#stronger than ever and looking so much cooler and hotter

[fire-emblem-drabbles]

My SI with Gortash is litterally "I could fix him" and "oh I could make her worse" and I love that so much for them... I think about them often too...

[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.

[godlygreta]

i never stopped loving you | j. kiszka

title | i never stopped loving you

summary | jake and y/n have known each other since grade school, they’ve been neighbors forever. a bit of romance ensues, but ends fairly quickly when complications arise while the boys are touring. a trip home from college ends in a slightly drunk confession.

warnings | some mature themes (bit of sex, but not explicitly), swearing, slight angst

word count | 2.5k+

author’s note | hi! this is the first thing i’ve written for any of the boys, so i hope you enjoy. i’ve written for other bands before, so writing isn’t new to me, but writing for greta is.

“I never stopped loving you.”

It slipped out. It didn’t mean to come out. Jake didn’t necessarily want it to come out. They say drunk words are sober thoughts, right? At the same time, who trusts the words of a drunk person? Usually it’s just brushed off as babbling, but Y/N couldn’t ignore what Jake said. Especially because she couldn’t blame it on not hearing him. There was no music playing outside the bar. The music was faint enough that anything Jake had said was heard.

High school was rough for Y/N with hormones mixed in with academics, horny teenage boys at every turn. Y/N wasn’t even interested in dating, not due to the fact that nobody was necessarily interested in her, but because she was too focused on her studies to even give a damn. School dances were a nice break from academics. There was a shift, though, when one boy in particular would start to really pay attention to her.

Jake Kiszka was charismatic in every sense of the word. Him and his twin brother, Josh, were always the two sweetest, yet most famous troublemakers in all of Frankenmuth High School. It got even worse when their younger brother, Sam, ended up in high school with them as a freshman. Jake had girls wrapped around his finger from the moment he had gotten a haircut. His hair was a lot shorter than before and barely even touched his forehead. Y/N didn’t really give a damn. To her, he was still Jake Kiszka, neighbor.

Their parents were friends and always hungout on the weekends. Y/N’s family had a cabin on the lake which they always vacationed at and occasionally would bring Jake’s family with. One particular summer, they stayed there for a week between the summer of sophomore and junior year. The summer’s were always hot, but this week in particular was hotter than the other summer’s before. “It feels like the Devil’s asshole out here.”

“I know, Mary, but that’s the exact reason we chose to come here this week. The kids can swim in the lake, it’s a lot cooler in the water than on the grass.” Y/N’s dad spoke, returning the conversation from her mother. He gave her a quick kiss on the side of the head and returned to unpacking the car. Y/N and the boys had already gone into the house and picked their rooms. The boys shared one, and Y/N got one of the spare bedrooms. 

Dinner was made as soon as everyone was settled in. Everyone sat around the dining table, laughing and eating as they did almost every weekend. “You excited for Junior year, Y/N?”

“Yeah, I’m sort of nervous about taking the SAT and ACT. I’ve been studying when I’m not working at the shop.” She picked at some asparagus on her plate as she answered Mrs. Kiszka’s  question. Jake and Josh weren’t entirely ecstatic about it, it didn’t really matter to either of them. Music was their passion and that was never going to change.

Smores after dinner was a tradition that started when they were all really little, barely old enough to eat them. The fire was lit by Mr. Kiszka and Mr. Y/L/N. Jake, Sam and Josh had always played music while the rest of them made their smores. Y/N always made extras for the boys for when they were done playing music. Whenever they had no idea what to play, Y/N always knew the answer. Running out of songs to play, though, was a rarity in itself. The Kiszka’s knew so much about their sound, nothing was in their way of playing songs that fit it. However, every once in a blue moon they would ask their friend what she would like to hear. “C’mon now. You should know I’m a sucker for The Beatles.”

Y/N could recognize the sound of Blackbird the second it started playing. She had only listened to it eight million times that summer. She hummed lightly along as they played. Everyone clapped as soon as their song was over, the boys immediately delving into their smores. Y/N had finally taken a seat next to Josh when she was finished making their smores for them. Once their parents had gone inside, though, Y/N and the twins dipped into their parents' cooler of beer.

Neither of the sets of parents cared, they knew their kids would be safe and unharmed if they drank at the cabin. Jokes were told and stories of the past school year were discussed, as well as the future. A topic so vast for high schoolers. “I still can’t decide between a lawyer and an art teacher.”

“You’ve always been great at arguing,” Josh joked, “Practically got fuckin’ Lindsey McNeil out of that suspension.”

“It wasn’t fair. All she did was stand up for herself and what she believed in, plus that teacher is fucking creepy and everyone knows it.” Everybody laughed, the beer in everyone’s hands was getting a little warmer with every minute that passed by. Everyone filtered out one by one. Sam went in first, followed by Ronnie (she was slightly upset about coming, having made other plans with friends for the hot weather), and then Josh followed, leaving behind Jake and Y/N.

“Did you want to go inside yet or stay out here for a bit longer?” The silence beforehand hadn’t been awkward for the pair. “Cause I was thinking of going swimming for a bit.”

“I’ll join you, we haven’t swam yet today.”

The sand leading into the lake was met with a bit of rocks. It was picturesque under the moonlight. The pair discarded their clothing, leaving their underwear and got into the water. The coolness of the water sent goosebumps along her skin, leaving no piece without some. Jake followed in behind her, coming up next to her before completely dipping under the water. He popped back up and shook his head.

“You know,” Y/N started, “I think you’d look really good with longer hair.”

“You think?”

“Yeah. You should grow it out.” She swiped his hair out of the way and giggled a bit. “You’ll still never be prettier than I am.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it, darling.”

The rest of the summer followed with light flirting and spending lots of time together. Junior year came around and nothing changed a bit. Prom was spent with the Kiszka family, Josh driving the three of you, as well as Josh’s date. The dance was lame, the songs were overplayed pop music, which Y/N secretly had a bit of a soft spot for. She would never tell that to Jake, though.

The pair ended up back at Y/N’s house, giggling all the way up to her room. He went into the bathroom to take his suit off, using one of Y/N’s hangers to make sure it wouldn’t wrinkle. However, Y/N was still having issues. She couldn’t manage to undo the zipper by herself, waiting for Jake to come back into the room to do it for her. He came back in, saw her still in her dress. “Need my help?”

“My zipper -- I can’t reach it.”

“I can do it,” he whispered, knowing Y/N’s parents were asleep. His hands were warm against her back, undoing her zipper slowly. The moonlight coming in from the window felt like that hot summer night at the cabin. He slid the straps down her shoulders, his mouth slightly agape. How could someone look so beautiful and delicate at the same time?

She turned around, her body facing Jake’s. He stuttered, telling her he could leave and he was honestly about to. Until he felt her hand grab his wrist. “Don’t go.”

He nodded his head, helping her get the rest of the way out of her dress. She stepped closer to him and put her hands on his chest. She could feel how fast his heart was beating. She had a hard time meeting his gaze, nervous of him not feeling the same way she had been. “You looked really good tonight.”

“Me? Everybody was staring at you the whole time, Y/N,” he spoke, one hand finding their way to her waist, the other pulling on her chin to force eye contact. “You looked absolutely breathtaking.”

There was a split second where both of them second guessed themselves. But it was over when Y/N pressed her lips lightly against Jake’s. It was such a feathery light touch, it almost felt like she wasn’t even kissing him. She pulled away slowly, her eyes closed, not really knowing what to do next. She didn’t have to figure it out though, Jake’s lips returned to hers with more pressure.

His hands had found their rightful place on her back, bringing her closer to him. Hers found their way into his hair. It felt so natural - the need for each other grew stronger with each passing minute. His mouth never wanted to leave hers, it felt as though her lips were coated in fucking drugs the way they were so addicting. He couldn’t get enough. “Do you want to..?”

“Yes, please.” It came out so needy - desperate. Y/N didn’t even care about how that presented itself to Jake. She just wanted to be even closer to him than she already was. And she got to be right where she wanted to be.

Her bed was more comfy than Jake had previously remembered. Or maybe that was because they were here under different circumstances, not just studying algebra because Jake wasn’t quite getting it. All he knew was that he wasn’t ever going to forget it. He wanted this moment to replay forever and ever. Not because he was just some horny teenager, but because holy fuck, this had just been some random thought - a daydream, almost. But this was real. This was happening.

A tangled mess they were when climaxing. “I love you,” came out as barely above a whisper. It took Y/N a half of a second to register what he was really saying before it finally hit her. She didn’t feel as if she had to say it back, if anything, he should realize that she loved him too.

“I could honestly stay here forever and stare at you until the end of time.”

“So do it. We’ve got all the time in the world.”

They didn’t though. And it wasn’t that simple. Complications arose after that night. Everything got messy and trying to tie in a relationship while the band was traveling and on the road became increasingly difficult, especially when Y/N went to college.

She came home to Frankenmuth while she was off for the summer. Her mother and father missed her a great deal and the first weekend home was spent in the Kiszka’s backyard, the boys excluded. It was weird to be at their house and not see them littered around anywhere. Ronnie was full of stories though, telling Y/N about previous times the boys have come home from touring and the memories they brought back with him.

It was painful to hear, but she was so incredibly proud of everything they had accomplished and done. Every once in a while, Y/N had checked up on their band's Instagram account. When she was really nervous — having a hard time not worrying about them — she texted Josh or Danny. Neither of them were ever going to say anything to Jake or mention it to Sam.

The two families decided to get together and have dinner at a local bar. The boys were still away, they weren’t scheduled to come back to Michigan for at least another month and a half. Ronnie and Y/N spent most of their time talking about future plans for the upcoming weeks while their parents discuss their weekend plans — what to have for dinner and who’s house to have dinner at. Time had passed quickly and before they knew it, it was 10pm.

The parents had left, leaving Ronnie and Y/N at the bar by themselves. At least, that was until the boys walked in.

Ronnie smiled widely, hugging her brothers but then proceeding to punch them for surprising her and not just telling her. Josh and Danny hugged Y/N first, Sam leading after. Jake didn’t hug Y/N. It stung a bit. It made sense though. The last time they talked — it ended in an argument which was the resulting cause of their breakup.

A few drinks were downed, a couple shots thrown in there as well. Y/N figured it was time to throw the towel in. She couldn’t handle the awkward glances and forced conversation on their part. She grabbed her jacket off the back of her chair and put it on as she said goodbye to everyone. “Boys, lovely to see you again. I’m sure I’ll see you this weekend.”

She wasn’t going to. She was gonna avoid them at all costs. Come up with a lie — say she had the flu or something. Her mother would believe her either way, as well as understand where she was coming from with her avoidance. Her mother was there for her while she cried her eyes out.

She didn’t notice when Jake had followed her out. She didn’t notice him calling her name. The only thing she could notice was the tears falling down her cheeks, wiping them as soon as she felt them.

“I never stopped loving you.”

It slipped out. It didn’t mean to come out. Jake didn’t necessarily want it to come out. They say drunk words are sober thoughts, right? At the same time, who trusts the words of a drunk person? Usually it’s just brushed off as babbling, but Y/N couldn’t ignore what Jake said. Especially because she couldn’t blame it on not hearing him. There was no music playing outside the bar. The music was faint enough that anything Jake had said was heard.

“When we broke up,” he started. “I was a wreck. I was immature. It could’ve worked out - it would’ve worked out if I wasn’t such a child about everything.”

“Jake —“

“No, Y/N, I need to say this now. I’m a little drunk so I actually have the balls to say everything I want to. It was stupid to break up over something as menial as distance. The things I feel for you are so intense it scares the fuck out of me. I was so afraid of being gone all the time. You deserved someone who could be there to help you study for midterms. I was always in another state and sometimes another country. I wasn’t… there to be able to help you through anything. Everything’s different now, though.”

She sighed, not entirely sure on what to do with the information that was thrown at her. She was sober enough to remember the conversation tomorrow, but not nearly drunk enough to be able to deal with it tonight. “Do you wanna just come home with me? Talk about this tomorrow morning when we’re both sober.”

“Yeah, I’d like that a lot.”

[oumaheroes]

Wind Walk

Word Count: 2389

Alba- Scotland

Cymru- Wales

Albion- England

Ériu- Ireland

---------

Cymru sits in the grass, overlooking the sprawling valley below. Where he sits it is almost an overhang- just underneath the ground carves away to a dizzying drop that makes him feel as though he is soaring above it; light and weightless. There is nothing underneath him but air so he dangles his legs over the edge, kicking into the wind and feeling it tug and push at his bare ankles.

It’s a strange morning- stormy and roiling. The clouds race through the sky above him, a churning grey blanket that chases flashes of blue before tumbling over into dark. The storm itself hasn’t broken yet but the air is thick and heavy and Cymru has been watching it ever since he first set out this morning, looking to see where it will spill and hoping it moves further away from where he is sitting.

He had taken himself to the highest point he could see nearby, the crest of a large hill that grows rockier the higher you climb and where the air is cooler. He has always found it comforting to be up high somewhere and his land provides this opportunity aplenty. The more you creep north, the more the earth lists and tilts with sweeping valleys that chip into combes- craggy, pockmarked tops that tip and puddle into deep gorges of soft green grass.

Maybe the sky is matching his mood. Mama would know.

Mama isn’t here.

She faded away recently, going somewhere no one knew to find her. She had been doing so for years, for as long as Cymru can remember, if he is being honest with himself. Some of his first memories are of Alba whispering to Ériu that she sleeps for longer than he used to, or Ériu tugging on her tunic and asking why she won’t play with them as much anymore. But she had always seemed fine to Cymru.

She would run and play, throw them up in the air and tumble with them down banks to splash in streams. Even when Albion appeared, the newest of them all, she still felt strong and sure, as steady as the land on which they walked. They had all watched her charge into battle, switching sides halfway through a clan war to show her allegiance to all of them. She sat and wove both metal and wool: strands of hot, solid gold forming intricate torcs to cover their necks and dyed woollen fibres emerging into blankets to enfold them when the air grew cool. She danced with the young, whispered with the old and lamented the fallen with as much life as she had ever done.

Mama, for all her long life, had always wandered, moving from tribe to clan, from settlement to kingdom- scattering herself amongst her people so that all knew who she was and what she stood for- us. We.

Most of the time her children would follow her, collecting themselves around her ankles or on her back, soaking her up like a sponge.

Maybe that was the problem, maybe they took too much.

Alba seems to think so. Seems to think that the more of them there were, the less of her there could be and maybe he’s right. As they all grew, she seemed to diminish, wandering less and less frequently, resting more each place she settled. Quick visits turned into monthly, then yearly stays, merging into her people like a faceless, nameless creature who wore a torc of status and cloth of the gods but only shone with the dulling, pale vivacity of a mortal woman.

She was still there, though. Still healthy. Still was present and alert and ready to talk or comfort or hold. Albion was too young, but Cymru picked up on Alba and Ériu’s worry, felt it bleed through into him so that he became watchful for change and anxious to find it. And it was there, if he looked, small things that made him turn away in denial and fold himself into her arms, press close to her body to take in as much of her as he could.

Lavender and honeysuckle, roses and earth. The salty sea wind and grass after rain. Home.

In the last few years, she took to walking alone.

She never asked them to come with her when she roamed across the land, never asked them to stay when she left for somewhere new, but they had always followed her anyway, for the most part. Sometimes they travelled to places on their own, Alba and Ériu more so -older, stronger, surer of themselves and who they stood to be in the march of mankind- but mostly they remained together, following her like tiny, spinning comets around a star.

But these last few years they had known that she wanted them to stay. She had never said so explicitly but there was a feeling, a deep calling that they understood was not for them. Young though he was, even Albion knew this and would curl up next to Alba or Cymru when she went away, burrowing into them as if desperate for something that wasn’t his to hold.

Mama would walk and roam, would return in a few days and then collect them up again to move on together. Maybe that was the new way things were to be, Cymru had caught himself thinking, (deceitful moments of hope and innocence- cruel terrible things he should have known better than to permit), maybe now that they were older, this is what she expected of them- to let her be whilst they themselves learnt to stand alone.

This was true, in a way. He knew that beneath that hopeful wish there was a grain of something hard and cold, something that needed swallowing but was difficult, no matter how sweet it was coated.

Mama wandered and walked, returned and slept- longer and longer each one. Longer disappearances, longer rests afterwards, longer stares off into unknown, forgotten horizons.

And then, one day, she did not come back.

It hadn’t felt different, hadn’t felt anything special, but as the days crept into months which blurred into years they had all known, eventually. That had been her last walk, her last goodbye, and she would not be returning.

Ériu had gone off first. Not in search of her but in search of himself, who he was to be to the people that were now solely his- across the choppy, tempestuous seas that divided their lands to cloak himself in his mountains of emerald green. He returned occasionally, but less than he used to and Cymru felt the absence of him with a keening emptiness he hadn’t expected to feel.

Alba kept the rest of them mostly together, corralling them from place to place, clan to tribe, in a similar fashion to the way Mama had, maybe in stubborn denial of change or to entice her back. Cymru didn’t know. Alba is oftentimes as rough and coarse as his highlands, sparse and blunt and dangerous, if you didn’t know where to tread and his moods change from dark to light so quickly it is hard to catch them and pin them down.

Cymru was at least old enough to understand, could appreciate enough that Alba was hurting, is hurting, and that was his way; he was scared and angry, lonely and confused, and he was coping the best he could to keep them all together. Albion, however, did not understand, could not comprehend why he was so snappy, so distant, would not play with him and would shout when he did wrong or cuff him for accidents he didn’t mean. Albion knew Mama wasn’t coming back but didn’t know why and resented the perceived abandonment and the abrupt thrust into a new way of things.

So, Albion comes to Cymru, to wail into his side or beg for attention Cymru doesn’t want to, can’t give. Albion wants comfort, wants something soft and safe- he wants Mama and no one can give him that, so he needles and acts up which causes a cycle of repetitive arguments between oldest and youngest as Cymru fades into the shadows and tries his best to soothe them both.

