#no label shoes co

[rowanhoney]

Wait I’m more mad

#I’m mad cos i wanted to finally treat myself cos i had a good payday and it’s GONE fml. #but also my boots broke after 6 days #so I paid a bunch to fix them cos was cheaper than buying new boots #and they broke again within a few weeks #so I got bought new boots for my birthday! they were labeled as a 38 and they were chunky base but looked sleek #except they looked a bit clown like when I put them on which was weird #wore them all day and struggled #the sale sticker on the base was covering the real size. they’re a 41 not a 38🙃 #but I can’t take them back now I’ve worn them etc #so I have to take them to the charity shop and I once again don’t have shoes #and I can’t go buy myself shoes cos I have to send my grandparents money because my mother is an awful drain of a person #i literally just want the basics #when I was small my mother used to say I was a spoilt brat #and would manipulate people into giving me whatever I want #and what she meant was I preferred staying at a house where I was given food. #though I was very much deprived of basics there #again ! shoe problems! my family didn’t want to waste money so they’d only let me buy the cheapest shoes #and I remember walking home from school one day #absolutely soaked because again. the sole had come off and it was pouring with rain #and there was nothing I could do. #I’m just so tired of my family’s attitudes around money #like no one can be normal #they either have it and are frugal to a point of detriment #or they don’t have it and live lavishly and rely on everyone else to fund their lifestyle #and I’m stuck in the middle just about having enough. like I’ll be okay. I just want a pair of shoes that last longer than a week #and don’t cause me a lot of pain #and I wanna be able to eat fine without worry #which I can manage to do. like not much else but I can get by fine #and I’m happy!!!! until I get dragged into the middle of this bs and it triggers the fuck out of me #lmfao this is so funny cos I have Chiron in the 2nd house. valid af

[murdrdocs]

just read all your imagines and they are so good!! just on here to req anything hobie brown related cos god that man is so fine. maybe like a one-shot where they are fwb cos hobie doest do labels but gets jealous and then asks reader to be his gf and then shows her off to everyone. just like really anything u want to write tbh ✨✨

end of line | h. brown

description. being friends with benefits with your best friend, hobie brown, is fun and all, but you start to realize that maybe firm labels suit you better than whatever this is

includes. slight smut SUGGESTIVE 16+, fem!reader referred to as “girl”, fluff, sweet!hobie, pav gwen and miles mention, rockstar!hobie

a/n: i have no words this was supposed to be uploaded like a week ago but then i went to disney so ... sorry yall. also not edited well bc ... disney. edit: title from the song by daft punk bc tron <3

word count: 1.7k+

things are still in your bedroom. they always are right before he arrives.

you're not a psychic, nor do you have a "spider-sense" (which, with the creepy-sixth sense way hobie described it, you don't want one either), but you like to think that you can tell when he'll come by.

nights when you haven't heard much from him, but the sirens seemed to never stop outside, were usually when your window would creek as it slid up.

you listen out for the sound now as you finish painting your last nail. you'd used the quick dry polish tonight, in hopes that you wouldn't have a repeat of last time, when your fingernails weren't dried but hobie was incredibly impatient and when you were done, you'd realized that your right ring and pinkie fingers were smudged.

the bottle's closed, you'd blown on your nail to ensure it dried, and that's when your window slides open.

there's no point in looking back at him when he tumbles into the room. he starts mumbling complaints as soon as the window's closed, the sound of his shoes unlacing padding his words, something about some common thief who hobie was going to let go but then he went and messed with the lady on the street and her cat.

you'd lost the tail end of his words whenever he started walking closer to you. you sat up straighter, pushed everything out of the way, and waited for him to turn your chair around.

which, when he did, you looked up at him, small smile on your lips as you stared into his deep brown eyes.

"how's your night, hm?" he asked, a courtesy before getting to the real action.

you shrugged, pretending to think. "nothing. just a lot of this."

"no smashing societal standards? picking off misogynists one by one?"

a small laugh in the form of a snort from you. "nah. figured i'd take a day off, you know?" the sarcasm dripping from your words. that's not who you were. you wish you could've been like that, could've been like hobie. but there's one spider-person for a reason.

"oh, yeah, uh-huh..." and hobie trailed off as he leaned in, pointer finger hooking under your chin to pull your lips to his.

it always felt good to kiss hobie.

you'd fantasized about it for weeks before it actually happened. he's your closest friend at the moment, and he occupied the title before this arrangement even existed. and of course you had the worry about ruining your beautiful friendship if you became more, fear that you wouldn't be able to go back and you would subsequently lose probably the best friend you've ever had.

but that was no need to worry. because while you could let hobie pull you up and lead you to your bed, sitting back and pulling you into his lap while he kissed you with a tenderness you know so well, you could also just be friends with him, sitting side by side on the couch and having a movie marathon of horrible biopics without thinking about jumping each other's bones.

there's a balance here that you could only hope would've existed.

and it's never thrown off. not even when he pulls your shirt over your head and his full lips find your nipples and the slightly-faded marks he'd left a few days ago. not even when he switches your position, laying you back and kissing down your torso until he can bury his head between your legs. not even when you whine and cry just a bit, slightly begging for him to pull his suit off so he can fuck into you in a way that only he can.

you try not to think about the equilibrium of your relationship with hobie when your legs hook around his waist and the heels of your feet dig into your lower back. you try to solely focus on the way his cock fills you up perfectly, mostly long with the right amount of girth for your walls, tip reaching deep within you in an almost mind bending way.

but you can't help but think about the way hobie doesn't do labels when he helps you to your bathroom, where he lets the shower heat up while you sit in a shirt he left behind a few days ago when he'd shown up as just hobie brown and not spiderman. you can't help but think about being hobie's girlfriend when his big, veiny hands run along your skin after the shower, smothering you in shea butter as you struggle to hold your eyes open. and you don't bother attempting to fight off the lasting thought of being hobie's while he hums an unknown song to himself with your head on his chest, the deep sound of his voice and the vibration of his chest lulling you to sleep.

you need to be someone's.

the friends with benefits scenario was fun, it worked, it was glorious, but you don't think it's for you. and labels aren't for hobie.

so, you look elsewhere.

you're at hobie's show, standing in the back of the pub with a drink you weren't interested in, with some guy you really weren't all that interested in, either. but he smelled nice, and he seemed nice, and you were just looking to broaden your horizons just a bit.

you and hobie weren't exclusive, but maybe it's a little wrong to flirt with someone else at his show. but you were slightly upset, and craving attention, so it didn't matter.

not until hobie got off stage.

it took a while for him to roam over to you, but even then you were still entertaining the other guy. giggling, tilting your head, batting your eyelashes, your hip popped out and a manicure, that was still fresh, blinging as your hand rested on the bone.

he greets you with a term of endearment that he uses often, but it feels different in this circumstance. you tell yourself that it feels different because you want it to feel different.

