy, they’re just kind of sickening to be around.

- Dave Matthews Band

It’s a running joke in my household that I, and my drum prodigy brother(therefore placing him on a high enough pedestal to have musical opinions), hate this fucking band so much it’s unreal.

- The Rolling Stones

I don’t actually hate the Stones I just hate that I’m supposed to like them for doing essentially Rock, the cornflakes kind. They’re a late 60’s rock band. That’s all they are. They wrote You Can’t Always Get What You Want and it began my history with depression. Thanks Mick Jagger.

- The Melvins

Obviously bitter because they’re less popular than Nirvana despite pioneering the grunge genre, I’d be way more willing to hold them up as underappreciated geniuses if A) I found their music anymore interesting than any other early/proto grunge(I don’t because I’m not a cisgendered hegerosexual man), and B) Buzz Osbourne wasn’t so insufferable. I really can’t even judge them musicially because I just don’t like Buzz that much.

- The Smashing Pumpkins

The Smashing Pumpkins can actually write tunes and I’m actually very curious/eager myself to test out their version of dream pop(Less Mazzy Star, more My Bloody Valentine), but oh my God Billy Corgan’s singing voice. I mean, Billy Corgan himself, but holy shit. I know I ragged on Iggy and Nick but they’re tolerable as artists because they’ll openly admit to not being particularly good vocally(which I think Iggy is honestly too hard on himself for but that’s a different paragraph altogether). Billy Corgan can’t admit that he’s just not that talented, and I know Courtney praised him for writing hooks when everybody else was writing noise because the rich college kids didn’t have to worry about making money, and that’s fine, but once he started Making money he could’ve afforded to experiment more(and I’ve only heard the band’s first two albums but like. Oh Mellon Collie and the infinite hit factory) but I don’t think there was ever somebody willing to divorce themselves from the norm inside Billy Corgan. And obviously I hate him for being a fuckhead. So there’s that.

- The White Stripes

Meg White is cute and cool and has anxiety issues like mine but good lord I don’t like Jack White, and worse than him I don’t like their music. I don’t like the incredibly derivative ‘pop blues’ riffs, I don’t like their senseless half-worded lyrics, I don’t like their ‘we listened to the Stooges so we can play three notes forever and that’s valid creatively’ attitude. To be fair, I think that’s all more Jack than Meg, but however the chips fall I experience their music with slightly more interest than I experience a commercial.

Thank you for this ask!

[joaquinbumblebee24]

Starry, Starry Night Chapter 2

AN: I never been to NYC, but I did research. So any mistakes are mine. God, I enjoyed writing this chapter. No more fuff the next time. So let's get on with the chapter.

GH/JW

"Should I wear a tie?" House asked Cuddy while he was fretting over what to wear to his date. He was at Cuddy's house, while Wilson was at the apartment. House would pick Wilson up, and they would go to New York City.

"No," Cuddy said, looking at his outfit, which consisted of a leather jacket, and gray jeans. "Wear this red turtle neck instead." Cuddy handed House the article of clothing.

"You're right." Said House, looking at the red sweater. He grabbed it and put it on.

Cuddy looked at House, with pride, he'd never seen in his father's eyes, this made him sad. "I am very proud of you for trying a relationship." She said, hugging him. "Maybe it won't bomb this time."

"Thank you, Cuddy." He said without any sarcasm in his tone. He left Cuddy's house with a lightness that he had never felt before.

Wilson was at home calling Cuddy's place. "Hello," Cuddy answered, rolling her eyes.

"Did Greg told you where we're going tonight?" Wilson asked, getting agitated.

"No." She answered. "He told me it was a surprise."

"What should I wear to this thing?"

"Wilson, wear a leather jacket, he's wearing one." Said Cuddy, with a big eye roll.

"Okay, bye."

She sighed, she hoped that it goes well, for House, as well as Wilson. She wanted to see Gregory House happy. She just hoped that Wilson wouldn't be an idiot about this.

GH/JW

House was inside the 1965 Cherry Corvette waiting for Wilson to emerge from their apartment. He was taking Wilson on a date to the Museum of Modern Art in New York City. He knew that Wilson loved visiting art museums with his various exes. House also knew that Wilson hadn't seen Van Gogh's collection in his life.

Finally, Wilson emerged from the apartment looking good. He wore a leather jacket with a black t-shirt and tight jeans. His ass looked good.