This pressure builds in his chest like a storm, hotter and tighter until the shape of things unsaid and feelings forbidden clog in his throat and begin to choke him. When this happens, (ideally, before it happens) Cymru tries to get away, to take himself off to a place where he can cry and feel his own feelings, rather than those of everybody else. There is no one to untangle his ball of confused emotions but that’s okay, all he needs is time and space and he can smooth them out on his own.

Up here in his own lands Cymru can feel and breathe as himself, rather than as a part of a fractured family. He feels himself in the stones under his feet, can listen for his songs in the whispers of wind, can see his clans dot the hillsides and collect into pockets of himself- Cymry. Now that Mama has gone, the distinction between himself and his brothers feels more clear- this part is his, now, rather than theirs or Mama’s. This feels more like him, that over there feels more like Alba. Albion certainly feels more south- chalky cliffs and rolling meadows. Just as each loaf of bread tastes somewhat like its baker -personality baked into it as it rises- they are becoming more hewn into their land and it feels somewhat stark now, more foreign than it ever did before.

Cymru does not like to think of what that means for them in the future, so he tucks that away in his mind to ruminate on later, for another walk alone when he yearns for space. Alone in his lands he can be alone with his present, can reminisce on the past and dream about the future to come in a detached peace that he craves more and more these days.

A crack of thunder booms a welcome in the clouds and he sighs. He cannot stay up here. Long living he may be, but he does not want to chance a broken neck in sodden isolation.

Picking himself up and dusting himself off, he begins his walk down the hill, moving up and away from the edge first and then carefully picking up the trail between loose rocks and hidden dips in the earth, feeling the ground innately as he goes. He is surefooted and confident, so he descends quickly and with unnatural ease. It begins to rain when he is nearly halfway down, fat spots that darken the ground with round, large circles and the air grows muggier. The sky rumbles again- a warning. He won’t have too much longer before the heavens open fully to catch him where he stands.

He and his brothers are camped not too far away. Alba has been taking them all over, following Mama’s old routes and greeting all as they approach. The welcome is slightly different now, warmer for one of them and more distant for the others. Their people are changing how they feel, too: ‘We’ and ‘Us’ growing smaller and separated, ‘Them’ growing larger and more frightening.

Cymru adds this to the collection of thoughts he does not wish to think on at the moment and carries on, faster now as lightning bursts free from the billowing sky and washes the land white, forcing him to be more cautious of where he treads.

Near the bottom he stops, seeing a shape.

There is something perched under a tree, huddled in on itself and building a meticulous tower of stones from a large pile of them that has been collected in a heap. The thing- the person- is familiar and Cymru frowns to see him there.

‘Albion?’

At the sound of his name and Cymru’s approach Albion snaps up his head to look at him before looking away, back to his rocks. He is concentrating deeply, furrows drawn into his brow as he scrunches his face up to gently place a large one precariously on top. It sits there solid and his face splits into a wide, happy grin, finally turning to give Cymru his full attention.

‘What are you doing here?’ Cymru crouches next to Albion and brushes his hair away from his face, some mud from his cheek. Albion leans into the touch automatically and Cymru sits close to him, making himself comfortable. Now he is down from the hill and on flatter ground the danger has passed- they might as well wait here until the rain lessens or moves on. It is coming down in earnest now, a proper shower from an unsure beginning, but it is warm and sticky with summer, so not unpleasant.

Albion stares at his stone mountain, assessing it, ‘Alba sent me after you- he said it was going to storm so I should bring you back.’

Cymru frowns. Although not far, the clan they’re staying near is still a good hour’s walk away for Cymru with his longer legs. With that information, and the number of stones scattered about the tree base, he knows Albion had been here a while, ‘Why did you stop here? I was only further up the hill.’

Albion shrugs, ‘You go away to sit up high by yourself.’

He reaches out to pick up another stone, turning it over with small, fat fingers to search for imperfections, and Cymru swallows, a lump suddenly in his throat. He hadn’t thought anyone noticed, ‘You can always join me, if you like. I won’t ever mind if you want company.’

Albion shakes his head and gingerly places the new stone on top of his mountain, ‘That’s something you do. I’ll do this,’ it wobbles there for a moment, oddly weighted and bumpy, but stays and Albion turns to him in glee, hungry for his approval.

Cymru smiles back, ‘You’re good at it.’

Albion looks proud, self-satisfied in a way only small children can manage- unashamed and bright, ‘I’ll build bigger ones, everywhere I go.’

Warm breeze catches the leaves overheard and curls over their hair, ruffling it and tugging. It smells like earth, like grass after rain, like home.

‘I can’t wait to see.’

---------

AN:

So, this was supposed to be a quick and easy writing drabble but it ended up rather longer than I planned, as is always the way.

As a challenge to myself, to stop myself from continually rewriting things after I have posted them, I’ll keep this to ferment for a while on Tumblr where I can rewrite and edit with reckless abandon until I’m happy with it and it’ll move to AO3. If you have any feedback or critiques, feel free to let me know!

(1) the identity of Celts and England is a very interesting, messy research field both linguistically and historically. ‘Albion’ is an ancient name that technically refers to the whole of the British Isles but, as it’s been picked up by the fandom as an ancient name for England (and this is a mere teeny fan fic drabble rather than an accurate historical source), I’ve used this to make England recognisable.

[dontcare77ghj]

Warm & Cool

Bucky x reader x Loki

No-one knew how it happened. No-one on the team or in your personal lives knew how it happened. The best they could describe it was a series of events that ended with the three of you together.

You had been a part of the Avengers since the events of New York. Loki had been sent to Earth under Thor’s supervision as punishment. As the two of you got closer Steve caught news of Bucky not being dead and started his search for the man. It was in the early months of your relationship with the God, that Bucky was brought to the compound.

If it had taken a while for you to get closer to Loki, the man had invaded New York after all, it was an eternity before the two of you admitted your attraction to the one armed soldier to each other. And don’t even get either of you started on how long it took the two of you to invite Bucky out to dinner.

There were many bets that the three of you would not last. Many, many bets. But here you all were seven months later, still committed to this relationship and each other.

“I have never felt more sympathy for Steve than I do now.” You groaned, turning away from Bucky who let out another sigh. “Poor Stevie.”

“Stevie is a punk and could never take care of himself. I was being a good friend and helping him out. Please just let me take care of you, doll.” Bucky begged, running a hand down his face.

You were sick. It was all Clint’s fault. The ma who was basically your brother had begged you to look after your niece and nephews while your boyfriends were busy so he could go out with Laura. Because you love your niece and nephews you’d eagerly agreed to watch over the children.

What you weren’t happy about was the fact all three children had caught the flu and Clint had not mentioned this tid bit to you at all. Since Loki was back on Asgard with his brother, Bucky had taken it upon himself to ensure you got better.

“You’re trying to poison me!” You cried, pulling the blanket over your head.

“Doll, please. Just take the medicine. You’re not going to get well if you don’t take it.” He sighed.

“It’s disgusting Buck. It’ll make me throw up.” You whined, refusing to let Bucky pull the sheet off your body. “Loki would never treat me like this.”

“No, he’d use magic on you doll. And you remember how that makes you feel after.” He reminded you, making you groan.

You’d only ever been sick around your Asgardian boyfriend once. As his people never get sick, he’d been quite panicky at the sight of you laid up in bed, too ill to move. After witnessing how you were for an hour, he’d decided to use magick to cure you.

While the sickness faded quickly, the after effects had lasted longer than the sickness would have.

“It makes you feel like shit. Trust me Buck.” You said, popping your head out of the blanket. “Fine, give me the medication.” You sighed, holding your hand out in front of him. Bucky gave you a smug smile as he poured two pills out of the bottle.

“Here you go, doll.” He smiled as he passed them to you. “You’ll thank me for helping you get well soon.” He said as you took them dry.

“I hate pills.” You groaned, leaning back in bed. Bucky shifted so he was sitting next to you.

“Oh, my poor baby doll.” Bucky cooed, wrapping his metal arm around your small frame. “Has to take pills to get better.”

“Oh, that’s so nice.” You moaned as Bucky’s cool hand rested on your warm skin. “Don’t move your hand, James.”

“Doll, you’re burning up.” Bucky realized as he pressed his flesh hand to your forehead. “Why didn’t you tell me before?”

“I was a bit busy trying not to get poisoned, James.” You murmured, leaning on his shoulder and pressing his hand onto your forehead. “Please don’t move your hand. It’s so nice.”

“I won’t move until you want me to, doll. I promise.” He assured you, running his flesh hand through your hair. “Go to sleep doll.” He told you several minutes later as your eyes began to flutter.

“Love you, Buck.” You murmured, pressing yourself further into his cool appendage.

“Love you too, Y/N.”

Summer. The time for the beach and for pools. The time for ice cream and cooling drinks of lemonade. Summer, the hottest time to be alive and the most uncomfortable time of the year.

Tony wasn’t sure what had happened but for whatever reason he couldn’t fix the tower’s A.C. system. He’d been working on it for the past two days and in those two days, the three of you hadn’t let your floor.

It was simply far too hot and, in an effort, to keep cool you and Bucky had been walking around in as little clothing as possible. Loki had found the whole situation amusing as you and Bucky sat in front of multiple fans in your undergarments, or less.

“I’m sweating like a pig.” Bucky complained, resting his metal arm in a cooler full of ice. “How are you walking around in all leather, babe?” He asked as Loki entered the room with a book in hand.

“Because it’s not hot.” He said, sitting next to you on the couch. “How are you today, my love?” Loki questioned you, resting his hand on your knee.

“I’m dying.” You groaned. “Sorry, hon, but it’s far too hot for skin to skin contact.” You said, brushing his hand off your knee.

“I don’t understand the two of you. I feel the heat much stronger than you both, yet I don’t think it to be warm in the slightest.” Loki shook his head opening the book in his hands.

“I would imagine your summers on Asgard are much hotter.” You commented. “But for us mortals, this is hot.”

“This is almost like a cool spring day to me.” Loki agreed.

“Back in my day it was never this hot.” Bucky grumbled, sounding much more like a man of his biological age.

“Yeah that’s because we ruined the planet since your day and age, Buck.” You said, rolling your eyes. “It’s called global warming, old man.”

“Loki is older than me.” Bucky pouted.

“At least I know how to adapt to the modern world at a relatively quick pace.” Loki said, making you smirk.

“You two are mean.” Bucky said, pulling his arm out of the melted ice and placing it on his chest. “That’s nice.” He sighed at the cool feeling.

“I’ll be nice until it burns you.” You pointed out.

“Well it’s not like there’s any other way to get cool right now.” Bucky said.

“If it makes the two of you stop complaining, I know a way to keep you cool.” Loki voiced without looking up from his book.

“If it keeps us cool, I’ll stop complaining.” Bucky agreed as you nodded.

“Very well then.” Loki said, closing his book. “Come here Bucky.” Loki said, shifting on the couch closer to you. He wrapped one arm around you and the other around Bucky once he sat and suddenly his skin turned a vivid shade of blue.

His skin was much cooler to the touch and you let out a content sigh as you pressed your face into his neck.

“This is perfect.” You smiled, pressing a kiss to his pulse point. “Thank you, darling.”

“Of course, my loves.” Loki said, leaning back on the couch with his book back in his hands. You and Bucky relaxed in his cooling grip, none of you saying anything as you cooled off and Loki read, before you and Bucky drifted off in his hold.

Non-reader POV

“We need more blankets.” Loki stated, getting out of bed and moving into the walk in.

“There are no more blankets, babe.” Bucky stated. “We have them all on the bed.” He added as Loki exited the closet with a scowl.

“How can we own so few blankets?” The God questioned the solider as he quickly got back into bed.

“There’s sixteen on the bed right now, Loki.” Bucky reminded him. “How many more blankets do you want?”

“Enough to make it bearable to sleep next to your frozen body.” Loki said, narrowing his eyes at his boyfriend. “How are you this cold?”

“Metal arm.” Bucky shrugged. “I don’t know, it’s winter Loki. It’s cold.”

“Far too cold.” Loki muttered under his breath.

“For a man who is part frost giant, you’d think you’d be able to handle a little chill.” Bucky teased, having heard him with his advanced hearing . 

"Only half of me is frost giant, the other half of me still feels the chill in the air, James." Loki said.

"I don't care if you're half vampire. I still love you." Bucky smiled, intertwining their fingers.

"I know." Loki smirked, though it was not a malicious smirk but a rather soft one.

"Did you just Han Solo him?" Y/N asked now standing in the doorway. Y/N had been on a mission with Steve and Natasha for several days now and though both men could see how exhausted she was, she still had a bright smiled plastered on her face.

"Neither of us know what that means love." Loki smiled, lifting back the many blankets as she stripped into her underwear.

"Remind me in the morning to add that to the last of movies you need to watch." You said, crawling into the offered space between the men.

"You're so warm, doll. We missed you." Bucky said, pressing his nose into your neck.

"I missed you too." You murmured, running your fingers through his hair.

"I never realised how warm you run, love." Loki commented, wrapping his arms around your waist.

"I run hot." You said, becoming drowsy because of the almost suffocating warmth.

"That you do." Bucky smiled, pulling both you and the God closer to him. The three of you continued an attempt at conversation but it eventually turned into indistinct murmurs.

After nearly a half hour of mindless mumbles and murmurs the three of you drifted off to sleep. And throughout the night the sixteen blankets became one and even that one was pushed to the end of the bed because it was no longer needed.

The boys weren't cold with your warmth next to them.

Taglist

@piper-koko-barnes-rogers @hopingforbarnes @skeletoresinthebasement @agent-barnes40 @rvgrsbrns @jelly-fishy-babie @smilexcaptainx @starlingelliot

Show me your support. Give it a like. Leave a comment. Share with your friends and reblog. Inbox/message me any comments, ideas, pairings, taglist requests, or whatever you wish.

Coming soon;

Dean x reader x Cas

Wanda x reader x Vision

Steve x reader x Wanda

Natasha x reader x Tony x Bucky

Natasha x reader x Wanda

Tony x reader x Steve

[tommyquackson]

unrighteousness | t. holland | part 5 |

Not My Gif

summary: a perfect angel isn’t as perfect as she’s lead to believe, and there’s no other angel who knows more about imperfection than the one who fell

warnings: hell, religion, fire and dogs

note: this ones a bit longer but i love it!!

Your first “lesson” was easy enough. Katie taught you about the different parts of Hell, the creation and the logistics. You learned a lot about Tom along the way, how he was treated and dealt with while in Heaven. You read a few journal entries from when Hell as it is now, was being created. When Tom disagreed with Father or God as everyone called him down here, there was almost a war. Angels put against each other all because God must be right at all times. Anyone with a different opinion sentenced to suffer. They threw him out of Hell and into a Lake of Fire, which is the center of Hell. He managed to crawl out of the Lake and helped the other Angels who had been kicked out with him. Their wings never grew back as Toms did. They built the castle and as time went on, they begin to get humans. They only tortured the truly evil people. This who were damned to Hell because they didn’t believe or had forsaken God, simply lived in the town. Those who broke minor laws of society and were just mean spend most of their time in The Pit, which was the black tar pit you’d seen upon your arrival. The truly evil people, the rapists and abusers and unjustified killers and racists and those who hated and harmed others for their own greed and rich people who had indirectly caused masses of people to suffer, they all spent eternity being tortured. Some whipped all day until the skin in their back was gone, and then grew back over night just for the cycle to begin again. Some tied to rocks and allowed hungry animals to feast on their entrails.

“Does everything make sense so far?” Katie asks you.

“Perfectly” You speak looking at her. You were amazed at all the knowledge the Demons had, you’d been taught they were uncivilized and uneducated, only knew pain and hate.

“Good. Now let’s take a break, Tom wants you to train to fight with the Twins” She says, picking up a stack of black clothes.

“Who are the Twins?” You question as she begins to untie your dress.

“They were a few of the demons who survived The Falling. It was Tom, Harrison, Harry and Sam, Patrick, and Jacob. Tom, Harry, Sam and Patrick are actually all brothers, they were Higher Angels but Harrison and Jacob are their best friends. The Twins are Toms battle strategists, they are fairly mischievous so don’t believe everything they tell you.” She finishes as you put on the shorts and tank top you’re given. Katie smiles at you and walks you to a room. It’s large and two men are standing there, with weapons all around them.

“Sam and Harry, this is Y/n. I’ll be back for her in 1 hour and 30 minutes. Take care of her” Katie curtsies before leaving and closing the door behind her.

“I’m Sam” The boy with curly hair sticking out from all directions says. He shakes your hand.

“Harry” The other one says. His hair is long as well but only on top.

“You ever fought before?” Sam asks you. You shake your head no. He nods and moves to grab something and wraps it around his fingers.

He teaches you to block first, he teaches you to use your wings, which are much stronger than you thought. Then he shows you how to use weapons, he lets you choose which one you want to use, you decide on a long sword and a small mace for your other hand. He teaches you how to swing them to cause the most damage and protect yourself. The whole time, Harry comments on your movements and speed, showing you how to increase your agility without becoming tired. He corrects your footwork and reminds you to keep your eyes on everything at once. After an hour of fighting and training, you take a break, talking to the twins about what Katie was teaching you. They tell you their experience and how it happened in their eyes. They also tease you about your innocence and laugh every time you look shocked when they use a curse word. They begin asking you questions about living in Heaven and being an Angel, was it the same, have things changed. You all joke around for a while more before Katie comes for you, taking you to eat something.

As you’re eating lunch, Tom and Harrison pass through the room, he’s talking to another demon but stops when he sees you.

“How’s it going angel? D’you meet the twins?” He asks smiling as you swallow.

“I’ve learned a lot and i can fight now” You grin widely, causing Tom to chuckle.

“Good, I’ll see you tonight before you go to bed okay?” He says cupping your chin. You nod and look down at your food.

“Thank you Katie” Tom smiles at the girl, before going back to talking to Harrison and the other demon and moving out of the room.