"oi, babe! who's this bloke?"

his arm slings over your shoulder and you tense under it. your hands folding over your chest, your smile tightening a little.

“uh this is steven.” your hand reaches out to point to the man, a tight lipped smile spreading onto his lips.

“steven …” hobie repeats the name slowly, and without looking at him you can tell that he’s eyeing the guy up and down.

the air is stiff, the three of you are silent, and unfortunately, steven takes the hint to dismiss himself, and you instantly turn to hobie, a scowl on your face.

“what the fuck, hobes?” you’re pissed, but the nickname still slips off easily.

hobie shrugs and reaches into his back pocket, a cigarette appearing and he sticks it between his lips. instantly, your fingers pluck it out from his mouth, instead putting it in your own back pocket.

instead of looking upset, hobie looks amused. his hands reach out to grab your waist, and you want to give in, but you try to push his hands away instead.

hobie lets you, and you don’t know if your happy or upset with that.

“what’d you mean?”

you stare at him, deadpan, then gesture to where steven had walked away towards.

“you just cockblocked me!”

a cocky grin, almost a little condescending. “i didn’t ‘cockblock’ you, babes. you weren’t trying to get with that guy.” your eyebrow lifts and you can see realization come onto hobie’s face. “oh … you were?”

“yes! of course i was!”

“but why? you are i are together.”

“sure, hobes, but we’re not ‘together’.”

“yes we are.”

“no, we aren’t.”

“why do you think that?”

you suddenly feel a little insecure, eyes scanning the thinning crowd, ears noticing the way the volume in the pub is lowered. “because you’ve never put a label on it, bee.”

another layer of realization. hobie’s hands coming to your waist again, but this time you let him pull you in.

“i didn’t know we needed a label. but you’re my girl. and i’m your guy.”

your body heats up and you bite down onto your lower lip giddily, peeking up at hobie through your lashes.

"thought you didn't like relationships?"

"labels. i don't like labels."

there's a disruption in the atmosphere. goosebumps raise on your skin, the hair on the back of your neck sticks up, and even if you weren't aware internally, the way the magazine you were previously reading floats above the table would've tipped you off.

the portal opens shortly after, but you knew it was coming. it took hobie a while to tell you that he was spiderman, longer to convince you that he was spiderman, and a while longer to convince you of the existence society, and even though you know, you still get a little shocked whenever a portal opens.

he comes through first, thud of his heavy boots against the floor of his flat. the spoon in your mouth clings against the side of the bowl, your free hand reaches out to the tv remote to pause the episode as you look over at hobie.

"oi, didn't know you were still here." is all he says before he's walking over, pulling his mask off on the way, and leaning down. your head tilts up instantly to meet his lips in a kiss, your body warming with the way his hand pushes into the back of the couch, slender but muscular form caging you in.

you expect him to sit beside you and force you to give a recap of the episode, but he stands back, and then three other people come through the portal.

"oh ... are we expecting guests?" surprise sits in your words, the tone amplified when hobie takes your bowl of cereal out of your hands to finish it off himself.

"right," he speaks through mouthfuls, saying your name as an introduction to the other three. "this is pav, miles, and gwendy. spider people." you nod, waving at each.

"this here, is my girlfriend." three sets of spider-eyes widen with the admission and you can already sense what's coming.

"wow, you're pretty. 's nice to meet you."

"i knew it! i could sense the tension as soon as we got here."

"you have a girlfriend? wait. i thought you didn't like labels."

a small smile on your face as you tuck your hands in the pocket of hobie’s sweatshirt that you wear.

in coordination learned from how close you two are, you speak at the same time.

"he doesn't like consistency."

"don't like consistency, mate."

#hobie brown x reader #hobie brown x you #hobie brown smut #hobie brown fluff #spider punk x reader #spider punk x you #spider punk #celeste writs mcu #hobiesworld! #hobie brown #spider man across the spider verse

[fandom]

Memes

At a certain point, it was just hard to keep up. They seemed to fall from the sky like fizzing raindrops, soaking everything in pure wildness—memes, that is. 2022 had an absolute bumper crop of memes. The fertile field of this year’s chaos was sown freely, resulting in some impressively widespread phenomena. Most of it remained pretty contained within the dashboard, but at the end of the year the biggest meme of them all broke containment…We’re getting ahead of ourselves here. 

Cast your mind back to January 2022. We kicked off the year with Horse Plinko, which soon joined forces with Eeby Deeby in a frenzy of flaming gifs in which the poor horse plinko’d its way to Super Hell. Nothing has ever summed up the mildly deranged meme generation process on Tumblr so perfectly. 

This era of memes merged smoothly with the Month of Blorbo. Can you believe blorbo from my shows is more or less purely a 2022 phenomenon? Granted, the original post happened in late 2021, but it was the new year by the time “blorbo” secured itself in our vocabulary. How did we even live our lives on Tumblr without the word “blorbo”? It’s impossible to even imagine at this point. 

Springtime dawned with the rise of Live Slug Reaction, which dominated the dashboard as everyone rushed to plop that shocked slug in the corner of their favorite gay moments from TV and film. And in May came a very important event that would define the rest of the year on Tumblr: the launch of Dracula Daily, Affectionately dubbed “tumblr book club,” the serialized email newsletter found a hugely involved following on Tumblr and spawned an infinite variety of memes, beginning with the iconic paprika recipes. 