House didn't get out, but he reached out with his long arm and opened Wilson's door. "Nice ass," House said while Wilson entered the Corvette.

Wilson glanced at House's hand."Thank you, Greg. By the way, where are we going?" Wilson noticed as House's hand tighten around the steering wheel. "House, What's up with you? Why so nervous?"

House sighed He stared straight ahead on to the road. "I hate taking people on dates, that's all. It shouldn't be, because it is with you, I just hope you love my surprise."

Wilson didn't want to push his luck and ruined the date. He remained silent throughout the drive. As they were driving, he watched where House would take him. They were approaching New York City, Manhattan area. "We are seeing something," House said while he drove through Brooklyn Bridge.

"Are you giving me clues." Wilson was annoyed at House now.

"Nope," House said popping the P.

House parked the corvette in an underground parking lot. He was intending to walk or in his case limp to his destination. Wilson, however, questioned him. "Can you walk?"

"Yup, it's right there," House told Wilson, pointing at the Museum of Modern Art.

Wilson was surprised. "What are we going to see." He said excitedly.

"Van Gogh," House watched as Wilson's surprised smile grew wide.

"Why? I mean I thought you hated art." Wilson said while he matched House's limping gate through 53rd street.

They were at the entrance of the museum when House spoke. "I was learning the guitar when the folk song Vincent was released in 1971. I read about Van Gogh's art at the time, and I felt a kindred spirit with him. I was a lonely queer kid, who's father would probably kill when he found out. I was reading the first edition of the DSM at this point, and when I read the part when they said homosexuality, I thought I had a mental illness… " his voice tightened a bit.

"I found solace in the knowledge that every person had its time. As you may know, Jimmy, he sold one piece in his lifetime, then became famous after his tragic death." He took a deep breath. "It's our time, Wilson."

Wilson smiled at the final words of that rant and took House's casted arm in his own and kiss it.

He could imagine why House felt a kindred spirit with the fallen artist. Like in Van Gogh's lifetime, wherein there were no medications for people who suffered from an array of mental illnesses. Growing up in the 1970s would have sucked, there were no TV shows and movies with LGBT characters. You felt lonely like you were the only gay person in the world.

They were nearing the painting House spoke again. "I first saw a replica of this painting in 1975, In London. While my father was station in Manchester. It was amazing, it was also the final relatively nice memory of my childhood. Because when we got back to the states…" His voice trilled off.

They ended up near the painting, it was beautiful, unreal, relevant. Wilson looked at his partner, the world is our oyster, House. He thought. The Starry Night was a painting that depicted Van Gogh's life in the asylum beautifully. It was a depressing sight.

Wilson like House felt alone growing up, as the middle child of Adam and Emily Wilson. He grew up knowing that he was loved, but he still felt the pressure to conform to the societal norms luckily for him, he was bisexual. In fact, he told his parents that he was dating House, their reaction was pure joy, as if finally.

After seeing some more paintings House was hungry. They left the museum. They walked close to the parking lot. "I have a reservation at this Japanese place near MSG, then we are going to see a Knicks game."

The food was great, he knew that House spent time in Japan. He had seen House talking in Japanese, but he hadn't known how House eat sushi and it was erotic.

After the meal, they went to the historic Maddison Square Garden to watch a game. The game was 90-82, the Knickerbockers won against the Charlotte Bobcats.

House check them into a fancy hotel, at the heart of the city. House loved how Wilson came undone in his arms as soon as they hit the bed. After they made love. he said. "I wished we did this sooner."

"Yes, I know," Wilson said kissing his hair.

House was stroking Wilson's hair. "God, I should have known before the infarction, for the leg. God, it's painful, I overdid it."

Wilson sighed and got up to massage House's leg. "Where is the Ativan, I prescribe for you."

"In the bag somewhere," House replied, and Wilson got up. "Where's the Vicodin?" Wilson asked searching the bag, He found the Ativan on the pocket of House's duffle.

"It's in the jeans pocket." House whimpered slightly. "God, It hurts."

"It's okay, House," Wilson said. He handed the pain meds to House, who took it gladly, with a glass of water."It's okay, Greg. I am with you."

House smiled but due to exhaustion, he fell asleep. "Thank you, Wilson."

"I love you, House," Wilson said as he was stroking House's hair. He slid down on the covers. "And thank you for the date. I enjoyed it so much."

End of Chapter 2