“You know, before I came here, I’d only ever had bread, water and wine? It’s amazing that you guys have all these foods. The fruits are my favorite, there are so many, but the meat is different but still good, but a different kind of good” You giggle taking another bite of the chicken thigh.

“We call it savory. My favorite food is lamb. We eat it every few weeks and it’s delicious. Now come on, you have one more training session. It’s with Jacob and Patrick” Katie says cleaning up your plate.

You walk back down to a room similar to the one the twins were in, except it’s a bit darker. There’s a large man and a little boy talking.

“Sir Jacob and Sir Patrick, this y/n. I’ll be back in 45 minutes for her.” She says waving bye at the boys and leaving.

“Hey, I’m Jacob and this is Paddy. Tom wants me to help both of you with your powers” The large one says shaking your hand. You move to stand near where Paddy is standing.

“May I ask you a possibly rude question?” You ask looking down at Paddy.

“Sure can, you’re new here so i’m sure you’ve got lots of questions” He speaks smiling at you, his freckles distracting you from his eyes.

“If you fell when Tom did, why are you still young looking?”

“I age much slower down here, i’ve actually grown a few inches since The Falling. Tom says not worry and that i’ll grow big and strong someday soon” He smiles proudly. You nod and smile back before turning to Jacob.

“Now, Y/n, you’ve got some hidden powers and i’m gonna help you control them. It may be a bit scary at first, but this isn’t our only lesson so you’ll get used to it. Nothing in this room can hurt you. Tom was smart and made the rooms so that you can’t be harmed in here.” You nod and take a look around. “We’ll start with fire wielding. Pads, show y/n.” You oook towards Paddy as he closes his eyes and holds out his hands. Suddenly a flame grows from his hands, his hand looks like it’s on fire but he doesn’t seem to be in pain. The fire moves with his hands as he forms a ball and tosses it up in the air before staring at his hands and the fire dies out. You stare in shock.

“I-I can’t do that” You whisper looking at Jacob with concern.

“Yea you can, you’ve just never done it before. It’s not that hard you just have to think about it” Paddy says from beside you.

“Go ahead, give it a try. Think about the fire, controlling it, what it looks like, what it feels like. Don’t think about it hurting cause it won’t. Concentrate on creating the fire” Jacob says walking right in front of you.

You nod and hold your hands in front of you. You close your eyes and think. The beautiful colors of fire, how when it’s on wood it crackles and whips around things. How you’d never gotten to see fire in heaven. It’d always been fascinating to you. You feel a warmth over your heart and it burns until it’s nice and toasty. You open your eyes and see a much smaller flame then Paddy’s but it was something. The bottom was blue and the tip was orange you smiled and it grew a bit bigger before going out, causing you to pout.

“Don’t worry, it’s your first time. You did great, this time, focus on how angry heaven made you.” Jacob says. You feel your chest tighten. Heaven didn’t make you angry did it? Sure you could never do what you wanted and you were constricted to the impossibly strict rules enforced by everyone but you had been happy there right? You scan your brain for a time you’d been happy, but your heart falls at the fact that you’d never been happy. You’d been miserable, depressed even. Nothing made you happy except the sunset and rise. You clench your jaw at the memories of your hopeless life, they said Heaven was the happiest place but you’d never smiled more than you had in the last couple of days. God never checked up on you and the higher angels only policed where you went. The fire you felt earlier burned hotter now, if you were anyone else you were sure this would be cooking your soul.

You look down at your hands to see them engulfed in blue and red flames, up to your wrists. You thought about the flames a bit more and they cooled to orange but still very lively. You smiled and looked at the boys for validation that you were doing it right. Paddy looked amazed at your hands and clapped, while Jacob looked proud.

“Amazing y/n. Perfect. Let’s move on to some other stuff” Your flames went out and you kept staring at your hands, that remained unaffected by the flames that were covering them just seconds ago.

Jacob also taught you how to increase your hearing ability and how to move items with your mind. Paddy had to help you with that one because you couldn’t seem to only focus on the thing you wanted to move. You only made a cup move a foot but it was progress in their books. By the end of the lesson the boys were capturing you in a hug causing you to laugh. You all play caught using the techniques the Twins taught you. You were running around laughing when Tom came in.

“Looks like you lot are having heaps of fun” He interrupts with a smirk on his face.

“I think she’s cooler than you Tommy” Pads says as you ruffle his hair. Tom rolls his eyes before pulling the bit into a light choke hold.

“Alright angel, come on. I’ve managed to get out of my duties early. I wanna talk to you” He smiles, sticking his arm out for you. You take it and walk through the castle until you get to a bedroom next to his.

“This is your room, I hope you like it.” He speaks showing you all of it. It’s just a large as his and looks very similar but with less personal items and furniture. Your window has a small balcony on it and your bed has more pillows but looks comfortable all the same.

“I love it. Thank you” You go and sit at the vanity area.

“So, how was all your training?” He asks plopping on your bed and resting his hands behind his head.

“Interesting. I did things i never thought possible. Did you know I can see in the dark? And make fire? And that my wings are 15 times stronger than I am and I’m super strong, stronger than a human?” You look at him as you take your hair out of the ponytail it been in all day.

“I did yes, but you do know you can do more. We’ll let the lessons rest for a bit since i’m sure you’ll be sore tomorrow but I want to spend more time with you. I don’t know a lot about you and your personality. That’s what I want to know most about. So tell me, what are your favorite things?” He asks turning towards you. You relax in the plush chair and think hard.

“Well, I’ve always enjoyed sunsets and rises. The night sky is pretty too. I’d never seen it before but your window has a great view. The stars are gorgeous, I used to hear prayers about the constellations but I know nothing about them. I also love the fruits here! They’re so delicious and all your fancy words for things, like savory! Meat is savory and it’s so good. I do like music but all the music in heaven is kind of boring. I’ve heard some people singing down here and it’s so nice. I also like animals, like dogs they may be my favorite. Dogs or Snakes, i’m not supposed to like those in heaven. They’re unholy creatures because you ‘tarnished’ them but they’re so cute. I do like reading as well, i’ve only read the bible but I know there’s a lot of books written by humans” You sigh thinking of all things you’ve had to push aside your whole life.

“Angel, when you’re here, you can have all of that and more. Speaking of, you like dogs, i think there’s someone you’d like to meet.” Tom stands and open the door and whistles into the hallway. You hear a bark and the patter of feet. Tom opens the door wide and a large grey dog runs in the door, sliding on the hard wood but falling on the rug in your room. Your eyes widen at the dog.

“This is Tessa, found her on Earth being abused so I brought her here and now she’s a hell hound. Everyone says they’re mean and evil but she’s a total sweetheart.” He speaks plying with her ears. He beckons you over and you slowly walk to the dog. He sits near you and allows the dog to sniff you. She looks at you for a moment before jumping on you and licking all over your face causing you to laugh. You pet her and talk to her as mothers talk to their babies.

“Hello Ms Tessa. I’m y/n. You are so precious aren’t you? The cutest doggy ever? Yes you are” You play with her as she pants and allows you to pet her.

“You wanna sleep with her tonight? She’ll protect you.” Tom says scratching her head. You nod and hug the dog and then Tom.

“So what about you?” You ask as Tessa relaxes and lays down, her head in your lap as you scratch lightly behind her ears.

“Id love to sleep with you tonight” He winks at you. Your face heats up and you look down.

“I meant what’s your favorite stuff” You speak biting back a smile.

“Oh, yea. Well there’s a lot. Dogs for starters. I like to golf, I like reading as well. I love helping people and I love making things right. My favorite color is black and I love AC/DC, they’re a band who makes music. I also love earth. Mostly though, I love my friends and brothers.” He speaks looking in your eyes. His brown orbs hold so much sincerity you feel your heart beat a little faster.

“Tell me more.” You whisper. You and Tom spend the rest of your day talking and learning more about each other. After hours of nothing but talking, he tells you he has some last minute stuff he has to check on before bed. He leaves and lets you know Katie will be in soon to help with your bath. Tessa trots and hops up on your bed and lays down.

After your bath, Katie helps braid your hair. She also hands you a book of all the constellations and stars in the sky. You hug her tight before crawling in the bed with Tessa. Katie blows out your lamps and bids you goodnight. You fall asleep almost as quickly as the door is shut, falling into a deep sleep, thinking off all the kindness one beautiful devil as shown you.

taglist: @loxbbg @laucontrerasv @vintageroses1014516

[sabraeal]

He Who Studies Evil [Part 3/4]

Part 1 | Part 2

A prequel to Wanting Is More Pleasurable Than Having (And Other Things Vulcans Don’t Know a Damned Thing About), written for @bubblesthemonsterartist. Also many thanks to @claudeng80 for reading this over this whole fic for Star Trek mistakes since it had been...many many years since I’d seen a DS9 episode, and memory alpha can only do SO MUCH

It takes a week for the other shoe to drop.

It had only been a matter of time; tensions were high on Terok Nor, and negotiations had slowed to a crawl. Diplomacy had never interested him quite as much as the other subjects at the academy, and every minute he spends in the board room with Gul Dukat and his cronies, he’s reminded of why.

The prefect seems to take great joy in arguing over every concession, over every word, and at times it’s only Sui’s level head that sees them through the meeting without incident. It’s as if the Gul sees this armistice as a wish on a monkey’s paw -- meant to be worded with the utmost care, or else it will come around and bite you in the end.

Haruka groans. There’s probably some Cardassian saying about that too. God knows he’s heard nearly all of them, sitting across from that man.

“Here he is, Ambassador,” the constable tells him, bringing Shidnote forward with a none-too-gentle shove. “I hope, for your sake, cooler heads prevail in the board room.”

“I’ll see to it they do,” Haruka assures him, catching Shidnote around the elbow. “You know young men and their tempers.”

The constable is a strange looking man, features oddly rounded near the nose and brow, but he still manages a glare that make Haruka hope he won’t be dealing with the constabulary again. “No. I do not.”

The room has been silent for minutes now, Shidnote perched on his torture contraption of a bed and Haruka just standing there, hoping a solution would present itself.

“You may have lost us this treaty, you know,” he manages, though that’s hardly his concern. “I understand how you must feel, cooped up with the Gul and his men day after day, but you cannot just pop off at the first overseer that strikes a nerve.”

“Not to put too fine a point on it, sir--” the word comes out twisted, a mockery -- “but you have no idea how I feel.”

Haruka’s mouth thins. He does not miss being this young, not one bit. “I think you will find I know more than you think. You may tell Councilor Wisteria that if she means to scrub a file, she should hire someone with a better grasp of subterfuge.”

That makes Shidnote take notice, finally.

“I know about Lido,” he says, “and I know about Bajor, and I have suspicions about the Kohn-Ma --”

“I didn’t join the Kohn-Ma,” Shidnote grits out. “I was already fighting against butchers, I didn’t need to become one.”

“That, at least, I’m glad to hear.” Haruka sits, taking the chair at the desk. “I suspect you have your orders, though.”

He grimaces, only for a moment, but it’s enough. “Orders? I’m only --”

“It’s no good, Ensign,” he tells him with a bemused wave, “I know the Councilor too well. She sent me on my own secret mission as well.”

“The kid?” Shidnote asks with a wince.

Haruka nods. “The child, yes. Have you heard anything?”

“Just rumor.” The man shrugs, looking uncomfortable in his operations yellow. “I thought I might hear something a Quark’s--”

“The gambling den?”

His shoulders twitch. “You know how it is, men drink there, get sloppy...”

“A little too sloppy, it seems,” Haruka remarks. The boy flinches. “I won’t be able to take you back in the board room.”

“Oh no,” Shidnote deadpans. “Please. No. You can’t.”

“All right, all right.” He’d laugh, if there were any humor left in him, but Terok Nor has drowned the last of it right out. “Enough of that. There’s no need for theatrics.” He fixes him with a warning look. “I do, however, expect you to stay in your quarters until further notice.”

“But--”

“You may continue your inquiries as long as you take Sui,” Haruka tells him, enjoying the way the ensign’s jaw drops.

“Sui?” he squeaks, incredulous. “But he couldn’t be subtle if the Federation depended on it.”

“You’ll take him anyway. He needs the practice if he wants to go into command.” Haruka gives him a sharp smile. “And besides, I think he’ll be a good influence on you. Now if you’ll excuse me,” he says, creaking up to standing, “I think I have a Ferengi to apologize to.”

He, of course, does not apologize to the Ferengi. Firstly, because the man runs a gambling establishment of dubious legality with dabo girls who are little better than indentured servants, and he is no stranger to hot heads and even hotter tempers; secondly, every Ferengi expects to be consoled in gold-pressed latinum, and there just isn’t room for it in the Federation’s budget. Ever.

Instead, he buys a drink. By his math, that makes him and the proprietor even.

The Gamzian wine hits him quick, and for the first time in days he feels like he can breathe, that whatever muscles have been holding him ramrod-straight this whole time can suddenly relax. He leans over, resting his head on the bar, and lets out a long, heartfelt sigh.

“Feeling all right there, ambassador?” oozes a voice across from him, and perfect, he’s caught his host’s attention. “Not that I want to discourage your continued patronage, but I must remind you that we have a firm ‘no returns’ policy.”

Haruka raises his head, and wonders if the man is suffering from some sort of aphasia. “Excuse me?”

“I mean, if you are going to upchuck, as you humans so quaintly call it, you’ll have to leave.” He tugs at his jacket, as if it gives him some small measure of authority and -- well, it is his bar. He’s probably as close as one comes, in a place like this.

“I’ve only had the one drink,” he replies, annoyance seeping through his words. “I was only...relaxing.”

“Well, now.” The man leans over the counter, as if he’s about to let him in a trade secret. “If relaxation is what you’re looking for, friend, come no further. We have holosuites upstairs with the finest fantasies made by the Brothers Quark.”

Haruka only just manages to bite back a grimace. A night of fantasy conceived by a Ferengi man’s mind seems like something destined to be vulgar, if not disturbing. Taste was not something the Rules of Acquisition required or encouraged.

“I’m satisfied with the drink,” he assures his host. “It’s not even finished.”

“Well, you’re welcome to anything on the menu,” the Ferengi tells him. “Just make sure if you order anything new, you come ask for me, Quark. I am well-traveled, but my brother--” he makes a wavering gesture with his hand-- “We don’t get many of your kind out this way. Wouldn’t want you swilling down poison, now would we? Though I’d still let you buy it, if you wanted.”

“How gracious of you.” Kain must have planned this. There was no other reason how he would end up prolonged contact with a Ferengi.

“Business is business,” he shrugs. “Though I suppose allowing that sort of thing doesn’t exactly encourage repeat business. But the customer is always right. Ah, a complex philosophy.”

It would not be hyperbole to say that poison was looking to be an agreeable option the longer he sat here. “Quite.”

“I’d ask what brings you here, Ambassador, but I don’t think anyone on this station doesn’t know.” This...Quark takes a friendly lean, smile baring the sharp rows of his teeth. “Trying to bring the Cardassians into the Federation, eh? A hard sell, I’d say. They don’t bow to anyone but the Union. And the Obsidian Order, but well, it’s all one in the same really.”

He can only stare, stupefied. Aside from the vendors, there was hardly a person on this station that was not a Cardassian or a Bajoran, and yet a rumor like this had spun up: that after years of firing shots over the border, the Federation would try to bring the limping Union into the fold. If only he could trace those words back, if he could find whether they were words of the fearful Cardassians or the disgruntled Bajorans --

Ah, but it wouldn’t matter, not unless the idea was popular enough to leverage it against Gul Dukat. He may not know much about the Union itself, but he was certain that they had no interest in yielding up Cardassia to any other interests. Conquerors did not often enjoy becoming the conquered.

It would make a certain amount of sense on the Federation’s part, of course; they had managed the alliance with the Kingons decades ago, if not brought them fully in, and doubtlessly it would be part of the long-term plan. However....

He couldn’t see it. They would be lucky for the armistice to happen at all if Gul Dukat kept trying to negotiate as he was, as if the Union were in the stronger position and not merely a smaller force that had thus far gotten lucky in their engagements.

No, not lucky. Their strategies were tight, and their discipline superior to Starfleet. But they lacked the sheer manpower available to the Federation, and eventually those overwhelming odds would come to bear. Cardassia could not continue to lose ships, not as they had been.

“Is that s--?”

“Rom!” Quark snaps, whirling on one of the Ferengi hovering nearby. “Stop staring and get back to work!” He turns back to Haruka with an ingratiating smile. “You’ll have to excuse my brother, ambassador. As I’ve said, he doesn’t get out much. Never seen an adult human before.”

He nearly waves it off -- it wouldn’t be his first time he’s been a physiological oddity, not by a long shot, but -- his breath catches. “An adult human? Do you mean to say he’s seen a child?”

His host hesitates, and Haruka can see the gold-pressed latinum in his eyes. “Why, I have to say, it could be, but...the old memory isn’t working as good as it used to. We Ferengi live a long time, after all. These brains are big but...well...I can’t hold on to everything...unless I think it might be important...”

Let it never be said Haruka doesn’t know the prompt for a bribe when he hears one. He drops a few slips of latinum on the bar.

“Oh, the boy! The human boy!” Quark nods, pocketing the bars. “He’s been here a long while, far as I know. They walk him around the promenade every once and a while, just so we all know what happens when you defy the Union.” He leans in, whispering behind a hand, “Though you’d have to be a fool to keep your children here, if you ask me.”

Only the vestiges of his common sense keep him from flying to his feet, from giving this Ferengi far more leverage than is wise. “Do you know where they keep him?”

“Oh, I couldn’t possibly gu--” a handful of slips drop to the counter -- “the torture cells would be my guess. The constable is no friend of mine, but I doubt he’d let a boy like that in his brig.”

“Thank you,” he says, rising stiffly from his seat. “You’ve been more help than you could imagine.”

Quark’s mouth parts in another of his sharp smiles. “Then might I ask you to consider...a little more gratitude.”