The Summer of Morbius dominated Tumblr from June onwards, with everyone going bonkers with Morb-based puns, jokes about the film’s most ridiculous moments, and reblogging a single GIF somehow containing the entire movie that would crash your browser when it played on your dash..

The i love you x i love you y text post meme saw us to the end of the summer, and autumn came with the rise of the GOUGER. Or is it GOUGAR? Regardless, the strange but harmless creature took over everyone’s meme palette for a while, getting involved in increasingly silly scenarios. 

This free-for-all was interrupted by the death of Queen Elizabeth, an event that was solemn everywhere else. . But on Tumblr, of course, users swamped the dashboard with Queen Liz-related memes and commentary. And crabs. There were quite a lot of those.

Later, in September, the Try Guys saga unfolding on Twitter and YouTube filtered over to Tumblr in the form of the “lost focus and had a consensual workplace relationship” meme, with Tumblr users casting various favorite co-worker ships in the roles of the controversial real-life pairing. 

And finally, closing out the year, the meme you’ve all been waiting for: the one and only Goncharov (1973). Just in case you’ve been living under a rock, Goncharov is a movie borne out of the magic combination of a misprinted shoe label and Tumblr’s fertile imagination. Thanks to a fake movie poster by user @beelzeebub, which gave names and faces to the characters, Tumblr ran absolutely wild, churning out analysis, fanart, and even fanfiction at an astounding rate. This was by far the meme to win 2022: it gained coverage all over the internet, including the freaking New York Times, and even Scorsese himself acknowledged it. You did that, Tumblr. Goncharov forever, all hail the power of the Tumblr meme!

#year in review #memes #tumblr2022

[widowbitessting]

Flower Petals on the Floor

Word Count: 996

Rating: General with fluffy scenes. SFW!

Summary: All you wanted to do was surprise the Trio! at work. But the stupid security guard is set on ruining your plan.

Dom!Natasha Romanoff, Dom!Wanda Maximoff, Dom!Carol Danvers x Sub!Reader

(I swear I'm not an idiot. I got asks and I lost them. Can I find them? No. I remember it being along the lines of 'a security guard not letting Baby past' so nonnie I am sorry for losing your ask. Just label me stupid I guess. Again, it’s not the best thing I’ve written but I hope you all enjoy nonetheless)

xoxo

It was supposed to be a surprise. 

A midweek visit as your classes were called off. 

You’d even bought a small bouquet of flowers for each of them. 

But would the stupid security man let you in?

No.

No matter what you tried to say, he just wasn’t having it. 

“Listen! They know who I am, just let me up!” 

“No. Your name isn’t on the list, meaning you can’t come in.” He tells you. “Now go and bug someone else.” 

You glower at him, officially irriated. 

“I am not bugging - how many times do I have to tell you? I’m their girlfriend!” 

“That’s what they all say. I wasn’t born yesterday.” 

“Listen boogers for brains, I don’t know who pissed in your coffee this morning; but I’m here to surprise my girlfriends ‘cos they’re stressed out of their minds and you’re sort of ruining it!”

“Heard it all before, love. Now beat it.” 

He shoves you and you stumble back. 

“Hey!” 

“Get out of my building, doll face.” 

“Who are you -” 

“I will personally remove you if I have to. Leave.” 

He tries to shove you again but you manage to scurry back.

You glare at him.

“Fine. Fine. I’m going. There’s no need to push me. God.” 

You stomp out of the reception area and back out the pristine glass doors, where the horrible weather is waiting to soak you. 

“Fucking stupid…butt face.” 

You stop as the door swings shut behind you and pull your phone out of your pocket; texting the Trio.

Y/N (13:14): Hypothetically…if I was trying to get into your building…what would I need to do?

Carol (13:14): Well hello to you too, cutie. 

Carol (13:14):  We’d have to put you on the OK list; get you a Visitor ID sorted and so on. Why?

You groan. 

Why is nothing ever simple?

Y/N (13:15): No reason

Wanda (13:15): Are you downstairs, baby?

Y/N (13:16): Maybe…? I’m outside…

Natasha (13:15): Go back inside love, we’ll be there in a minute❤️

You quickly do as you’re told, rushing back into the warmth of the building. 

Only, you’re met with the same security man as before. 

He’s glaring at you. 

“Listen love, if you wanted to be handcuffed this badly, all you had to do was ask.” 

“What?”

He throws your flowers to the ground and spins you around so fast that you don’t even have the time to make a sarcastic comment. 

The cold bite of his handcuffs snag at your skin. 

“Listen -” 

“No, you listen to me, I’ve had enough of your shit. You’re in detainment until the cops get here, is that understood?”

“Cops? But wait -” 

“Save it.” 

This has to be the most mortifying ordeal of your life. 

Everyone in the open reception space is looking at you and you really don’t know what to do. 

And to make it worse, your left shoe keeps squeaking.

“I can’t - I can’t go to jail!” 

“Should have thought of that sooner, love.” 

He moves you so easily that you make the mental note to start going to the gym. 

Dragging you towards the turnstiles. 

He scans his ID and pushes you through.

Taking you towards the back door when - 

“Greg, any reason you’ve got our girlfriend by the wrists?” Natasha’s voice has you both stopping and you just want to sob in relief. 

She glares at the man holding you, raising an eyebrow. 

“Oh thank god.” You mutter. 

“Yeah, that’s kind of our job.” Carol adds. 

“Told you I wasn’t lying.” You glare back at him.

“I was just -” 

“Being disrespectful to someone who we care about.” Natasha buts in. “Forget being professional, you were being downright rude. Uncuff her. Right now.” 

“Yes, ma’am. Sorry ma’am.” 

He lets you go and you quickly move to stand closer to your women; Wanda’s hand quickly finds your waist and holds you close. 

“Do you do this to all the visitors that aren’t on the all clear?” Carol asks, putting her hands into her pant pockets. 

If things hadn’t been so disastrous, you’d have found it incredibly hot. 

…Maybe you still do…

“I - no. I…” 

“Go on. We’re waiting.” Wanda snaps. 