The man leans over, jiggling a tip jar. Oh, how he hates Ferengi.

Shidnote’s barely said “Come in,” when Haruka steps through, taking in the two ensigns seated on the bed, both bent over the same PADD.

“Captain!” Sui yelps, scrambling to his feet. “I’m afraid we haven’t had a lot of time to --”

“Doesn’t matter now,” he snaps, turning his attention to Shidnote. The boy’s getting to his feet, but slowly, a belligerent expression on his face. “Do you know where the torture cells are?”

He blinks. “On a station like this? Sure.”

Haruka steps aside, sweeping his hand toward the door. “Then lead away.”

“Ambassador!” The Cardassian dogs his heels, dodging Shidnote and Sui as they trail along in his wake. “You’re not supposed to be down here! This is a restricted area, for senior officers only!“

Haruka barrels on; it’s the only way to deal with men like this, denying them the inch they need to take a mile. “I’m sorry, I don’t read Cardassian.”

There’s a pack of guards following him, each collected from the doors they watch along the hall, but despite their numbers they do not touch him, only lag just behind him and his ensigns, as if humans dripped poison. Perhaps they might as well, for the dressing down they would get if one of them came to harm.

One does dare, as they approach another door, and Shidnote whacks the hand away, giving him a warning look. “Ambassador, please,” the man tries instead, “you cannot be down here! You must leave!”

“Then arrest me,” he grunts, coming to the one door that doesn’t swish open at his passing. “And if you won’t, then open this door.”

His collection of Cardassians all look at each other, nervous. They must have sent for Gul Dukat by now, but the prefect is not here, and he is. According to protocol, he is the acting authority in this particular hallway, and there is nothing the Union loves more than obeying the hierarchy.

For a long moment, no one moves, as if they think they might be able to wait this out, that Gul Dukat might be able to make himself the through the bowels of this station in time to keep them from having to obey a Federation ambassador.

“You heard him” Shidnote snaps, jerking his head. “Open the door.”

Finally one surges forward, lips pressed so thin that gray turns white, and as the door opens he says, “This will cost me my life.”

It’s dim in this room, and it’s only with the ambient light spilling in from the hall that Haruka makes out the cells which line the wall. As his eyes adjust, he just makes out a small, hunched figure rounded over in a cell. Even through the distorted static of the force field, he sees the wild bristle of a head, the shivering spine of a child.

“You’ll have to excuse me,” he manages, hands fisted so tight his knuckles crack, “but I don’t give a single fuck about your safety.”

Sui and Shidnote slip through the door before him, and in moments Sui is holding up his scanner, face entirely too pale.

“It’s -- he’s human, sir,” he gasps, “and -- and alive.”

“Not for long, if the Cardassians have their way about it,” Shidnote grumbles, pacing in front of the force field like he’s the one caged.

“Open this,” Haruka demands, Still, the Cardassians hang back, somehow less eager to help, even now. “Perhaps I have not made myself here. You have been, at the least, complicit in the illegal incarceration and perhaps torture of a human child under the auspice of the Federation. Your lives will all be forfeit, if you don’t suddenly start being uncomplicit right now.”

That gets them moving.

[crystalrequiem]

The Voice that Urged Orpheus

[Part 2/6(?)] [TRC] Summary: Kurogane is very hot, reasonably paranoid, and adds tallies to his running total of failed proposals. Tags: Kuro/Fai, Canon Universe, Post-Canon, Warnings:  suggestive thoughts and implications (nothing graphic), So fluffy you may cry, Is it still slow-burn if they’re already in a relationship? because that’s basically what this is. [Part 1] [Part 3]

Hello again. Wow! the reaction to this was WAY stronger than I thought! I really appreciate all the love and feedback. It’s really kept me going. Hope you like this one as well! Still planning on eventual citrus content of some sort. we’ll see when we get there. This thing has the loosest outline I believe I’ve ever written.

He doesn’t manage to ask before the end of the night. They retire to their shared room, and Kurogane tries fruitlessly to summon meaning in the shape of words. Of course, alone with no one to interrupt them he has an even more difficult time staying focused on talk. Fai interrupts his thoughts with every breath—a gorgeous distraction he wants to lose his wits to again and again. Kurogane winds up forgoing verbal communication mid-sentence, finally overwhelmed by the sight of his love bathed in moonlight. Fai’s… enthusiastic response suggests he may have battled similar frustrations throughout Tomoyo’s soiree. So, he doesn’t regret putting the discussion off a second time.

But then he can’t ask in the next day either. Or the one after that. Somehow, every time he tries to mention ideas of certainty and forever, his tongue locks in place and he loses his footing. Or worse, he knows what he wants and how he means to ask, but someone or something steps in before he can complete the thought. Before he knows it, they’ve already moved on to the next world and he still hasn’t managed to broach the subject for more than two phrases of a sentence.

Gods, it shouldn’t be this hard. “Hey mage, can we settle down together after all this is over?” or hell, even something as simple as, “I want to know what you want from this,” feels beyond him. He keeps running it over in his thoughts—over thinking it. He starts to worry less about his own proposal, and more over Fai’s imagined response. Things like ‘marriage’ don’t even exist consistently across every world, and he doesn’t know how such customs were handled in Celes. Maybe there’s no point to putting a name on their relationship and he’s just complicating things unnecessarily. Or maybe—

Kurogane shakes his head, as if that will empty it of the tangled logic that plagues him. Dithering over what to do isn’t something he makes a habit of. No sense trying to guess at what Fai will say—He wants to ask, so he’ll ask. Simple as that. Whatever comes after… comes after.

For now, he has to keep his focus. This new world they’ve landed in doesn’t bear any familiar faces, and they have no idea what sort of dangers it might hold. In architecture and climate it reminds him of Clow, though the air boils even hotter here. Unfortunately, it doesn’t share a language with Sakura’s home. Whatever basis for its elegant, connected scrawl, Syaoran can’t read it and it looks nothing like the letters of Nihon or Celes. They find themselves in the uncommon and unenviable position of illiteracy, without local currency or any obvious way to earn it. On the other hand, strangely shaped humanoids and talking creatures wander the streets feely, so at least they don’t have to hide Mokona.

Or…. He doesn’t think they do. As far as he can tell, the traveling clothes they got from the Kingdom of Clow echo the styles he sees on the street, and he spots hair and skin colorations of nearly every shade in the milling crowd. Still, they garner stares from everyone they pass. His fingers twitch, itching for the hilt of a sword.

“Ah, so you’ve noticed too,” Fai murmurs, dropping back a step and leaning his way. Mokona maintains an obliviously cheerful soliloquy perched on Syaoran’s shoulder, but the kid looks tense. Good. He might have to try to figure out some kind of awareness training regimen otherwise.  

“Hard to miss,” he grouches back. The mage hums in agreement, his face a placid mask for his hardened gaze to hide behind. “Should we skip town?”

“Not yet I think—I’d rather not sleep in the desert if we can avoid it.” Fair enough, he supposes. Still, the eyes on the back of his neck make his skin crawl, and he marches forward tense as a strung bow.

Wide swaths of pale fabric stretch between the rooves of the white-washed abodes overhead, granting a measure of merciful shade to the market-goers.  Even so, the heat is enough to swell his joints and set his shoulder aching where it joins the prosthetic. He does his best not to give any hint of his discomfort to their audience, but the effort takes its toll.

By the time they find something that looks like a curio shop, even the manjuu has noticed the stares and the burning desert sun sees all of them wilting in the heat. Syaoran lifts the sheet that serves as the store’s front entrance aside and they step into the cooler space with a collective sigh of relief. Kurogane pauses just a moment longer in the doorway to watch for followers, but despite the plentiful staring it doesn’t seem they’ve picked up a tail.

“Wao~ so much to look at! Mokona wants to touch everything—”

“Maybe not everything? We have to be careful, okay?” He heaves a tired sigh at the kids’ antics and leans against a narrow space of wall just at the door, careful not to jostle the wrong arm. The room is deceptively large and stacked with rows and rows of shelves. It appears to be empty. Not so huge he won’t be able to tell if they get into trouble, but large enough he can afford to hang back and let his arm rest a while.

“How about you just don’t touch anything.” He grouches to the empty air they leave behind. If they hear, they give no indication. With a tch, he shakes his head and turns back toward the center of the room, only to catch Fai’s narrow-eyed glare. “…what?”

The mage doesn’t say a word. He simply reaches up, taps once on Kurogane’s shoulder, and watches nonplussed as his whole body recoils in pain.

“Stubborn man,” Fai murmurs. Frustration colors his voice, but the look on his face is so fond it pulls at Kurogane’s heart.

“You’re one to talk.” He takes a deep breath and tries to smooth his expression back to something unbothered. Looking at his worried jerk of a partner helps. Fai’s hair is a tangled mess, even pulled back. Wisping strands escape the hold of his ribbon and stick to his face, glittering with sweat and already just a touch too pink. His fair skin certainly won’t do him any favors in this world… “I’m fine. It’s just the heat.”

“Is that all?” Fai grins and looks both ways, makes sure that no one is there to see before he starts weaving a spell. His hands are a blur of motion, tracing familiar characters in blue and white.

It probably says something that Kurogane doesn’t even think to duck away or put a stop to whatever the mage plans to cast. When did he start trusting Fai so completely? He can’t point to an exact moment. He just knows it feels strangely natural to watch without worry as Fai’s spell lights the space between their bodies, cradled between them like a secret.

“When are you going to learn to ask for help, Kuro-sama?” Fai chides just as he traces the last rune, and his charm snaps into place. Magic sinks into Kurogane’s cloak. He doesn’t usually have much aptitude for sensing the stuff, but like most things, he’s tuned to Fai. It flashes like ice water through the fibers of his clothes, leaving an echo on his skin that sees him shiver for more reasons than one. “Not too cold, I hope? It’s supposed to give you something on the cool side of normal. Maybe—” This time when he feels Fai starting to pull the magic forward, he stills his lover’s hands with his own.

“It’s fine, I’m just—” Just. Just what? “Somehow still learning how amazing you are.” True, but embarrassing as hell to say out loud. “Distracted by how hot that was,” also true, also embarrassing for different reasons. “Glad you’re here,” “shocked you can always read me so well,” and “trying to figure out how to ask you to marry me,” all slide firmly into the mental trash.

Kurogane sets his jaw, shakes his head and starts over, shifting his hold on Fai’s hands until the two of them stand linked like a pair of dancers about to begin. The distant sounds of Syaoran and Mokona speaking together somewhere nearby drift muted and muddled through the air—a quiet reminder that he has other things to worry about. They still don’t know whether this world is safe. That hasn’t changed. He takes another second’s breath, wishing he could convey this messy tangle of sentiment bundled in his chest, and mutters only, “thanks.”

“Yeah,” Fai sighs, seemingly caught in the sincerity of the moment. Minor sunburn makes him no less beautiful when he smiles, quiet and slow, like dawn breaking. They waste a good handful of seconds staring into each other’s eyes like fools before Fai re-discovers his senses. “Or—I mean you’re welcome! Of course. You’re always welcome. I only… wish I could do more.”

The way his gaze drifts towards the false arm as he talks leaves a sour taste in Kurogane’s mouth. There he goes again, blaming himself for a decision that wasn’t his to make. It shouldn’t be so frustrating. In all fairness, if it weren’t Fai saying the words—if he didn’t know exactly what foolish paths the mage’s mind sees fit to walk, it wouldn’t frustrate him. But he does. And it does. More than that, it frightens him. Left alone with his demons, Fai has a nasty habit of abandoning the will to live. He can’t let that happen again. He won’t, embarrassment be damned.

Kurogane growls, veins surging with an angry heat Fai’s charm can’t cool. He pulls his idiot in closer, determined not to let Fai’s doubts fester.

“You do enough,” he blurts, but even to his own ears it sounds like a chastisement and not the reassurance he desperately wants to communicate. Swallowing frustration, he tries to clarify for his wide-eyed audience of one. “You do—you are enough. More than enough. No matter what. even if you never cast another spell in your life.”

In the breathless moment that follows, he watches tears form, heart twisting in his chest as they gather and darken Fai’s long eyelashes. He wishes he could eradicate them at the source—somehow convince Fai of his own worth despite the long years of tragedy that constantly tell him otherwise. Kurogane doesn’t know if he can, but he knows he wants to try. He’ll keep trying forever if that’s what it takes.

He frees the fingers of his good hand from Fai’s and lifts them to brush away the first tear track that snakes its way downward, heart so full of love that it aches. He could say it now, he thinks. He really, really could. His lungs fill with air, the words flow from thought to throat and he opens his mou—

“Sorry about that! Had to take care of a few things in the back. Welcome to The Enchantress! What can I do for you?” A third voice mixes with Syaoran and Mokona’s conversation and Fai falls back into his careful persona with a jolt. He pulls away, stepping backwards so quickly he nearly careens into an over-stacked shelf. Damnit.

“Fai?” Kurogane wants to reach out and steady the blond, but not at the risk of startling him worse. Nearby, he can hear the kid stumbling through the process of introductions and asking whether they might sell a few items. He knows they need to head over there.

“Sheesh, Kuro-wan, you can’t just spring things like that on a guy.” Fai’s cheerful tone rings hollow. He doesn’t look back until any evidence of tears have been scrubbed thoroughly from his face. “I’m fine,” he lies. Kurogane just stares, one eyebrow raised in clear disbelief. “Alright! Alright, you… Later. Okay?”

Later. Sure. Why not? He huffs and trails in Fai’s wake through the shelves. The pain of his shoulder lessens with every second as the spell works its magic and helps him cool down. Kurogane curses his own stupid inability to communicate and wishes he knew how to weave charms for emotional hurt.

[thegingertrekkie]

Lost in a Dream World

Part 8: past the kingdom walls

You quickly found that this Shoji was exactly like your world's Shoji, kind but extremely quiet. You gave up on small talk about 10 minutes into your long walk and there was an uncomfortable silence ever since. The Edgelands was composed entirely of jagged lava rocks, the ground was always rumbling, and it was terribly hot. Shoji was right, it was hell. Every once and awhile there was a huge gust of wind from nowhere and Shoji would order you to hid under him. He'd wrap his arms around you like a protective shield and get close to the ground. The ground was so hot it burned your exposed skin, but Shoji held you down until the wind subsided.

"This is land of dragons" he explained after the third time "We're trespassing and they know we're here"

'Dragons?' You felt scared and giddy at the same time. This world was unbelievable, no one at home would take you seriously when you told then there were dragons here. You frowned thinking about home. Shoji decided it was time to take a rest and you passively agreed, grabbing one of the heavier packs Todoroki had given Shoji and opening it. You blinked as you looked down at the pile of gold inside the bag, lifting a piece to inspect more closely. "This is what we've been carrying? What the hell?"

One of Shoji's hands slapped over his mouth and he shushed you harshly. "Too loud (Y/n)! Put that away it's dangerous!"

The wind started up again stronger than before and you yelped as Shoji threw you into his back and started running. You turned and saw a huge silver dragon flying after you. A scream escaped your lips and a hand was slapped over your mouth again. "This isn't the time!" Shoji hissed, lunging to the side as blue flames scorched the land you had just been standing on. 'I'm gonna die' you thought, looking back at the dragon with wide terrified eyes. "Throw something at it!" Shoji commanded and you threw the gold bar that was still in your hand.

Surprisingly the dragon hesitated at the sight of the shiny metal. You let out a cautious breath and Shoji slowed his pace to a jog. You continued in silence and Shoji set you down after a while. The two of you walked side by side when the path was wide enough. The heat was making you dizzy and your body was drenched in sweat. Was it getting hotter? You glanced up and see a shadow scaling the rock face above you, too small to be a dragon. It looks like a person. You nudge Shoji "I think there's a person."

Shoji tenses and uses his extra arms to scan the jagged rock face. Your daggers are pushed in your hands and you both slow your pace. "Don't be fooled" he hisses at you "Some dragons can shape shift."

You swallow loudly and push forward with caution, trying your best not to hyperventilate. It was so hot, you felt like you were melting. The sun was going down in the sky, but the air didn't get any cooler. Shoji notices you struggling and slows down so you can rest.

"We're almost at the edge" Shoji stated taking your bag from you and handing you a canteen. You stare at your feet, chewing your bottom lip uncomfortably. You missed Midoriya, Uraraka, and Iida. You wished they were here to talk to you. It wouldn't be so awkward if Shoji would just talk to you.

"Can you tell me about this world?" You said after a long drink of warm water.

Shoji paused for so long you thought he was going to ignore your question. "I guess I'll start from the beginning..."

Shoji explained how in the beginnging both kingdoms were united as one. Then suddenly the dragons appeared and brought magic with them. The magic attracted dangerous creatures like the goblins and society started to crumble. Some humans were able to harness the power of the magic, other were transformed into different creatures when they came into contact with a vein of magic (like Shoji had, you wondered what he looked like before). There was a great war between magic users and non magic users and the Edgelands was the battle field. The war stretched on for years until the dragons stepped in, making the Edgelands their home and not allowing the warring sides to cross over.

"There's been peace after that" Shoji finished he leaned against a large boulder and sighed. " the merchant's path is the only place magic and non magic users can mix, but they don't let you cross. There's a barrier. Here's the only weak spot."

He used three hands to gesture ahead. There was a huge ravine with floating boulders in between. You got as close to the edge as you dared and looked over the side, you couldn't see the bottom. Your stomach churned. You glanced back at Shoji and saw he was starting to head back the way you came. "Whoa, wait a minute!" You rushed after him and grabbed his shirt. "I thought you were supposed to take me to the other kingdom!"

"This is as far as I go" he responded, patting your head and making you blush. "The Kingdom of magic is on the other side of the ravine."