“I was told to make sure no one got in if they’re not on the all clear.”

“And how do we ensure people do get on the all clear?” Natasha asks, as if she’s speaking to a 1 year old, 

“Having one of the reception team buzz up to Kate…”

“And did you do that?” Wanda asks.

“No…”

“Why not?” Says Carol. 

“…she…she was testing my patience!”

“And the reasonable thing to do was handcuff our girlfriend and cause a scene?”

“I was handling it accordingly.”

“He hurt my arms.” You pout and nestle into Wanda, hiding your smile. 

“I think we should have a little chat, Greg, don’t you think? Bring in the Head of Security too?”

The man visibly pales.

“I think that sounds wonderful.” Natasha adds on. “You’re dismissed. We’ll contact you later when we’re ready.” 

And just like that, he’s gone. Practically vanishing in thin air.

“Are you okay, my love?” Carol asks, looking you over and inspecting your wrists. She clocks the red marks where the handcuffs were too tight. 

“I’m gonna kill him.” Natasha growls, pulling you in for a tight hug. “My poor girl.”

“We’re gonna put you on the clearance list and get you an ID sorted.” Wanda says. “So you can come straight up next time.”

“Okay.” You pout. “I brought you flowers but he…” You point to the flowers littered on the floor. 

“Aw, baby girl.” Natasha sighs. “We appreciate the gesture. C’mon. Wanna come see where we work?”

You nod. 

Natasha takes your hand and leads you to the elevators. 

They open almost as soon as you get there and the four of you walk inside. 

Carol presses their floor and you grin up at her. 

Until she asks:

“Baby girl. Where’s your coat?”

#natasha romanoff #wanda maximoff #carol danvers #reader insert #sugar mommies #natasha x wanda x carol x reader #sugar mommies!asks #spiderbites #smu #little liv writes! #smu universe #sugar mommies drabble

[bbanghiitomi]

| always by your side!

synopsis: forced to change companies, your dream of being an actress and all your hard work has been washed away, but for some reason even with the events that have unfolded you find yourself thanking the gods above for bringing you to haerin.

— idol!khaerin × 6thmember!fem!reader

(⁠っ⁠˘̩⁠╭⁠╮⁠˘̩⁠)⁠っ(⁠っ⁠˘̩⁠╭⁠╮⁠˘̩⁠)⁠っ(⁠っ⁠˘̩⁠╭⁠╮⁠˘̩⁠)⁠っ(⁠っ⁠˘̩⁠╭

you lift your head from the table, dreading the idea of the upcoming news from the manager of the class you're currently at. you were updated that there might be changes in the company, you're one of the trainees for voice acting and there's rumors surrounding the company that they might send trainees to a korean entertainment label. if you were older than you are today, you wouldn't be that bothered by the news — but that's not the case, you were one of the youngest and current trainees for acting lessons. you knew that the company might be thinking that you are not gonna be much of a big loss to them, but you were desperate to prove them wrong.

yet, it seems a little too impossible as you shuffle on your seat. you raise yourself up from the chair and take deep breaths, your eyes spot the familiar face of the manager and an expression of grimace engulfed your face.

"don't take this a little too hard y/n, i know you've only been here for a few months but you're already attached to everyone." you nod but in all honesty you really can't process whatever the ceo was saying, it's hard to imagine the changes of pace and environment — who knows what kind of people she'll be seeing there?

"i heard i would end up on a different route if i was to be sent to that company. i signed up to be an actress — don't you think it's cruel for me to end up taking a whole different career?" you tell him but he stays head strong, only staring at your puppy eyes.

he sighs and puts a hand on his forehead.

"i know, i know. even i think it's cruel for the ceo to decide something like that, but we're in deep trouble. this is the only way to save the other trainees and don't you see the positive side? a job like being an idol is a very flexible job, you can do it all at once." he explains but you want to disagree, you don't want to do all things at once.

but it's too late, isn't it?

it really is, you realize as you sat at the office of ador entertainment. all your bags and luggages have been sent inside the shared dorm of your future co-member's, the girls were as confused as you were.

"oh, it's you y/n." you hear the sound of shoes getting closer and as you look up, your eyes meet with your new ceo — min heejin. you can only smile at her, not so confident as you try to look for a piece of yourself to show off.

"good morning." you tell her, actually she isn't so bad, this isn't your first meeting with her — you remember how shallow your brain was that day, it was a nerve wracking moment for you.

"i'm sorry once again about how sudden the news has been, but i hope you know i'm grateful you accepted it with honesty for yourself. i've given you ample time to decide and you still agreed, i hope you won't change your mind anymore." you appreciate her thoughts but there really isn't any choice left for you to choose, this is just about to be your fate and you're bound to accept it no matter how much you hated it.

you smile at her, not that sincere but you were trained for this.

"oh, i guess i realized that a part of me may have been meant for this. who knows right?" you shrug at her and she returns it with a bright grin.

"i'm so happy, i hope you know why i chose you out of all the trainees there. it's not just because there was no one left but because i think you're the perfect fit, there's something i see in you that i think you don't see in yourself." she says, you're starting to think she's sugarcoating it — because the last time you checked the circumstances it just seems like your old company was in deep debt and needed a sacrificial lamb to pay for it; which turned out to be you.

you chuckle, don't really know whether to believe or not; but it doesn't matter anymore.

"oh really? i personally think that's such a nice thing to say, almost a little too nice." you tell her but she was unfazed, you can see that she's really holding on to her words, like she meant it and that it was genuine.

you cannot interfere.

"yes, i'm quite excited because i'm sure the girls would love you. who wouldn't? i have so much high hopes for you and the future of newjeans, you all would be a hit. everyone will love newjeans." you can't even get mad at how happy heejin looks right now, maybe this is just really her passion.

yeah sure the girls would love you, but how about you? you gloat about the idea of being in a group, you don't want to work with people, the idea of being dragged down or dragging people down sucks. and think about the burden that it is to work with multiple people, you hated that idea.

after all, you've always been alone.

"i don't really know about that, i'm pretty sure they're acquainted with each other and are close but how about me?" you find yourself immediately fiddling with your finger, for some reason you don't know why too but a part of you is quite intimidated of what was coming your way. strangers, new people, new places and a new environment.