You felt sick to your stomach. Shoji pull away from you and disappeared into the edgelands. You looked over the edge of the ravine again and then at the rocks floating above. There were several layers of boulders, if you fell off one you might get lucky and land on another. You weren't sure what to do. You opened your pack to grab some food and groaned, face palming as you looked at the mound of gold. You couldn't eat gold and without Shoji you couldn't find your way back to the Todoroki kingdom.

"Heeeeeyyyy!" A voice called from the other side of the ravine.

You looked up surprised searching for the source of the voice.

"Over here! What are you doing over there?" A pink skinned girl yelled, waving her arms over her head.

"I'm stuck!" You call back "Can you help me?"

The girl laughs and makes her way over to you, jumping effortlessly from boulder to boulder. It takes her only a few minutes to reach you. "Come on!" Mina smiles "I have someone waiting for me so we have to hurry! Plus it's not safe outside the barrier."

She holds your hand as she leads you over the dangerous ravine. The floating boulders are much more stable than you thought they would be and closer together. Mina chartered the whole way across, a nice change of pace from the awkward silences you experienced before. You try to explain your situation to her, but she just laughs. Your phone had been dead for hours, so you didn't have any proof this time. It didn't seem to matter much to Mina, she seemed glad to help out anyway. Even when you made it to the other side of the ravine Mine held your hand tightly. She lead you towards the towering walls of the kingdom chatting away.

Once inside the walls you audibly gasped. The city was full of people and overlooked the ocean, completely different from the forest you had been in days before. Mina pulled you through the crowd, weaving through people at a fast pace. She lead you through the market square where booths were selling all sorts of strange objects, animals, and... People. You made eye contact with a young boy and guilt bubbled up in your throat. The pink skinned girl didn't stop, she pulled you into a back street and knocked on a wall. You jumped when a hand reach through and pulled you through.

"Mina you can't keep doing this! You're going to get caught!"

"Kaminari?" You ask reaching you hands out in the dark.

A candle was lit and revealed blonde boy with a black lighting bolt marked in his hair. His eyes were wide with surprise and Mina giggled. "They says they're from a different world with copies of us in it!" She squealed, running around the room to light more candles "I wasn't going to bring anymore non magic users but this one is different!"

"No kidding..." Kaminari mumbled, looking you up and down "they're wearing other kingdom clothes, they're gonna get caught!"

"It's fiiiine! I'll take them shopping!" Mina was so happy running around the small room.

You reached over to touch Kaminari's arm and yelped when you got shocked. Kaminari blushed and put his hands up "Sorry! I got hit with lightning near a magic vein and now I shock everything I touch."

Your eyes were wide with surprise and you had an idea. Digging around the bag Midoriya had bought you, you fished out your phone and a charging cable. You plug one end into your crack phone and thrust the other end towards the confused boy. "Put this in your mouth."

Kaminari's mouth drops open and Mina starts laughing again. "What?? No! Why?" He takes a step away from you.

"I need to charge my phone! Please, Kaminari! You do this all the time where I'm from!" You have him backed against a wall and he puts his hands over his mouth, shaking his head no.

"What is that?" Mina points at your phone "it looks busted"

"It's a... It's a tiny magic mirror, but it'll only work if it's charged. Kaminari, please!"

"You're gonna suck the magic out of me with that?" Kaminari clasps his chest dramatically and looks at you with a horrified expression.

"What? No! Ugh, just come on!"

"I wanna see it work!" Mina exclaimed grabbing the end of the charging cord and forcing it into Kaminari's mouth.

He gags at the metallic taste and glares at Mina right before the charging notifications goes off with a little "ping". The two gasp and look at your phone mesmerized at the little noise it made. As soon as it had enough power you switched it on. Smiling at the two amazed expressions before you. You pulled up the pictures you had with Mina and Kaminari. "Tiny magic mirror" Mina breathed one hand over her mouth, other outstretched towards your phone.

You snorted and laughed, handing the phone to them so they could scroll through your pictures.

You find a chair to sit in and your legs basically give out, you didn't realize how tired you were. Leaning you head against the wall you close your eyes and drift off to sleep, comforted my the familiar sounds of you friends laughing and joking with one another.

[queen-of-the-avengers]

I Can Always Count On You

Characters: Tom Holland x Reader, Tom Hiddleston, Anthony Mackie, minor characters

Word Count: 1,344

Warnings: fluff all around

Request: Hi if your requests are still open can you write one with Tom Holland where his gf joins him on a con and she's hanging behind him while he's signing autographs with the marvel actors(maybe Mackie or Hiddles?) and she passes out or something and Tom notices when some of the fans gasp and he's really worried and can it end with fluff? Thank you and it's okay if you don't want to write this.

Summary: You’re sick and as much as you hate it, Tom is there to make sure you feel better.

Author’s Note: This fandom has too many Toms. If you have any requests, please send them in! I need new things to write LOL. This is unbeta’d and any and all mistakes are all on me.

Feedback the glue that holds my writing together

Tags at the bottom

Acting wasn’t something you normally did, but you always got to go to conventions with your boyfriend, Tom. The amount of support Tom and the rest of the cast from every Marvel movie was amazing. Every time you went, you got to meet amazing people, talk with them, learn who they are, and just had an amazing time with everyone. You didn’t get to go on stage and answer questions since you weren’t an actress, but you could either be found backstage, watching it from a monitor or in the audience and pretend you were one of them.

The only time you got to be with Tom and watch him interact with the fans was when he is signing pictures and other things. Tom Hiddleston, Anthony Mackie, Chris Evans, and Sebastian Stan were the ones on Tom’s side of the room, and you were right behind them just chilling. These signings could last a long time, but you were prepared for how hot the room could be. Hundreds, if not thousands of people were inside this huge room, and although the air conditioning was on full-blast, it didn’t help in cooling you down.

“You doing okay?” your boyfriend asked, always checking on you every so often.

“Yeah, it’s just so hot in here. Is it usually like this?” you asked, grabbing the collar of your shirt and pulling it away from your body.

“Unfortunately, yes,” Tom Hiddleston interjected, turning to face you. “There’s not much we can do about it. This part is almost over, though.”

“Yeah, then it’s picture time, and we can go back to the hotel room,” the younger Tom said with a smile.

“Okay,” you nodded and let the actors get back to signing and taking quick selfies with everyone who passed by their station.

“How are you?” you looked up to see your boyfriend smiling at a young woman who couldn't stop smiling.

“Good, you’re such an amazing actor,” she blushed and gushed.

“Thank you,” Tom smiled and signed her poster, right next to where the eldest Tom signed his.

“Um, can I have Y/N sign it too?” she asked, and your head popped up when you heard your name.

“Me? You want my signature?” you asked with a confused look on your face. Nonetheless, you got up from your comfortable position and walked over to the desk.

“Yeah. I mean, only if you want to give it. You’re just so amazing, and I know you don’t at or anything but you’re all over Tom’s Instagram and you’re like, really pretty.”

“That’s so nice,” you smiled and grabbed Tom’s sharpie. “Thank you. You’re a beautiful young woman,” you signed your name just below Tom’s before sliding the poster over to her.

“Thank you!” She blushed and moved onto Anthony Mackie who stood next to your boyfriend.

“Maybe you should act,” Tom laughed.

“You know I can’t. I can’t keep a serious face for the life of me,” you laughed, and kissed his cheek before going back to your original spot. The next hour went by fast. You got to sign a few more posters and although you didn’t act, you did consider working with Tom on set so you could be closer to him. You didn’t get a degree in film production for nothing.

However, with time passing, the room got hotter. No matter how much water you drank, it never seemed to cool you down. The headache started after signing your first poster, but you pushed it away, thinking more water would make it disappear. It didn’t seem to work, and now it was back stronger than ever.

The noise surrounding you didn’t help either. Your breaths got shorter as the pain got worse. The room started spinning, but you didn't want to make a scene in front of everyone, so you kept your mouth shut about it. If you closed your eyes and sat down, maybe it would go away on its own. After trying that, and after opening your eyes, the room swayed even more. You looked at Tom to tell him there was a problem, but your eyes rolled to the back of your head as the darkness consumed you.

Because of the noise and everyone constantly pulling at his attention, Tom didn’t seem to notice you behind him. He smiled, signed papers, and kept the line moving.

“Hi!” Another female fan smiled at Tom when she came to him.

“Hello, darling, how are you?” he smiled and took the poster she wanted him to sign.

“I’m good, it's nice to meet you.”

“What’s your name?”

“Bailey,” she smiled, but when he was done signing, she didn’t move to Anthony. “Do you think I could have Y/N sign this as well?”

“I’m sure she wouldn't mind,” Tom nodded, and Bailey looked behind him for you, but gasped when she saw you slumped over and very pale.

“Is she okay?” Tom turned around, and his eyes widened when he saw you. He immediately went to your side, and lightly tapped the side of your face, but you wouldn’t wake up.

“Tom, she’s not waking up,” your boyfriend panicked. Tom Hiddleston looked at you and immediately went to your side. The older man knew what t do in times like this which was a good thing because the younger one didn’t.

“She fainted. I guess it was too hot for her to handle. We need to get her on the ground,” Tom instructed and your boyfriend did as he was told. The other actors stopped signing as a group of people gathered to see if you were going to be okay. When you were firmly planted on the ground, Tom Hiddleston went to your legs and grabbed them.

“We need to elevate her legs to get the blood flowing. When she wakes up, don’t let her get up or she will faint again.”

“Got it,” Tom Holland nodded. Hiddleston lifted your legs, and everyone waited to see if you would wake up. Your boyfriend held your hand, and stared at your face, hoping you would be alright. After about a minute, your eyes fluttered open, and you groaned.

“Oh, thank god,” Tom whispered under his breath. The eldest man set your legs down as the younger one tended to your needs.

“What happened?” you asked, not exactly sure how you got on the ground.

“You fainted. I’m sorry, I should have gotten you to a cooler place earlier.”

“It’s not your fault. I should have said something,” you used Tom’s strong arm to aid you in getting up. Anthony Mackie handed you a cold water, and you gladly took it.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Tom asked worriedly.

“Yeah, I’ll be fine. I just need to lay down in a smaller and cooler room.”

“I’ll take you,” he said to you before turning to the other Tom. “Will you cover for me until I get back?”

“Of course,” he nodded. Tom let you use him as a support system as he led you to the closest private room in the convention center. Slowly sitting down on the couch, you turned and laid on it. The cool room did wonders to your body, and Tom made sure you had plenty of cold water.

“Thank you,” you smiled, and grabbed his hand.

“Are you sure you don’t need anything else? I’m sure they don’t need me anymore…” Tom rambled but you cut him off.

“Go back out there. There are a lot of fans who came to see you today. I’ll be right here the whole time, trust me.”

“If you need me, I’ll have my phone out, okay?” Tom sighed but got up.

“I know,” you nodded.

“I love you,” he smiled as he backed up to the door.

“I love you,” you responded just as he left. Closing your eyes, you let the cold air wash over your body. Even though Tom needed to go back to signing, you knew he would always take care of you, even if he wasn't in the room with you.

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[jawsandbones]

The Romances - Dragon Age: 2

Fandom: Dragon Age

Rating: G

AO3 Link: Click Here

The Romances - DAO: Click Here

The Romances - DAI: Click Here

The Romances - The Missed Ones: Click Here

Summary: A single person can change everything. For Anders, Fenris, Isabela, Merrill and Sebastian, Hawke means more to them than they can say. From childhood to present and ever onward, having love in their lives has changed so much for them. The least they can do is give their love in return. An examination of each LI, and their relationship with a Hawke who romances them.

Anders

He doesn’t remember his name. He buried it long ago. They didn’t deserve to know it. In the burying, he forgets more than just his name. Those first few nights in the Circle were spent tracing fingertips over careful embroidery. He thinks he might have known what his mother looked like, once, but now her face is blank and empty in his memory. It might be a blessing. How can something you can’t remember hurt you? He used to play with the other children in the village. He remembers being dragged away by the Templars. The fear, disgust, on their faces. He doesn’t forget.

He’s reminded every time he meets someone new.  Speak the word mage, and behold their hate. It stirs an anger in him, a rage that sits beside the injustice of it all. What right do they have? What cause has he given for them to spit in his face? For the chains, the dungeons, the year of darkness. In that dark, he dreams of Kirkwall. It presents a goal, a reason, and a purpose to see himself through. A fixed destination. First, he must be free.

Mage, and Hawke’s face doesn’t change. Mage, and Hawke goes with him to the Chantry. Mage, and Hawke stands beside him as he gives Karl the hardest freedom, cruelest cut. Mage, and there are tranquil in the streets with bruises underneath their robes. Mage, and the Templars find reason for the harshest punishments, unfairly given. Mage, and the demon speaks – mage, and justice answers. Hawke takes his hand, asks Anders what he needs. A moment, he needs just a moment. He buries the revolution. They’ll remember the explosion.

Anders almost leans into his Hawke. Tall enough to half bend over, to wrap his arms around their neck. He buries his head into their neck, against their face. Almost like a cat, the way he does it, rubbing temples together. Hawke’s lanky mage, small enough that Hawke can wrap their arms around him with ease. Nestling their face in that cloak of feathers, able to hear the hum of sleeping magic under Anders’s skin. The clean scent of lyrium, the edge of iron from so much time spent in the clinic. Hawke thinks they might buy a bigger tub, something to soak and relax in – together.

Anders’s scruff always accompanies the kiss. Hawke’s hands on his face, fingers curling at his cheeks, while he is content to sweep them into his arms. Whenever Anders kisses them, Hawke feels like they’re living one of Varric’s written kisses. Anders bending Hawke back, practically lifting their leg. Completely engrossed in the act, breathing through someone else’s lungs. In this moment, connected so, Anders can leave all other thoughts behind. Being with Hawke, being himself.

Fenris

There are monsters etched into his skin. They bite him daily, gnawing and gnashing, eating at his flesh. They are needles that prick away, trying to erase him, replace him, and make him into something he's not. When he gives in to them, when he glows, more than just his monsters scream. There are bodies on the floor, bodies he put there, bodies which will never rise again. There are monsters etched into his skin. Sometimes he thinks he is the monster.

He picks at them at night, digging fingernails into flesh, trying to break free. There is pain, there is blood, and there is laughter at his efforts. Here he shows his chains, ones he will never escape, and cries out in frustration. He huddles on the floor of his stolen refuge, hugging arms to himself and begs, begs, to be free of this, of everything. Then he locks it all away and stands. He clenches a hand into a fist and vows not to show such weakness.

Years later, he breaks this vow. Hawke puts hands on his face, calls him wonderful and everything else crashes away into silence. Their touch banishes the monsters, their words chipping away at the chains. They stand on a precipice and he calls himself Hawke’s because that way it’s easier to be him. He wakes, dreaming of demons, and they tell him he has nothing to be afraid of. Not anymore. He is weaker with Hawke, he is stronger with Hawke, and he thinks himself elf, lover, friend, free.

Rare occasions when he asks, rarer still when he simply acts. Preferring to be pulled in by Hawke, accepting their affections freely. Some part of him still fears that when he asks, Hawke will simply turn away. So his ask is slow. A hand at their hip, pulling part of their shirt. Stepping forward, his head on Hawke’s shoulder. Only when Hawke begins to hug back does he completely close the distance between them. Arms wrapped around them, hands still fisted into their shirt. Mint and evergreen, the cooler edges of the lyrium under his skin. Melting together, holding tightly, hugging warmly.

That same tenderness carries into the kiss. His fingertips, moving softly down Hawke’s arm, skin against skin. Always moving, unable to settle, over Hawke’s shoulder, at their neck, in their hair and it seems like Fenris couldn’t be closer. Pulling Hawke’s bottom lip between his teeth, tongue against tongue. Matching breathing, the quickened beat of his heart. There’s always the smile after. Unable to tear his gaze way from Hawke’s, as though his eyes might lie. As though he cannot believe that they are here, that he is with his Hawke.  

Isabela

She learned the lie young. Understanding the illusion of love, the deceit of belonging. Taking it into herself, allowing the sea underneath her skin to be molded by it. Dishonesty a most natural skill, and the lie her most cunning weapon. She has carried this weapon from name to name, leaving no time to grieve for the life left behind. Naishe was taken. Isabela was given. For her, there is no use in looking behind. Nothing to gain from guilt, a weakness in the remembering. Ever forward, and may the lie light her way. Some days she struggles with it.

Perhaps she’s still learning to give away Naishe as easily as others had done, see the Isabela that others do. The illusion of fearlessness, the deceit of triumph. Telling herself there is nowhere she belongs, wanting to belong nowhere. The memories swim, the shame lurks. She thinks the sea might save her, distance from as distance does, a boat carrying her away from her own mind. Regret in the form of a book, sin like blood in the water. The sharks circle, but Hawke is no shark.

A hand extended, trust given, and something cuts through the lie. Isabela runs, cheats, steals, but Hawke plants themselves in front of the enemy and tells them that they will not take her. Acceptance of the bereavement, pulling Isabela free from Naishe’s grave. Love in the freedom given, belonging in the arms wrapped around her. Hawke’s affection isn’t a prison, not like others have been. There are no chains, no expectations. Simply Hawke. Simply Isabela.

Sea salt and summer breeze, laughter in the liquid warmth of her. Arms around Hawke’s neck and legs wrapped around their waist. Holding them tightly, the most precious treasure, encompassing them with all of her. Smiling brightly, forehead against forehead, and Hawke is more valuable to her than any amount of gold, better than a fleet of ships. Laughing as Hawke holds her up, making sure Isabela never falls, whirling around together.

Isabela tangles a hand in Hawke’s hair, holds their face close to hers. It always starts with a smile, the brush of hot breath against Hawke’s lips. Fingertips tapping one by one on their cheek, followed by the slightest and fondest pinch. Gently biting Hawke’s bottom lip between her teeth, before kissing in full, the hard press of a kiss, the hotter roll of her tongue. All the waves of Isabela’s endless ocean. Enough to leave Hawke numb and wanting more, leaving a taste of the hottest spices.

Merrill

She stands among ruins, and wonders. They being dead yet speaketh, and press their hands against broken mirrors. They whisper through the shattered pieces, in a language she does not understand. Not yet. She stands among her people, and despairs. Ghosts as much as the ones in the glass, fragmented and shattered same. So much in what they once were, in what she once was. It flows through her veins and bleeds through the ages. An echo only she can hear. She thinks she might draw the answers from the past, like sickness from a wound. Her people tell her she is selfish, unkind, unworthy. She doesn’t mind. She will make them whole again.

She had found every piece in the dirt and dust. She still bears the marks of it, small cuts in the palm of her hand. In a place so far from anything she calls home, Merrill reconstructs the eluvian. Standing before it, and it reflects only darkness. She presses her hand against it, and feels only cold. Closing her eyes, putting her ear against the glass. She hears them still. Both spirit and demon walk on her grave, and she is no fool. She has learned lessons from both friend and enemy, and will trick the trickster. If only others could believe in her as well.

Hawke hands her the arulin’holm, and smiles. Standing beside her as she works, eyes over the wood that swirls around the base, the wolves and halla same that threaten to break free. Hawke believes. Merrill thinks that they might be the only one who does. Putting a hand on her shoulder, squeezing it gently. Standing before all others in her defense, Hawke speaking words of their trust in Merrill, and her goal. It is all she needs. If she has one, she can save them all.

Merrill is smiles and sunshine, arms extended, running full-tilt towards Hawke. Throwing her arms around their neck, holding tightly and laughing brightly as Hawke whirls them round together in a dizzying circle. Feet finding ground, and Merrill still leans into them. She is nightshade and a warmer breeze, power lurking under the petals. Unwilling to let go, her hands twisted and locked behind their head. Standing on her tip-toes, pink and pleased, rubbing her nose against Hawke’s.  

Tilting her head upwards and the first kiss is a mere peck, hummingbird’s wings against Hawke’s lips. She gains bravery from the first, and kisses them once again. Her finger curls a strand of Hawke’s hair, and she is shifting from foot to foot, anxious and restless. The third presses even deeper, all the weight of her against Hawke, groaning softly into the kiss. Fluttering eyelashes, and her fingertips brush against her lips as she rests on both feet once again.

Sebastian

The third born, the last born, the least wanted. The heir and the spare, and he, not fit for even the dregs. He remembers the hands of his nurse. Coarse and rough, fingers calloused from the work given to her. They were the hands that held him, that cared for him, that brushed the hair from his brow and comforted him after a nightmare. He often wonders what his mother’s hands might be like. He does his best to be perfect. To hold his chin high, to study hard, to excel at everything given to him. The shadows of his brothers yet hide him, and he cannot find the sun. So, Sebastian lingers in the dark.

A simple thing, not to try. To drink and boast, to use the last licks of influence to win him hollow victories. Flesh and fletched, and they call him a disgrace. A useless weight, an anchor to his family’s reputation. He is but a name and nothing more, and the bitterness grows. Sent away like a dog, to another city, a different institution. Guards at the door of his prison, this Chantry cage. Told to give up his life, be less than even a name. The Chantry gives him a place to be less than useless, to be something greater than a shadow. But the rope yet slips from the dark, wraps around his neck and drags him back. The third born, the last born, the only Vael left.

There was a time he’d have given everything to be Prince, but that time has passed. He avenges his family, but finds the deaths that follow unsavory. Empty. A Vael, but not quite so. He has traded one prison for another and still he craves freedom. He thinks he finds it in the palm of Hawke’s hand. A gentle smile and reassurance that no matter what he chooses, they will stand beside him. Sebastian is a better man now, than who he once was, but he can be better still. Mistakes he has made, mistakes he will make, but now he will not be alone.

The smell of candles, the softer scent of incense. Sebastian is always clean and well-groomed, straight-back and the smooth line of his shoulders. Around Hawke, he blushes. Stumbles over his words, shyly reaches for their hand. Raising it to his mouth, pulling them in. An arm around their waist, a ghost of a kiss against their cheek. Still, that hand in his, linking fingers as together they softly sway. Allowing Hawke to rest their head on his shoulder, and his head against theirs. Closing eyes and softly humming, some forgotten hymn of peace.

He taps fingers underneath Hawke’s chin, raises their face to meet his. Curling fingers at their cheek, while his other hand slowly moves against Hawke’s arm. Comforting circles of his thumb as he leans close, taking a moment to brush nose against nose. The kiss is sweet, as though he is asking permission for more. Permission given, he gives everything to it, surrenders to it, to Hawke. A hand splayed at Hawke’s back, holding them close as he softly groans.

[initforthelongrun2019]

Pu Luong Part 2

Three weeks have passed since I completed the Vietnam Jungle Marathon; an extremely challenging trail run in Pu Luong, northern Vietnam. Some of you may remember that I took part in this race last year, and I didn’t have the best experience. I had a terrible sleep thanks to karaoke which kept me up all night at the homestay, I wasn’t race fit, my injury was reaching its peak and yet, despite all of this, I was still over-confident; having completed 122km just a few months before I thought this would be easy. The extreme heat made the entire race unbearable and, unlike most races I’d done in the past, there was very little shade, with large stretches of the race which were under direct sunlight. 70km felt like 700km and there were multiple points in the race where I thought about dropping out. However, it was - and still is - one of the most beautiful races I’ve ever done, and I knew I would go back someday. This year, the race was postponed to October due to Covid19. I hadn’t actually signed up to the original race in May, and only decided to register a few weeks before when I realised it coincided with my week of annual leave. I had taken some time off to celebrate my 30th birthday and I knew it would mean that birthday celebrations would have to be tamer than usual; but I was actually quite happy about that (maybe a sign that I am getting sensible in my old-ish age)?! I didn’t want to make the same mistake as last year; going wild at a festival the weekend before the race wasn’t the best decision I’ve ever made. Despite having a much better lead up to the race, preparation still didn’t go quite as planned. Actually, there wasn’t really a plan at all, but I hit a bit of a wall over summer where running was the last thing I wanted to do. I struggled with the heat and my confidence in my running abilities diminished, day by day. As the cooler weather approached, so did the storms, and as soon as I found my running mojo, I was prevented from running due to the numerous tropical storms and typhoons that have hit us in Central Vietnam over the last few weeks and months. I managed a good running streak on a recent work trip to Hanoi and HCMC, with two consecutive half marathons and a few other runs, all at a much better pace than I’ve done in a while, so this helped my confidence and made me feel somewhat ready for the race. Once again, I booked the VJM race package and travelled to Pu Luong on Friday morning, taking in the beautiful sights along the way. I remember last year when I was living in Thailand and travelled to Vietnam for this race, and how excited I felt about moving to a new country, as I passed the countryside in all its glory. The bus took longer than necessary due to a very cautious driver and a couple of wrong turns, but eventually we arrived at the wonderful Pu Luong Retreat, and I immediately fell in love. The bungalow I was sharing with my friend Stephan was adorable and had the most amazing view of the swimming pool (which I knew I wouldn’t have time to go in) and the never ending rice paddies. Once again, I wished that I had signed up for a shorter race so I would finish at a reasonable hour and get back in time to enjoy my wonderful accommodation. After a late lunch and early dinner, I got into bed around 8pm, hoping I would have a good sleep, especially as I’d been so tired all day. I am taking medication at the moment and it’s making me feel exceptionally sleepy; I was worried this might impact on the race so stopped taking it for a couple of days, but I still felt exhausted. Yet the moment my head hit the pillow, my eyes opened and I was wide awake. I had a very broken sleep; I couldn’t relax properly and I felt exhausted when my alarm went at 1:50am. But I jumped straight out of bed, knowing snoozing wouldn’t do me any good, and packed my bag, with all of the items I’d laid out next to it the previous day. It was very cold at that time in the morning and when I left the bungalow, I couldn’t stop shivering, even though I was wearing long sleeves. I desperately wanted a hot coffee but I didn’t have time; I had to leave the room with time to pick up breakfast and catch the bus at 2.30am. We arrived at the start line way too early and spent the remaining time fuelling and desperately trying to keep warm. I forced myself to eat a breakfast of rice, which was way too salty, and a couple of small energy bars. I never eat in the morning, never mind in the middle of the night, but last year I didn’t eat anything and I soon regretted that, so I wasn’t ready to make the same mistake. As I crossed the start line at 4am, the nerves I’d been struggling with since the day before hit me hard. I started my brand new Garmin (a birthday present to myself) and ran with about 200 other runners along the 5km route, which would take us to our very first climb. It was strange starting a race with so few runners; although the 70km and the 55km groups started at the same time, it still felt so much quieter than normal. Once I reached the bottom of the climb, I had a flashback to the previous year; the crazy amounts of people trying to trek up the narrow path and the one guy behind me who kept stabbing my with his hiking poles. I was soon thankful that the trail wasn’t so crowded and enjoyed having space to breathe; there were some points where I didn’t have anyone behind or in front of me which was surprising, but enjoyable.

Enjoyment soon turned to pain, as the never ending climb started to take its toll. But because I had done the race before, I knew that the most incredible view would be waiting for me at the top, and I kept this in my mind the entire time. I refuelled with gels and energy bars a couple of times, to give me the strength to reach the top, but I soon found that I was struggling. Hoi An, where I live now, is extremely flat, and there aren’t many hills to climb, unless you go looking for them. I also don’t do much hiking anymore (which breaks my heart) and I could feel the impact of that. Hills used to be my strong point, but I could feel myself flagging, whereas normally I would be pushing myself to reach the top. It was a struggle, but once which was totally worth it, as I had expected. I saw a couple of runners from previous races and celebrated with them when we saw the sun rising over the rolling hills. After this, I knew there was a very steep decline; something I hated last year, as I didn’t have my hiking poles. I only started running with poles after my fourth or fifth race, and this year I was delighted to have them, as they meant the downhill was nowhere near as painful. Downhills used to be my weak spot, but since I’ve started running with poles I don’t fear them nearly as much as I used to. I do struggle with confidence a little, so as I was running I was muttering a little mantra to myself; ‘be brave, be brave’. And then I fell, twice. My legs were feeling sore already from the climb, but I peeled myself back off the floor and carried on running down. My confidence soared when only a few other runners passed me; normally I am constantly having to move out of the way for the stronger ones on the declines, and I hate it. Maybe it was due to not many runners being on the trail in the first place, or maybe I’m getting a little bit better. Who knows, but it definitely helped!

After I reached the first checkpoint, I filled up my water, had a couple of pieces of fruit, and set off on my way to the next checkpoint. This one was much further, but I knew that it was relatively flat – and therefore relatively runnable. Last year I was so exhausted that I struggled with this part, but this year I found my legs and started to run, at a fairly decent pace. Again, I was surprised that no one passed me, and found it a little unnerving that I couldn’t see anyone in front of me, or behind me for that matter. I knew that I wasn’t way ahead, so I worried that I was at the back, but again I think it was more because there just weren’t as many runners on the trail compared to what I’m used to.

This is the only time I have ever run the same race twice and I was a little apprehensive knowing the route would be familiar. Normally I don’t even look at the course route when I sign up for a race; I have no idea about elevation or checkpoints, as I like to take each part of the trail as it comes. I find that if I break it down and attack it bit by bit, checkpoint to checkpoint, then it seems much more manageable. I was also a little conscious about running with a watch; again I quite like to be in blissful ignorance, so I wasn’t too sure about how I would feel about being able to constantly track my distance. However, I found that knowing the route and checking my distance helped rather than hindered, as I was able to talk myself through the difficult bits, knowing that there were some positives to come. I also loved how the memories of last year came flooding back, especially taking into consideration how much I struggled; it was a relief knowing that I didn’t feel half as bad.

On the flip side, I also knew that I had to tackle the beast; this was on my mind for the entire time as I knew for sure that this would be the worst bit. I was starting to feel quite sick and nauseous as I reached checkpoint four, and almost passed out at one point! I have no idea why; I felt like I had enough nutrition, it wasn’t too hot (although still a little hotter than I had bargained for) and I was constantly taking in enough water. However, I still continued to feel dehydrated, something I struggled with even during my flat runs in Hoi An in the summer months, so perhaps I will need to think about taking salts in the future. Anyway, I still carried on, and powered up the huge hill to checkpoint five feeling much stronger and way more positive about finishing, compared to last year. This was the part where the 55km and 70km runners split, so I saw even less people on the trail, but by this point I was actually getting in to the rhythm and quite enjoying being by myself. I reached checkpoint five, happy to see some other runners – including some familiar faces – and then battled on to checkpoint six; the final one before the beast.

The beast was brutal. The nauseous feeling wasn’t going away and I knew it would be made so much worse by the climb I had ahead of me. There were sweepers on the route; wonderful, energetic, smiley sweepers, who encouraged us all to keep going. One of them saw that I was feeling a little faint and told me he would stay right behind me, and he patiently followed me until I reached the top and was at a safe point. Once I reached the top, there was a lady selling cans of coke and all the joy of the Moc Chau race came flooding back to me, when another lady was strategically placed with a box of cold drinks on a very steep hill. Not only did this lady make me exceptionally happy, I was also impressed by her strength and the fact she had managed to carry such a huge amount of weight up that hill. Not for the first time did I start to feel a combination of admiration and embarrassment; throughout the race I constantly passed local people; many of them quite elderly, who were carrying large items up insane hills. As I struggled past them, with my fancy camelbak, hiking poles, and trail running shoes, I couldn’t help thinking what on earth they thought of us? It’s something they do every single day and, given the chance to enter the race, I’m sure they would probably smash it! The descent down the beast was nowhere near as painful as last year, thanks to my hiking poles, and I was happy to see checkpoint 7; the final cut off checkpoint! After this point, it meant that I could take my sweet time.

However, I still wanted to finish as quickly as possible; I take zero enjoyment from running in the dark and I knew that the hotel was selling mulled wine and mango daiquiris which I had been craving since around 5am that morning. I powered my way through to checkpoint 8 which arrived much sooner than I anticipated, and then made my way through the cold, muddy river crossings - of which there were many – to the finish line.

I was so desperate to get back to my hotel - my wonderful friend Jasmine had ordered food and alcohol which was already waiting for me - that as I crossed the finish line I took my medal and quickly demanded to know where I could collect my drop bag and where the bus would depart from. I completely forgot to shake the person’s hand who awarded me with my medal, and I felt slightly rude, but I had daiquiris and fries on the mind and I wanted them as quickly as possible. I had just missed the 8pm bus, so I had to wait until 9pm, or until the bus filled up. Knowing there weren’t many people close by me on the trail, I thought I had a very long wait on my hands, but luckily it filled up pretty quickly and we set off, on a journey which was much longer than the one it took to get to the start line! All I could think of was how badly I needed a hot shower – I couldn’t face a cold shower at the finish line so I was extremely muddy, not to mention very stinky – AND A HOT MULLED WINE.

I crossed the finish line in 16 hours 10 mins; 35 minutes quicker than last year. I also placed in the top 10 females (doesn’t matter that there were only nine females) and I was the top British female (of which there was only one, but again, it doesn’t matter). It still counts!

[lithuanias]

Niespodzianka

Title: Niespodzianka  Pairing: Lithuania/Poland Rating: PG Warnings: Mention of prostitution, sex mention, homophobic terminology Word Count: 2,041 Notes: This is my first time having written - and published - anything in well over a year. Sorry if I’m a bit out of touch.

APH Rare Pair Week 2017 Day 5: Gods, Goddesses, and Mythology

Poland has a surprise for Lithuania. Takes place immediately following the events of The Legend of the Iron Wolf.

“Ahaha, ah—”

Lithuania returned from his half-rolling position into a sit. Poland’s backside fell flat on the grass, staring up at the sky.

“That was the most fun I’ve had in a while,” said Lithuania. After that conversation, the day brightened. The clouds dotting the sky seemed fluffy and light. Wawel castle did not seem so far away.

“You don’t have fun much,” said Poland pointedly. “You’re the most serious person I’ve met.”

“You don’t have to contend with Tartars and Muscovites!” Lithuania snapped. Realizing he had only met Poland for a few days, and he already yelled at him. “I-I’m sorry. That was unkind.”

“That’s alright.” Poland sat up, grass sticking to his tunic.

“I supposed I really am serious,” said Lithuania. He closed his mind and winced, thinking of his foreign affairs. “There’s a lot going on.”

“Tell you what.” Poland leapt to his feet. “I’ll show you a good time tonight. Meet me outside the castle gates before sunset.”

“Su-sun…?” Perplexed, Lithuania stood up and tried to discern the gleam in Poland’s eyes. Mischief no doubt. After all, the man asked him to take off his trousers when they first met face-to-face. “Are we going to the town?”

Poland grinned, and Lithuania became more confused. “I’ll show you. It’s gonna be a big surprise.”

“I don’t want to go to a brothel.”

Poland scoffed. “I don’t even like—We’re not going to a brothel. It’s going to be even better than a brothel.”

“What could—” Lithuania shook his head, trying hard not to think about what Poland had in store. “You said sunset in front of the gate. The gates close at sunset.”

Poland waved away his worry. “We’ll just sleep where we’re going.”

“Are you sure it’s not a brothel?”

“Absolutely. I promise.”

That satisfied Lithuania. For now.

The sunset gave the Vistula rich reds, oranges, and set the river ablaze. The dying rays deepened the reds of Wawel’s roofs.

Lithuania gave thanks that the weather grew cooler. Any hotter, and he would be sweating under his armor. If Poland had anything silly planned, he had to be prepared.

“There you are—uh?”

Meanwhile, Poland wore a small cape and green breeches and brought a torch. And gazed at Lithuania as if he had grown an extra head. “Why in God’s name are you wearing that?”

“This will be difficult to take off in a brothel situation.”

“For God’s sake, we’re not going to a brothel!” Some of the nearby guards turned their heads at that remark. “I told you that we weren’t! Besides where we’re going has a bad history with people in armor.”

“I won’t take this off yet.”

“Fine.