"don't worry, the girls are nice and well behaved, they are well put and have manners. if anything, i'm quite confident you'll like them. i gave minji all the instructions needed for tonight."

oh right, you're moving inside the dorm tonight. and you wonder what the girls are thinking.

"i'm excited! i wonder what type of person she is, i mean from the sound of it i'm already expecting that she's very cool." hanni does a finger gun towards danielle's direction, earning a small laugh from the girl as they make their way to the living room. the four girls all sit on the couches around the room, haerin's eyes traces along the floor to the bags and luggages hanging by the corner of the place.

"honestly, all i want is to see her already. i want us to be friends as soon as possible!" danielle beams, minji nods and clasps her hands together, worried but at the same time excited. they didn't have that much information regarding the new addition to the group, all they got from heejin is small details, like she's kind and cute.

it's enough to get the girls going except from a certain feline-like member.

haerin is nervous.

she's been thinking about this since yesterday, laying on her bed she can't get the thought of you finally coming face to face with them, it's been keeping her up since the day it was announced.

she wanted everything perfect the moment you step a foot inside, the place is clean, every nook and cranny, the members look presentable, there should be food already ready, not a delivered food but home cooked meals. haerin does not know why she feels like this but she wanted to make a good impression for the first day.

she's usually lazy, but tonight she made sure everything was in order so that not even the members could notice her weird behavior.

"are you okay haerin?" hyein asks, leaning on the couch while raising a brow at the older girl, haerin nods and makes her way to the kitchen to check the cookies she baked with danielle.

haerin is shy, she tries her best to communicate but sometimes it's very hard, this causes her social life to sometimes be in a rumble, because she's not very talented in talking to people. as someone who is happy to welcome you in the dorm, she's scared she might mess it up because of how awkward and quiet she is.

"haerin~ what are you doing there?" hanni sneaks behind the taller girl and puts her hands on haerin's shoulders. the younger girl is quick to turn her head. "u-uh hey."

hanni laughs and rubs haerin's shoulders. "are you nervous, you seem out of it since yesterday. always so skittish but worse, something bothering you?" hanni asks, smiling at the kang who lets out a small breath but does not reply.

haerin shifts her eyes away, she intertwines her fingers with each other, pursing her lips. "i'm just nervous." haerin whispers, gaining a soft laugh from hanni who then hugs her side. "oh really? you really want this night to be good for her, right?" hanni asks, rubbing her hand on haerin's forearm. haerin couldn't help but blush. "yeah, i didn't really want to say it but — we have to make sure she feels nice and comfortable here with us."

hanni squeals. "gosh haerin you're so adorable. we also think that way, i mean she's going to be our new addition, we'll be together for a long time."

haerin laughs. "i'm just so bothered, i couldn't stop thinking about it for almost a week. i don't want her to dislike me for being awkward." hanni shakes her head and hits haerin gently. "oh come on, she's going to love you like we do. you're like the most adorable girl ever, and you're like a cute cat. i trust our ceo with her choice, she's going to be good. i promise."

when you step a foot inside for the first time, you couldn't help but notice the very warm atmosphere inside the living room. it was empty when you came in with heejin and the smell of fresh food came wafting around the air.

"seems like the girls are busy, i'm going to check on them." you nod at heejin and smile at her. you like how clean the living room is, the colors are nice and the interior is very welcoming. you make your way to one of the couches and take a seat, the mattress sinking with your weight above. your hands are on your knees, you caress your lap to prepare yourself.

"here they are." you look up to see the girls, one by one they come inside with two of them carrying a tray of snacks and the other has water. you stand up and greet them, awkwardly pushing your hands out for a handshake, in which the oldest took oh so eagerly.

"i'm kim minji." her round eyes meets yours, her thick eyebrows take your attention and you can't help but smile at her.

"hi i'm pham hanni! i'm so happy to finally see you!" the shortest girl says, her hands are soft and gentle.

"i'm marsh danielle! you look really amazing! i'm so happy i can just melt on the spot." you laugh at her. "please don't." you mutter with a bit on your bottom lip.

haerin takes a step forward and brushes her hands on her clothes as if dusting the dirt away.

she anxiously takes your hands and shake them, you can't help but notice the way it trembles under your touch and you worry she might be sick the way her face is almost as red as a tomato — her feline-like eyes can't keep themselves from shifting away.

"i— uhm, my name… i'm kang haerin." she whispers but audible enough for you. you like her voice, the most.

you pull your hands away and you see haerin checking her own hands, her irises looks like she's checking out the lines on her palm.

a pair of hands takes yours and shakes them violently. "oh my god! it's really you! i'm so happy! i'm lee hyein!" the tallest girl says, your eyes examine her plum lips and sharp eyes.

you let go of her and gave her a small nod, she's adorable. yeah, you can say they're not that bad overall but… still, you have to make sure — you don't want to live with them for 5+ years still feeling uncomfortable.

the first few days consist of going around the dorm, training and just sitting together eating lunch and dinner.

you like minji the most, you appreciate her mature thinking, she's someone who knows when to be serious and when to joke around. you realize that she's very reliable, like a rock to lean on when the land tilts.

danielle is someone who you can trust when it comes to advice, she's someone who knows her words and has a holistic thinking approach in every situation. she looks on the bright side and sees the bigger picture, always positive and smiling.

haerin is awkward and quiet. but among all the members, she's the one who you're sure can understand you the most.

you like how she doesn't talk a lot when you're alone with her, it's not like you hate when hanni and hyein does it but sometimes, you need a quiet time too. you can tell that she knows you're getting yourself used to the new places, she's always right behind you.

you don't hate her presence, but it's not like you love it too.

things are really awkward with her, it's almost like she gets really skittish when you get near her, her face is always a different shade of red, her eyes are always everywhere but yours.

it makes you double guess if she hates you or not, but to say hate would be too much — maybe she's not used yet?

that must be it.

"hey haerin, can you pass me the remote?" you ask haerin, you look at her there's a small meter separating you and her on the couch. your eyes scan her bothered expression while she reads a book very attentively.

you want to reach for the remote yourself but her figure is blocking the view of the remote from your position. you scoot close to her and clear your throat in order to get her attention. "haerin?"

she doesn't reply. you scoot once again, your shoulder touching hers. haerin shuffles on her seat almost immediately as your bare shoulders touch her and puts her book down while looking at you with wide eyes and blushing cheeks.

"w-what?" she asks.

you look everywhere and smile at her. "i said, can you pass me the remote? i was planning to watch the discovery channel." haerin blinks and nods, closing her lips tight with a sheepish expression.

she moves and reaches for the remote and passes it over to you, but as you hold the remote, your fingers brush against hers causing her to immediately let go of the remote — with you being startled, you drop the remote on the carpeted floor.

"haerin?" haerin looks up at you and she reaches for the remote, then she hands it over to you. you stare at her and watch as she shifts away, pushing a strand of her hair behind her cute red ears.

"you're red." you tell her, haerin scoffs and turns her head away.

"it's nothing."

practice is finally over, you sit on the floor with your eyes scanning over the studio, back against the gigantic mirror. the other four girls are busy taking their time to perfect their moves, trying to polish their steps.

you're still not used to this way, it's harder and you physically can't keep up sometimes.

haerin is a great dancer, you envy and admire her moves and the way she puts her whole self to the music, letting the rhythm guide her body the way the beat intended it to be. you wish you had that kind of talent, you're not that bad but certainly could be better, it's not that hard to admit and you're always open for criticisms.

you feel a presence beside you, you shift your head to see haerin taking a seat next to you, her back also now against the mirror. you smile at the sight of her eyes watching over the other girls, she's sometimes so serious it's always so interesting.

"have you drank water already?" you ask her, seeing as she's still taking time catching her breath, sweat continues to roll over her cheeks. haerin turns her head to you and stretches her lips into a smile. "yes, i'm just taking a short break." you nod and scoot closer to her.

haerin swears she could feel her skin crawl, it's such a weird sensation but it feels funny.

"make it longer, you look tired." you whisper to her, she laughs sheepishly and scratches her cheek, feeling the burst of warmth washing inside of her again. this feels so weird, but she's always like this with you.

haerin pouts for a second only. "you did great." she mutters, eyes finding themselves lost in yours. you smile, nodding. "you did great too, so it's time to rest for a bit." haerin shakes her head.

"no, i mean you really did well. i know you're still bothered and you're always trying, but you're doing great, you're catching up to us already." haerin whispers, almost leaning closer for you to hear her. you shrug, your eyes watches as she looks away, her cheek and left ear close to your lips.

"hmm… really? i wasn't really trained for this." you whisper against her ear, your breath fanning over her skin, causing waves of electricity coursing inside of her, enough to raise the hair in her arms.

your body is close to hers, clothed bodies touching as her arm wraps around your torso, your hands on her knees.

"yeah, but you're already a great singer. dancing would be a piece of cake for you." she tells you but her eyes are still somewhere else, you wonder what part of the thin air must have took her interest. you chuckle, leaning on her shoulder. "really? i still have a lot to learn." you feel her body stiffen to your touch, and as if no one else is inside the room, your hand reaches for her other hand.

haerin shakes her head, now her cheeks are obviously dusted with the color of pink. her sharp eyes are taking your attention, she's like a cat in every form and every way.

have you mentioned before how much you love cats?

how much you might have loved haerin?

because you don't even know that yourself.

"yeah, and it's not just you but everyone of us." you like haerin, maybe just a friend, or maybe more but really, how are you supposed to know?

your relationship went on like that for almost a few more months, and as time passes by, you start to get fond of these feelings for her and haerin starts to realize that she might love you a little too much.

it's the way she's always so giddy, skittish, shy, attentive and conscious about her surroundings when she's with you. she's so aware of every detail about you, those little things and she notes them inside her brain. she's starting to really enjoy staring at your face when you're doing something, even from afar, she takes a short glimpse of your face when you least expect it.

every word you say makes her happy, you're so wise and so good when it comes to choosing the right words to say.

that also what she fears the most, it's not really easy dealing with feelings like these. the thoughts of you keep her wide awake every night, she daydreams of you and sometimes she can't get you out of her mouth.

she likes your perfume, the way you dress, your hair, your eyes, your lips, your cheeks and the way your irises are weak at the sight of haerin.

so many fascinating things about you.

you're really a nightmare dressed like a daydream.

because it's true that haerin loves you, but behind these feelings are the fears of what lies behind the consequences of her actions.

how long does she have to keep this a secret? haerin might get in trouble.

sometimes her heart beats a little too hard for her to calm it down, like it's threatening to rip her chest apart.

"is there something wrong?" you ask haerin, she's been staring at the television for too long, it's already late at night and the television is going static already. you come down from upstairs to find haerin standing in the living room alone, the lights are off and the television is still on but is showing nothing but the colorful display of emptiness.

haerin only moves when you place a hand on her cheek, she looks at you and blinks her eyes.

"don't stare at the tv like that, you're going to get a migraine." haerin rubs her eyes and sighs. you press your hand on her cheeks to feel how warm the skin under your palm is. "are you really okay?" you really can't see her face in the dark, it makes you wonder if she's sick or not but her face is really warm.

haerin shakes her head. "yeah, i'm alright. i just spaced out." the light from the television illuminates both of you, you can only see her eyes and the details of her face.

haerin feels your palm rub her cheek, it makes her feel nervous and putty, like a melted marshmallow.

"how long have you been standing here?" you ask her, pulling your hand off of her face. she feels dread swallowing her when she loses contact with you.

"i don't know, i'm tired and picked up a glass of water but found myself here." you laugh at what she said, your expression made haerin feel dizzy, what makes it worse is that you even thought of placing a hand on her shoulder.

you're so close to her, she can practically feel your warmth embracing her.