Their elongated shadows followed them down the hill and grew longer as the sun made her way down the horizon. Lithuania’s curiosity grew stronger with each step. A part of him still believed that Poland meant to take him to a brothel, or maybe he had some prostitutes hidden away in some house. When Poland grinned and called it a “big surprise” and asked him to meet after sunset, Poland surely intended a brothel. But why would brothels have a bad history with people in armor?

“I have a strange question,” said Poland when they reached the bottom of the hill. Wawel Castle and Cathedral loomed large above them.

“Yes?”

“To the right. You always have this scared look in your eyes when I mention brothels. I always thought you pagans loved carnal acts.” Poland had a small smirk on his face.

A red flush creeped into Lithuania’s face. “S-Some of us, yes,” he said quietly. “Not all of us. I-I…” He stopped before he made it worse.

Poland caught that. “You? Liet, have you never been with…?” An emotion crept into Poland’s voice that turned it softer than its normal tone.

“I-I don’t understand why I’m being asked this!” Lithuania said, flustered. “B-But if you insist…no, I have not been with a woman. Mock me all you want, but I’ve never been very interested in them.”

“Oh…” Poland’s tone continued.

It became darker outside. Lithuania was grateful Poland brought the torch.

“I’m assuming you’ve been with many women,” Lithuania said.

“But I haven’t,” Poland responded, looking straight ahead. “O-Or…at all…”

“Oh…” Lithuania’s voice became the same tone as Poland’s. “So…that makes two of us.” Of course, Poland did ask him to show him his Lithuanian jewels. “Po, are you a sod—”

“We’re here.”

They stood in front of some bushes at the foot of the rock.

“These are small trees.”

Poland scoffed again. “It’s about what’s in the bushes. Pagans…” He gave Lithuania his torch. He moved aside some branches and revealed a ragged hole in the side of the cliff larger than a man. “We’re going through here.”

“In here?” asked Lithuania. “We’re going inside a cave?”

“No, we’re going to sit here and stare at it.”

“I only asked a question. No need for that tone.”

“Sorry.”

The cave was significantly cooler than outside and pitch-black. Water faintly dripped from the ceiling into little pools on the ground.

“This is amazing…” Lithuania’s voice echoed. He held up a torch to the walls, revealing the jagged and harsh stone walls, untouched by man. “How long has this cave been here?”

“It’s as old as I am. Probably older.” Poland walked away from Lithuania, the fire barely highlighting his back.

“What was it that you wanted to show me?” The inside of the cave was beautiful. Perhaps Poland wanted to show him a waterfall deeper inside?

“Oh, she should be here soon.”

“She?” A woman, and only one? “Po—”

“No, she’s not a prostitute.”

A deep panting joined their two breaths. A dog? No, this was much deeper and larger. Lithuania placed his hand on his sword.

“You know—” Poland turned to face him. “I’m a bit surprised you didn’t figure out where we are.”

“Where we—?”

Massive footsteps shook the ground beneath their feet.

“I mean, you complained that I didn’t listen to your story, but you’ve completely forgot about—”

A massive horned green head and neck came into the torchlight above Poland’s head, as tall as the ceiling, followed by the giant torso and enormous bat-like wings surely larger than the cave itself—

“GET BACK!” Lithuania drew his sword, lunging.

The dragon’s eyes glittered in the light, and she shrieked harshly, showing her teeth and falling back away from Poland, deeper into the—

“STOP!”

A force pushed into Lithuania’s back, and he tumbled face-first to the ground. The torch fell to the other side of the cave. The sword clattered to the cave floor and out of the light.

“P-Poland, what’re you—”

“Don’t attack her!”

“Ah!” Lithuania got to his feet. “I could’ve fallen on my sword, you idiot—”

“Don’t!”

Lithuania picked up the torch and saw Poland cradling the beast’s head—almost as large as his front—on top of his chest.

“Shh…” Poland told her. “It’s alright. I won’t let him hurt you.”

“M-Me hurt that?”

Teeth bared, the dragon hissed, draping a massive wing over Poland.

“I told you she was going to be a surprise,” Poland said simply, like she was a dog.

“Th-That’s a dragon!”

“That’s established.”

“B-But she lives here? In the cave?”

“On Wawel. She comes here to sleep sometimes.”

“Sometimes? What? I don’t under—” It finally came to Lithuania. “Is she the dragon from the story you told me? About Krakow?”

“Now you understand,” said Poland. “Technically, no. That was her mother. She hatched around the same time the city was founded.”

Still disbelieving that he was seeing a full-grown dragon, Lithuania took a few tentative steps towards Poland.

“I’m not sure if humans can see her or not,” Poland said. “But they’d kill her if they knew. I’ve known about her since they moved the capital. Shhh…” he crooned again to the dragon, stroking her cheek. “Sorry about that scare.” The dragon made a chirp-like sound as Poland scratched the crest on top of her head.

“I…” Lithuania thought of Vilnius. “I understand.”

“Do you want to touch her?”

“Wh-What, no!”

“She’s warm. I’m sure she wouldn’t mind.”

“E-Err…”

The dragon approached Lithuania, using both of her wings to propel her forward, her pupils small dots in the light. She only had two legs, not the four sometimes seen in bestiaries. A crest of large horns decorated her head, with two horns gutting out larger and more curved that the others.

Lithuania’s heart pounded, and his breath became closer and closer together. The dragon swung her head towards him, her snout and those fangs as long as knives in his direction. He stretched out his hand.

His hand touched her snout, and her nostrils flared. She had eyes as gold as the fire in Lithuania’s hand and stared through him. Poland was right. She was older than him, as ancient as Krakow. Blinking, her pupils enlarged, and she pressed against his hand.

The dragon chirped again when Poland stood next to her head.

“Well,” said Lithuania. “This…”

“Did you like the surprise?” said Poland excitedly. “I’ve never shown her to anyone before.”

“Y-Yes, even if I almost soiled myself.” Lithuania looked around. “Are we going to go back to the castle to sleep?”

“Oh no,” said Poland. “She’s super warm. We can just sleep on her.”

“What?!”

The dragon’s belly rose and fell with each breath. The cave was pitch-black after they put out the torch; Lithuania could not see his hand in front of his face. Instead of risking water droplets falling on them, the dragon wrapped a wing around the both of them, a warm cocoon.

“Liet?”

“You’re still awake?” Lithuania said to a figure somewhere next to him. “I thought you fell asleep.”

“I did, but then I woke up.”

“What for?”

“Why are you still up?”

“This is the first time I’ve ever slept on a dragon before. Or in a cave. You fell asleep right away.”

“I’ve slept here before.”

“Here?” Lithuania said incredulously. “Why?”

“When arguing upstairs gets too heated, I come down here.” Poland sighed. “I’ve been down here a lot in the past few centuries.”

“I see.” Lithuania put his hands behind his head. “I do similar things to Vilnius.”

“Vilnius?” asked Poland. “What’s Vilnius again? I forgot.”

“I’ll show you when we travel there.” Lithuania smiled. “It’ll be a surprise.”

Poland scoffed. “Fine.”

“Say, you never answered my question.”

“What question?”

“The one from earlier while we walked. If you’ve never been with a woman and you have no interest in one…” Lithuania gulped. “…You…you wouldn’t happen to be a sodomite, would you? I won’t tell anyone, and I won’t think any less of you if you are…Po?” He tilted his head to the side. Of course, he couldn’t see Poland, but he could hear his steady breathing. He must have fallen back asleep.

“Well…good night, Po.” Lithuania closed his eyes.

Unbeknownst to Lithuania, panic raced through Poland’s mind and his fearful eyes stared straight into the darkness.

Poland saw nothing but darkness. Due to the piece of cloth Lithuania wrapped around his eyes. 

“Gosh, we’re miles away from town. Where are you taking me?”

“It’s a surprise.”

Twigs crunched under both of their feet. The sound of birds and a small stream filled Poland’s ears. Lithuania accidentally lead him face-first into a tree a half-hour ago.

“Alright…now!”

Poland took off the cloth. Just as he expected, they were in the middle of a clearing in a forest surrounded by nothing but trees and dirt.

“…This is a forest,” Poland said simply.

“Yes, but the surprise is nearby.” Lithuania pressed his front teeth against his lower lip and whistled.

“What, where?”

Poland whirled around. Leaves rustled behind him. A soft growling reverberated throughout the clearing and grew louder and deeper along with steps treading close too large for a wolf. Poland felt hot, moist breath on the back of his neck.

“I told you, Po.”

Poland slowly turned around. A hulking gray wolf in armor taller than him stood next to Lithuania, showing its front teeth.

“You should’ve listened to my story about Vilnius.”

Poland’s ensuing shriek could be heard for miles.

[scullys-right-eyebrow-txf]

The Only Choice - Chapter 36

Thanks for reading! 

Previous chapters can be found on AO3. 

Set during the months of Mulder’s ‘death’ during the events of ‘DeadAlive.’

Chapter 36 – One Step Forward…

Dana Scully was sweating. She didn’t think she had ever been this hot in her whole life. And she had awful heartburn that had somehow seemed to make her even hotter. Her blazer made her feel as if she were incased in a furnace and she longed to shed it, but she had one problem.

 She was in a meeting in Skinner’s office. In a meeting with ten other men. She took the blazer off and the cat would officially be out of the bag.

Scully had only been back at work for a week, but somehow in this one week her belly seemed to have gone from ‘maybe she’s just gaining weight’ to ‘she’s definitely pregnant.’ When forced to leave the safety of the basement, she had taken to carrying file folders in front of her torso or wearing her most oversize coat. Anything to shield her ‘condition’ from the rest of the world. Sometimes she felt like she was an actress trying to hide her pregnancy on a sitcom; they always seemed to hide behind potted plants and it made Scully want to seek out all the plants in the building for camouflage.

 In this particular meeting, Scully’s blazer was her only protection from inquiring eyes and it was becoming increasingly evident that it would have to go. She managed to make it until they took a break before she practically sprinted to the ladies’ room. Once inside, she hastily peeled the jacket off, sighing with relief and then ran a wet paper towel down her face and neck.

 She looked in the mirror and noticed that despite her perpetually sad eyes and momentarily flushed cheeks, she looked healthy for the first time in months. She took in her figure, her breasts notably larger and her belly round and beginning to protrude. She was wearing a form fitting cream colored maternity shirt, one that was made for women who wanted to flaunt their form rather than hide it. She didn’t know what possessed her to wear it on this day, but she knew that if she stepped out that door like this there would be no question. The news would spread just as quickly as it did the day ‘poor Agent Scully’ finally returned back to work.

 “To hell with it,” Scully mumbled to herself before grabbing her jacket and walking into the hallway with her head held high.

 Kimberly, Skinner’s secretary, did a double take as Scully strode by her into the office and she felt several sets of eyes on her when she stepped into the room. Skinner himself seemed surprised by her appearance.

 “You okay?” he asked quietly as she returned to the table.

 “Fine,” she answered quickly as the others began to take their seats.

 Every instinct told her to keep her eyes averted, lack of eye contact as a form of self preservation, but she refused. She met the stunned stares head on. She wouldn’t blink first, and why would she? She was not ashamed.

 After the meeting, none of those in attendance made a move to speak to her, but Kimberly stopped her as she left the office.

 “Agent Scully, I had no idea. Congratulations?” she seemed to ask in the form of a question, as if it’s not proper to congratulate a woman whose partner is six feet under.

 “Thank you,” Scully answered quietly but genuinely.

 She made it through the day, her first full day back to work, exhausted but relieved that the truth was out, and returned home to an empty apartment for the first time in a month. Her mother had left for home that morning, promising that she’d come back if she was needed for anything.

 Scully was never afraid of silence, but she had to admit that she felt a bit lonely.

 “I guess it won’t be like this for long,” she said to herself, rubbing her hands comfortingly along her baby bump. “If you’re anything like your dad, you won’t be afraid to make a little noise.”

 Scully let out a small cry of surprise as she felt something bump against her hand. It was a kick. The first kick that was strong enough to be felt from the outside of her body. And then something even more miraculous happened.

 She smiled.

 A full-out smile; the first one in many months.

 Scully laughed and felt around her belly for another kick, wishing that she had someone to share this moment with. She bit her lip as the tears gathered in her eyes. Mulder should be here. He should have his hands all over her stomach, speaking to her belly, trying to coerce one more kick out of the little miracle inside. But he wasn’t. She was consumed by sorrow as she was once again reminded that he was gone.

 She collapsed on the couch and wept as the sorrow was joined by guilt. Guilt that she had smiled, that for one moment she had been happy. Mulder was gone; how could there be any happiness left in the world?

 But as she clutched her stomach in despair, Scully felt it once again. It wasn’t yet strong, but it was there nonetheless. A kick.

 Though the tears continued to run down her face, she felt the smile begin to emerge again. This is what he would want. As hurt as she may be, he would want her to be happy. He would want her to celebrate the milestones of her pregnancy with their child.

 So Scully only allowed herself five more minutes of crying. Five more minutes of thinking about what should be before forcing herself to face up to what was.

 When she pulled herself off the couch and into the kitchen to make dinner, she felt better. She felt stronger and energized, and after dinner she put some of that energy to work. Scully had truly yet to prepare at all for the baby’s arrival so she began the process by cleaning out the nursery.

 One task; if she could get one task done, she’d feel accomplished.

 She completed her one task, emptying the contents of the dresser drawers into boxes marked ‘keep, donate, and trash,’ within an hour, and moved on to the closet. Her belongings were either relocated to other closets or boxed up, but she couldn’t bring herself to moving Mulder’s left behind clothes and shoes yet. The energy that she felt earlier was quickly dissipating when surrounded by his possessions and she chose to claim a victory for her other accomplishments and leave his things for another day.

 By the time she finally fell into bed it was well after midnight, and the morning came much too early. She knew that she was a sight to behold as she dragged herself into the office the next day.

 “Good morning, Agent Scully,” Doggett said from desk where he sipped his coffee slowly. “How are you today?”

 “Well, I miss coffee,” she answered as she eyed his caffeine filled drink with some jealously.

 He laughed. “Not too bright eyed this morning, huh?”

 “Not even remotely,” she answered. “I didn’t get much sleep last night.”

 His brow furrowed in worry. “Everything okay?”

 “Yes, it’s fine. I was up late, uh, I guess nesting is the word.”

 “Really?” he responded with a smile.

 “Yeah, I started packing up the guest room so I can get it changed over to the baby’s room and I was on a roll. I guess I lost track of time,” she answered, sitting at her desk and turning on the computer.

 “Well if you need any help, let me know.”

 “Thank you, Agent Doggett. I may take you up on that. You and your truck might be quite helpful in getting the furniture moved to my storage unit,” she said, relieved by his offer.

 “My moving services are available. Just let me know when,” he replied with a smile.

 The work day passed without incident. There were definitely some glances thrown her way, but nothing more than she expected. Scully was once again feeling pretty energized and on the drive home found herself in the Target parking lot.

 “You can do this,” she said, giving herself a pep talk. “Just buy one thing, just one thing to get started.”

 Determined, she strode straight to the baby section, endless aisles of everything you’d ever need for a newborn. It was a bit overwhelming if she were being honest. Cribs, bouncers, strollers, diapers, onesies, blankets, pacifiers, bottles, breast pumps, formula, tiny socks… The options were endless.

 Scully strolled aimlessly aisle after aisle with no idea where to start. She simply wanted to buy one item so she could finally say that she had gotten something for her child, but now she was questioning whether it was a good idea. She was suddenly feeling vastly underprepared for motherhood.

 But then she saw it. A simple white onesie with red lettering, perfect for a boy or girl. Her eyes filled with tears but she smiled through them. It was perfect.

 Happy with her selection and with a sense of relief and accomplishment, Scully quickly paid and went home where the small article of clothing was placed lovingly on the bed in the soon-to-be nursery. She traced the letters with her fingers and laughed. He would love it.

 In red block letters, it simply read, “My Dad is cooler than yours.”    

[micronecro]

Coloured Bricks, Pick Up Sticks

Or: Anything can be a superpower if you get it hot enough. 

Wordcount: 1,900+

Genre: Weirdly and unnecessarily specific diagetic meta/comedy/drama

Characters: Midoriya Izuku, Bakugou Katsuki, Midoriya Inko

Perks: Quirk!Izuku, Quirk Experimentation, Quirk Lore, Izuku’s Extremely Tenuous Grip On The Basic Concept Of What Toys Are

Midoriya Izuku is a very warm person.

Not his personality (though that’s also true). It’s his quirk. His quirk is that he’s warm.

Izuku has had his quirk since he was born, burning his way into the world at a hearty temperature of “barely feverish”, and it’s never dropped since. According to Books, which Izuku reads a lot of, this means his quirk is Morphic; he is quite literally made of warm. 

His dad was Morphic too; his insides could catch on fire and there was so much of it he could even breath it out. There isn’t a lot of use for a quirk like that, but it looked pretty awesome. According to the doctors, Izuku has received his father’s quirk. He loves it.

When Izuku is four, he gets to go to daycare, where he impresses everyone with it. Morphic and Shape quirks are impressive to small children. There’s a Shape kid with a big tail, and everyone wants to be his best friend, which proves the rule.

Izuku, on the other hand, decides he wants to be Bakugou Katsuki’s friend. He’s loud and pushy and probably has an Energy quirk. Something like fire. When Izuku pushes to be his friend, Bakugou Katsuki says once Izuku finally figures out how to set himself on fire, Izuku can be his sidekick.

To Izuku, this is a wonderful idea, a dream come true. The first thing he had ever grown attached to was a news broadcast where a hulking blond man walked straight out of a comic book to rescue a seemingly infinite amount of people, laughing all the while. Izuku could watch that video for hours. In fact, he does watch it for hours. Daily. He wants to be a hero like All Might more than anything.

Izuku thinks that it’s wonderful All Might has the power to save so many people and bring hope to everybody. Katsuki thinks it’s awesome that All Might strong and everyone loves him. They are four years old, and to four-year-olds, nuance is fake.