"haerin, you're so random. you're tired, right? let's just sleep. come on." you rub your hand on her shoulder and as you're planning to pull your hand away again, she holds it with her hand. "y/n. have i told you something?" haerin asks, her voice sounds serious, but not intimidating.

you raise your brow at her and shake your head. "no, what do you want to say?"

haerin looks down and bites her bottom lip. "uhm, you see. i've been losing sleep a couple of times — since, i don't when but it's been on and off for me. it's just that i can't really find myself, over the past few months, my mind kept on shuffling. you know, i'm so out of it."

you nod, you feel her hand caress your hand, you smile. "nightmares?" if truth be told, the thought of you could be a dream but the circumstances are nothing but a nightmare.

"no. it's because —" pause. haerin takes a deep breath.

"i really, no — i have these thoughts that have been bugging me. y/n, i don't know how things will end after this." she continues, you listen very well, watching the way her eyes move, looking at you then everywhere.

"things will go well after, haerin." you answer her.

haerin nods. "oh, but it's about you. y/n, it's because i like you a lot…" there's nothing but silence, you can tell she wants to say something again but she's hesitating.

"what else?"

haerin locks her eyes with yours, she gulps down the courage.

"i really love you more than just a friend, you know i love everything about you and it's bothering me how if i let these feelings pass me by it's going to bite me back again. i can't just be your friend, that's the thought that i hate. i really hate it." haerin sighs, the hand on her shoulder — she pulls it away and holds it with her two hands.

haerin finds comfort in your presence, you only look at her and smile yet even without any response, haerin still feels comforted by your warmth.

you were always warm, there was never a day where you were cold.

"really? how come i never realized?" you giggle, looking at your hand in hers.

"we were too caught up. i guess?"

the thought that you love her too makes haerin weak, she remembers how nervous she was before because you might dislike her. she's still the same awkward and shy girl, but now she's sure you're her friend.

the only thing left for her to fear is the thought you might not love her the way she loves you.

you shrug. "i guess i was, but either way — i'm sorry for your sleepless nights." haerin looks at you and smiles. you lean close to her and gave her a kiss on her cheek, the sensation made haerin's knees weak.

as surprised haerin was, she can't help but smile.

you stay close to her, your hand and her hands between you and haerin's chests.

"i love you too haerin." you whisper.

haerin laughs, her grin is wide and bright.

you love her.

not just as a friend.

how is she supposed to sleep knowing that you don't just like her, but you also love her? how is she supposed to just stay still?

"don't you want to sleep already? we can leave all the worries for the other day." you mutter, eyes fix on hers.

haerin nods and leans in, forehead touching yours, she whispers back. "where? your room?"

you scrunch your nose. "how about yours?"

haerin shakes her head. "no,"

"why not?"

haerin shifts her eyes away. "because minji said so."

"because it's not cleaned yet? i know you haerin." you tease her, chasing her gaze.

you continue. "let's go. my room. we can cuddle until we fall asleep."

you both make your way upstairs, every step is light, attentive, trying not to catch any attention or make any noise. you let her lead you to your room, opening the door for you.

laughter spills out of your lips as you lay down the bed with her, tucking your bodies under the weighted blanket. you wrap your hand around her torso, burying your head on her neck.

"good night haerin, stay here okay?" you give her another kiss on her cheek, this one isn't a quick peck.

haerin nods, blushing.

"right, good night."

you close your eyes.

"i love you."

haerin hums, closing her eyes too.

"i love you too."

that night you realized how lucky you might have been, that the whole incident might have been a blessing in disguise — how the harsh winds have brought you to meet haerin and newjeans.

you dread it before, but now you can't help but be thankful. you found yourself in another family, finally realizing you aren't alone and you have someone to lean on.

that you have not just haerin but the whole group to share sentiments with.

#female reader #kpop #kpop imagines #newjeans #newjeans imagines #girl group #kpop x female reader #kpop gg #kang haerin #newjeans haerin #haerin x reader #girlgroup imagines

[girlcrushart]

*correction* - I thought about deleting the post but instead will keep it up as a PSA. The image I used of Mila is not a real image if her (just the top half is). This was kindly pointed out to me by the tumblr @stoptheshop which is a good resource if you’re concerned about the photoshopping of celebs into misleading images. It’s not a judgy blog at all… operating more as an fyi, which I appreciate, because ya, I want to know.

Somehow I've never posted Mila Kunis before, which is shocking because I find Mila Kunis unbearably sexy. Part of what makes Mila so sexy is actually her voice, which can't be appreciated here, but thankfully there are many other things here that can be appreciated and also contribute to her unbearable sexiness. The way she sits on chairs. The way she wears shoes. Where she puts her fingers. Oh, and ass dimples. Ass dimples drive me crazy. Somehow I've never seen this pic of her before (oh god I hope it's real) so I wasn't actually aware of her ass dimples, and even without that knowledge I'd assigned her the unbearably sexy label. Now, I believe it would be irresponsible of me to post Mila and not bring up the recent controversy over comments she made in support of a newly-convicted sexual predator who she knew. And ya, pretty bad Mila. Doesn't look good. But, with a lot of things like this, it's hard to know how much of the whole story we actually know (not in terms of whether or not her co-star was in fact guilty of what he was charged with—that I believe 100%)... but how much she knew, what their relationship was, what her motivation for say what she said etc etc. In the end, I think she made a mistake and we all do that. Some just have bigger consequences than others. In the end, she's still unbearably sexy, and that's why I made this poster. Today's girlcrushart guardian is Mila Kunis.

#mila kunis #girlcrushart

[inkdrinkerworld]

Sirius would be everyone’s favorite person and the life of the party at a work function and you just can’t convince me otherwise. he might be a litttttle bit rude to the bitchy coworker that you complain about sometimes bc he’s on your side first and always but other than that he’s having a ball and making sure you’re having a great time too

Yes omg!!

Sirius is scowling softly every time that one co worker interjects in the conversation.

You’re standing beside him, chatting with your favourite co-worker; a never ending drink in your hand as Sirius chats with another one.

“…yeah and she was saying that it’s such a good investment.” You’re nodding along, Sirius’ hand is right above your ass in your linen pants.

“Ohh what are we talking about?” That one co-worker asks, wrinkling her nose as she notices the position of Sirius’ hand.