But they both watch the newscasts of this saviour of the new age of superheroes, and Katsuki is a magnetic kind of person who makes friends instantaneously, and he looked at Izuku and said “you can do this with me”.

The heat didn’t prickle at his cheeks, and his skin didn’t flush, because he doesn’t know what it means to heat up, and he doesn’t even know what cold is. But if he could, he’d have blushed with pure joy.

He wants to be a hero.

Kacchan’s quirk accelerates, and his behaviour along with it.

Izuku’s quirk and personality, on the other hand, are at a standstill.

He’s never gotten any warmer, and he’s never gotten any braver, but Kacchan’s boisterous attitude has jumped from “bossy” to “outright violent”.

His quirk is explosions. They scatter from his fingertips, sparking off the sweat on his hands. Reactive quirks are impressive; Izuku knows this because the teachers won’t stop telling Kacchan how impressive they are, and how wonderful it is that he’s gotten one.

At first, Izuku is ecstatic, and heat rolls off him like sun-warmed pavement; he’s a perfect sidekick. He’s practically a recharge station. 

But, as stated before, Kacchan’s behaviour accelerates. 

A lot.

It starts with “You can read it like Deku, that means useless!”, marring him with an obscure and unpleasant nickname forever.

And Izuku ends it somewhere around Kacchan shoving a kid to the ground and marching forth, hands sparking ominously. 

Izuku is five and a half and he’s watched at least fourteen recordings of All Might standing up to bad guys and Kacchan isn’t a bad guy, is he? But he still stands up, puts up his fists, and tries not to cry.

Kacchan’s heat can’t touch him, but he and his friends have fists, which are just as good.

Izuku spends a lot of time being angry.

Not…angry, angry, like Kacchan is, but so frustrated that the warm air rises in great billowing puffs that make his blanket float off him. He simmers. Clenches his teeth. Complains a lot. He is five years old, and there’s nothing five-year-olds love more than whining incessantly.

“He’s not heroic,” Izuku insists over dinner for the eighth time, “he beats up kids which is villain stuff.”

“I’ll talk to his parents, sweetheart,” says his mom.

Izuku doesn’t think that’s enough.

Well, it technically is; Kacchan doesn’t attack people after that. But he doesn’t stop being mean. He still includes Izuku and seems to want him there, but Izuku spends a lot of time being angry all the same. 

Most of the time, they go hang out at empty lots where Kacchan can use Izuku’s warmth to gather up his sweat. He says that the more you work on it, the stronger the quirk is going to get. Izuku (”Deku”) is fine the way he is, Kacchan claims, since the muggy ring of heat radiating off his skin is pretty much perfect for gathering sweat, but it’d be way cooler if he could light his skin on fire at some point. 

Maybe like green fire, he continues, because the dull, dead-leaf pallour of his hair would look ‘stupid and ugly’ with normal fire.

Izuku scowls at the gravel, takes a drink of water and breathes out steam. That happens sometimes. His insides are hotter than his outsides, like his dad, and he…

It is at this point, Izuku, age six, suddenly realizes that he can’t actually turn his quirk off.

He’s gotten into heroes as an industry by now. He’s been paying special attention to people with quirks that work like his do, like Endeavor, who has the same quirk as his dad, except on his outsides, and it looks like it’s always on.

When he gets home Izuku meticulously records notes and compares them and then starts looking up as many Morphics as possible until he stops dead at the obvious conclusion:

There is no existing hero who has a Morphic quirk that’s just kind of there.

He doesn’t know what else to do from there, so he stares at his notes for an hour until his mom calls him for lunch and then he never mentions it to another living soul.

This is the story of an eight-year-old. 

Initially, I mean.

Izuku, age eight, loves experiments.

His quirk is weird and no one really thinks it’s weird? But the thing is, weird quirks, you can do weird things with them. Heroes are good at that. And anyway, heat is the most common kind of Quirk ever and everyone has a bajillion ways of using it so Izuku is enterprising by wanting to do weird quirk stuff.

He gets an All Might lunchbox for his birthday, left to the side when he and his mom go out to celebrate, and it’s not until the next morning that he actually moves to put it on the shelf with all his other All Might collectables. But his fingers trace along the indents in the metal and his brain hits the phrase ‘melting point’ so fast Izuku can’t remember the thoughts that brought him there.

And Izuku, who loves experiments, decides he likes the thought anyway. He collects his notebook and his pencil and his eraser.

Now all he needs is a blowtorch.

He’d ask Kacchan but Kacchan will never let him test how hot his explosions get, and he’d ask someone else with a heat Quirk but everyone else’s heat quirks are different and Izuku isn’t supposed to talk to strangers.

He also isn’t allowed to take people’s blowtorches without permission, but he’s, uh, borrowing it. Like, he’s not taking it off the property. He just wants to turn it on and put it on his skin and see what happens.

According to The Internet, the air-only torch he finds at his third construction site scan will heat up to around 1,900 °C, which is a good start. He’ll find an oxygen-fed torch later if he doesn’t set himself on fire. He’ll also do it if he does set himself on fire, because the scientific process just works like that. He doesn’t make the rules.

Izuku is very very small, and very very quick; you have to be when you have a friend like Kacchan. He ducks in and out of the shed-like building clutching his prize, hides behind some tarps, and fidgets with it until he can get it to turn on.

Izuku doesn’t feel heat like normal people. He doesn’t feel the…vibrations? Vibrating molecules? Friction? When molecules go really fast they make friction and that’s how burns happen. That doesn’t happen to Izuku. People who can make energy have this thing called single progression molecules, which is the same thing hero costumes are made of! They grow fire-making Quirk Skin in a lab to make them, and Izuku was obsessed with this fact for a few months. There are multiple people growing multiple types of Quirk Skin in multiple labs! Kacchan tells him to shut up and stop being gross whenever he brings it up but Izuku can’t help it. 

Well anyway, it’s important, actually. He found out passive Morphics don’t exist. You have to intentionally morph into stuff. That’s the point.Endeavor’s face isn’t constantly on fire, it’s just his hero thing.

Which means Izuku isn’t just a Morphic. His existence produces energy. A…Izuku scrambles to stitch all the terms he’s read in Books together. R…Reactive Energy quirk? Or something. The point is, he’s made out of a material that manipulates heat. And that means he can…he can…erm…

Well, Izuku hadn’t gotten past that in his research, but he’s sure he’ll figure it out by the time he’s ten, because he’s an experimenter, and he’s got a blowtorch right here to help him on his way.

After it runs long enough, Izuku wiggles his fingers in front of the tip of the flame, and then sinks it deeper until he can turn his hand all over in the fire. The heat feels like its curling around his fingers; Izuku thinks he’s always warm because there’s a shield of temperature stuff that might wrap around him naturally, on account of him being made of weird new skin.

It’s not like Weird New Skin is weird, or new. Which is kind of a bummer. Reactive Form is the fancy science term for “people who have skin made out of weird things”. It’s just that they’re not normally energy or fire things. They’re usually textures and stuff, or twisting light around.

Izuku’s never heard of someone with heat-related skin. He hopes they can grow it in a lab.

The fire starts seeping through his Warm, and for the first time in his eight years of life, he experiences hot. It sinks into him more than an hour of his hand on a stove iron could ever achieve. His molecules don’t do friction, so it mostly just sort of tingles and goes numb. He can actually see his skin vibrating. It’s so cool.

After a few minutes of this, his skin is starting to glow red, and  the texture starts feeling…weird. Too numb. Izuku stretches out his palm, and to his awe, the skin breaks and parts into molten slag, with bright glowing yellow lines being pulled open like scars.

He blows on it like you’d blow on a fire, and it erupts into sparks and flickering flame.

He can catch on fire.

He’s going to need to figure out a better way to pull it off, though. He’ll get back to that!

Using one hand and his thighs to carefully turn the blowtorch off, holding his molten hand up high, Izuku tries to make as many notes about his new condition as he can:

- Not gooey or liquid like actual lava. Kind of stretchy. Melty rubber, maybe.

- Hand works fine.

(Would Kacchan be mad if he saw?)

- Prickles a bit. The parts where he blew on it to make a fire feels extra tingly.

- Vibrating so hard that it’s shaking all the way down his arm. Feels like a massage chair, or a chihuahua. 

- Not sure how to get it to cool down.

Izuku stares wide-eyed at his raised arm, actually thinking about the situation for the first time since he decided he needed a blowtorch.

It…it will cool down…

…Right?

[the-avenging-writer]

Potential (Part 2)

Fandom: Marvel

Summary: Bucky helps the reader train again... except this time she knows what she’s doing.

Warnings: Fluff

A/N: Can be read alone, but if you want to read the first part click HERE

It had been a month or so since Bucky had gone all ‘Die Hard’ on you in order for you to access your powers, and you had grown exponentially stronger since then.

You were no longer limited to smaller objects, if you concentrated hard enough, you could throw Natasha across the room with a flick of your wrist.

The two of you had been training together quite often, actually, and had rehearsed stunts like that for when you would do the team-up trainings.

Natasha wasn’t the only one you worked with, either. Steve, Sam, Clint, and Tony all worked with you, and were most often defeated. Wanda was a new challenge as you trained with her; she could match and multiply whatever you threw at her, which kept you on your toes.

The only person you rarely trained with was Barnes himself; ever since he pushed you to use your power, he hadn’t said much. You meant to thank him, but he was never around.

Currently, you were training on your own, working on something Natasha had mentioned offhand. A varying range of knives sat before you. You weren’t that great at throwing them in the first place, so you were going to attempt using your powers to assist you when Bucky entered.

He looked as if he was ready to train; a pair of sweatpants sat on his hips while a gray sleeveless shirt covered his torso. A single glove adorned his right hand as you watched him make a bee-line for the punching bag.

You turned your attention back to the knives in front of you and the spray-painted target sitting fifty feet away. You were painfully aware that you had no idea what you were doing, and the man who just entered was an expert.

He knows proper form. He can probably hit a target blindfolded. You cursed at Natasha for putting you in this position. You picked up a knife carefully, holding it by the blade as Natasha had shown you.

Somewhere off to your left, you could hear Bucky starting to throw punches at the sand-filled bag. Surely he wouldn’t be paying attention to you. He had his own training to do.

You moved your dominant foot forward as you prepared to throw the knife by bringing it beside your head. With one fluid motion you swung your arm downward and released the blade... too late.

The knife clattered to he ground halfway to the target, and you quickly picked up another, not bothering to check if the ex-assassin saw. You were perfectly content pretending he hadn’t.

This time, you released the knife at the proper time, only the handle hit the target instead of the blade. You cursed under your breath before picking up the third knife.

This was it. You muttered to yourself. This time you would do it.

But you failed yet again. You sighed looking at your third failure, which was currently by your feet. You had thrown it harder than the others, and when the handle hit the target it rebounded back to you.

You picked it up and set it on the small table before walking around it to pick up the others. You were so caught up in your own thoughts, you had failed to notice the constant thuds from the impact against the punching bag had stopped.

As you stood up from grabbing the last knife, closest to the target, you saw one of the knives you had left on the table whiz by your face and embed itself in the target. A bull's-eye.

Somewhat terrified, somewhat enraged, you turned to see the shaggy brown haired man standing beside the knives, grinning at you.

“Want some help?” He asked innocently, as if he hadn’t just thrown a knife at your head.

“You could have hit me.” You said, glancing once more at the knife behind you.

“I wouldn’t have.” Bucky said cockily. “I can aim, you know.”

You pulled the knife from the board before returning to your spot behind the table. “Can you really.” You muttered sarcastically, not meaning for him to hear.

He chuckled anyway, causing your face to turn red. “I was just offering my help, if you don’t want it...”

“I think I got it.” You said stubbornly, picking up the nearest knife and chunking it toward the target. Concentrating, you allowed the knife to follow a straight line and hit the board properly this time, causing it to stick. You smiled victoriously, but behind you Bucky chuckled.

“That’s cheating, doll.” He said, and you huffed. Couldn’t he just say good job? That was your first one you got to stick...

“Here.” He said, gently placing another blade in your hand, and placing your fingers properly on the knife before wrapping his own hand around yours. He moved your feet into proper alignment with his own as your face grew hotter and hotter.

He was so close. You could feel his hand wrapped around yours, the leather glove on his hand was cooler in temperature than his flesh. His hair hit the back of your head as he looked down to your feet. You tried not to think about how small you felt compared to him; a huge, muscular man who seemed to reach around you with no problem.

“Ready?” He asked, seeing you were finally in proper position. It wasn’t much different than how you were doing on your own, except he had moved your dominant leg back and replaced it with your other leg. You nodded.

“When you throw this, you don’t need to worry about adding force. Not yet.” He said, “Just get the technique down first.” He explained, and you nodded again. His hand gripped yours as he showed you how to move your arm.

“You have to make sure it stays straight, otherwise you’ll curve the knife.” He paused before adding. “If you want to curve the knife later, I can show you, but that’s a different lesson.” He said, and you mentally chided yourself about getting another lesson from Bucky.

“Okay, now all that’s left to do is throw.” He said. With his hand guiding yours, you released the knife at his instruction, and for the first time, without using your powers, you got the knife to stick.

Bucky smiled at your overjoyed reaction. “Think you can do it without me this time?”

Okay. Forget having Bucky teach you how to curve a knife. You could have Natasha show you that.

“Again.” Bucky said, causing you to huff in agitation. His arms were crossed as he watched you throw knife after knife after knife after knife...

It felt endless. You had thrown these same five knives dozens of times each. Your success rate was about fifty percent, which you were pretty proud of, but Bucky seemed unimpressed.

“Again.” He repeated, and you threw the next knife, only to have it bounce off the target once more. “You’re leaning forward again, if you-”

“Enough!” You said, snapping at him lightly. “I’m going to take a break.” You informed. “I’ve been throwing these knives for the past hour, I think I’m good for today.” You sat the knife you were holding back on the table and turned to walk off when Bucky spoke again.

“Well how about the rest of your training?” He asked. You turned back around to face the tall man with a confused expression on your face.

“I trained with Natasha this morning.” You responded, and he nodded once.

“How are your powers coming along?” He asked.

“Pretty good.” You said, honestly. “I-”

“Think you’re good enough to take me yet?” He asked, and you were taken aback by the challenge.

“What?”

“I said: Do you think that you are good enough to take me?” He asked, a smirk playing on his lips.

He didn’t know how much you had improved.

“Only if you’re up for a challenge.” You said back, the thrill of possibly defeating him was too good to pass up.

“I don’t think you’ll be much of one.” He taunted back, and you let out a half laugh, half scoff.

“Don’t be so sure, old man.” You countered, and he shot you a playful frown at the nickname.

“Well then why don’t you prove it?” He said, moving into a fighting stance. You smiled and mirrored his action.

“Ready when you are, gramps.”

He made the first move; a false step followed by a right-handed punch which was supposed to catch the other off guard, but you were familiar with the ‘trick’ move from the others, and dodged the blow before countering with one of your own.

But Bucky blocked your well-aimed kick with one hand while his other grabbed your arm and moved to twist it behind your back, but before he could do so you spun in his grasp, turning to face him rather than face away, which would give him the upper hand.

You used your power to push him back slightly as one of your legs wrapped around his in attempt to trip him.

He lost his balance for a split second before regaining his footing and approaching you once more.

With one long stride he stood directly in front of you and reached around to grab a handful of your hair. Your hands wrapped around his as you kneed him in the stomach in attempt to get him to dislodge his fingers.

It worked; his grasp lightened and you pulled free before he could tighten it again. His metal arm came up to grab your arm, and you maneuvered out of his arm’s reach, knowing his vibranium appendage was nearly unstoppable.

With one quick step you moved to kick him in the side but he caught your foot as it made contact. He pulled on your leg, pulling you closer to him. As you were yanked toward your opponent, you thrust your arms out, hitting him in the chest.

His human hand quickly grabbed your wrists and held them above your head as he adjusted his body in order to throw a punch with his left. He dropped your leg but as he started to throw the punch he found his arm stuck; blocked by some unseen force.

He sighed as you smirked, all of your concentration was going in to holding his metal arm still.

With one swift movement, he dropped your arms and grabbed your waist with his human hand before quickly pulling you close and putting his lips on yours.

You were shocked, to say the least, and your mind went black as the handsome man kissed you. You felt him smile slightly into the kiss as his metal arm wrapped around your waist as well, but before you could properly process what the hell was going on, you fell flat on your back onto the mat.

You tried to catch your breath as the last few seconds literally knocked it out of you, as Bucky straddled your wait and grinned down at you.

“I win.” He said, his cocky, arrogant smirk taunting you as he got up and left you laying on the mat.

It took you a day and a half to gather the courage to confront him. Yeah, you liked him... but that was beside the point.

You muttered under your breath as you stood outside his door, hesitantly letting yourself knock.

“Come in.” He called from the other side, and you let out a shaky breath before putting on a brave face and marching in.

“You cheated.” You said, cutting straight to the chase. You crossed your arms in front of your chest as he looked up at you with a confused expression.

“Doll, you’re going to have to give me more than that-”

“Training. Two nights ago.” You said, and Bucky’s cocky smirk reappeared. He licked his lips before letting out a laugh.

“Did I, now?” He asked, moving to the edge of his bed to allow his feet to hit the ground.

“You did.” You said, trying to keep your courage up.

“What, are you asking for a rematch?” He asked, an eyebrow cocked.

“You only kissed be because you knew I was going to win.” You said, and Bucky chuckled as he stood up.

“Is that so?” He asked, moving to stand in front of you again.

With him standing so close, and that infuriating smirk... you just nodded your head, hoping your face still looked serious.

Bucky bit his lip as his grin turned into a genuine smile before he spoke again. “Well, if that’s the only reason I kissed you... feel free to stop me now.” He said, his smile fading slightly as he lifted your chin and pressed his lips to yours yet again.

You didn’t stop him.

@radrouda