“Doubt you’d get it,” he mumbles and you press the toe of your shoe into his. Sirius’ hand pinches the fat of you hip.

“A label maker.” He says flatly and your friend snorts.

Sirius is known to have his moods, but it becomes especially transparent when he’s dealing with people he knows are mean to you.

No one is mean to you but Sirius and he isn’t hardly as mean as she is to you.

“What would you use a label maker for?” She asks and your friend rolls her eyes.

“For whatever I wanted. Plus, we’re moving soon so it’ll come in handy then for sure.” You say and Sirius grins, dimple showing in his cheek.

He nods, kissing your temple just to rub it into the little jerk’s face. “Yeah, they’ll be really useful.” There’s subtext there that Sirius hopes she’s able to pick up on.

You shake your head as you hide your smile behind your drink.

#siriusblack #sirius black #sirius black x reader #sirius black x black!reader #sirius black imagine #sirius black one shot #sirius black fanfiction #sirius black fluff #sirius black blurb #sirius black drabble #sirius black fic

[whataperfectwasteoftime]

No Net Ensnares Me

**co-written with @littlebirdsbookshelf**

Pairing: Victorian!Marcus Pike x f!reader 

Rating: Explicit (smut, 18+ only)

Word count: 20k!!!

Warnings: Arranged marriage AU; strangers to spouses to lovers; period-typical views on women, virginity, marriage, and sex; YEARNING, oh so much yearning; Marcus being a dumbass; smut: fingering, virgin!reader, unprotected PIV sex

Authors Note:  The title comes from, no surprises here, Jane Eyre. The book mentioned in this fic, The Transmission of Life, is a real book published in 1873 and is just as hilarious as it sounds. The full pdf is available online if you ever wish to cringe at what is essentially Victorian era sex-ed for men. **Happiest of birthdays to my co-writer, who spent her birthday spending time getting this amaaaaaaaaazing fic ready to post!**

Penny's Masterlist | Morgan's Masterlist

Splash! 

You wince as water hits your skirts before you have the chance to pull them up and out of the way.

Mother isn't going to want to see another dress with mud stains.

It's not your fault–if you could simply wear short trousers like your younger brother, Edward, does in the summer, you could avoid the problem altogether. If he were just a little bit wider in the hips, you could probably steal some. Next summer, perhaps. 

The water burbling in the small stream on the property is cool and refreshing, and the rush of the current makes such a pleasant, soothing sound as it cascades over the little pebbles. You pick one up–a flat, smooth one. You'd once seen Father teach Edward to skip stones, but when you had asked to learn, he had gently chastised you that it wasn't proper. You toss the stone in the same manner you remember seeing them do, but it simply plunks into the water with a small splash, not even skipping once.

With a little huff of laughter, you sit on one of the large boulders on the side of the stream and wiggle your toes around in the water. This is where you feel most at peace. Not at finishing school, where you were forced to endure hours upon hours of dance, embroidery, sewing, and etiquette lessons. Nor at home, where your mother seems to follow you about looking for faults to critique and your father spends all of his attention on raising Edward to be the next man of the house.

No, despite the relentless and unending teasing you’ve endured for it at the hands of your finishing school peers, you feel most at home when you are running free through the woods or cooling your bare feet in the water.

Most unbecoming! 

The words ring loud and clear in your brain, and in your mother’s voice, no less. You aren’t sure why she’s so ridiculously concerned with raising you up to marry off–not when Edward will surely continue in your father’s footsteps, carrying on the family legacy. Besides, you’re quite a few years past marrying age, now, and if your betrothal was so very important, wouldn’t they have shipped you off to the first man that would have you?

You smile wickedly to yourself. Perhaps the problem is that there is no man that would have you. 

Feral creature, your headmistresses had thrown the accusation like so many embroidery needles through fabric. Unmarriageable. Unmanageable. Horrid and brash, like a boy. 

Well, if the shoe fits… you’re happy to languish as an old maid–why, soon you’ll have aged enough to earn the label of eccentric! You snort. An old maid. At twenty-eight. You’ve hardly even left your county; let alone seen anything of the world. You’ve done nothing, traveled nowhere, not even attended university, because such things were ‘not for ladies of your station.’

No, you are quite fine remaining unwed. Being someone’s wife was just one more way for them to entrap you.

Upon your return to the house, your parents are waiting for you in the sitting room just inside the front hall.

"Excellent news, sweetling," your father says as you enter, brandishing a letter. "We’ve had a letter from The Earl! The Pikes have agreed to the union of our two families in marriage."

"Fifteen seems rather young, does it not?" you comment, shooting a look at Edward, who sticks out his tongue. "Not very husbandly behavior, brother."

"Silly child," your mother scolds, never one to find humor in any situation, "the Pikes have only one child; a son. You are to be married to Lord Marcus Pike in a fortnight."

"A fortnight?" The words are practically shrieked as you whirl around to face your parents. 

"Don't shout so, dearest," your mother adds, a false sweetness in her words. 

"He's a good man by all accounts," your father interjects. "Well bred, and of course dreadfully wealthy. It will be a good match for our families."

"Am I to be a meal ticket?" you ask, your voice quieter as you come to grips with the gravity of the situation.

"Sweetling," your father begins, but you back away, horrified. 

"Don't 'sweetling' me," you snap. "Where was my input in any of this? Don't I deserve to know my… my…"

"Fiancé," your brother finishes, unhelpfully.

"I don't know what he looks like," you say. "I don't even know how old he is."

"He's…" your mother glances at the letter again, "eight and thirty."

"And unmarried? What's wrong with him?" you demand.

"Now, now, sweetling. There's nothing wrong with the man."

"How do you know? Have you met him?"

"I–" Your father searches for an answer, but can't seem to find one. 

"We'll all have met in a fortnight," your mother interjects. "So it hardly matters, discussing such things now."

"It matters to me," you mutter. Gathering your skirts in one hand, you start for the stairs. 

"Dearest," Mother cries. "Your skirts!"

"They'll wash," you snap. "I've got bigger things to worry about now, don't I?"

You tramp up the stairs in a huff, ready to throw yourself onto your bed and scream into your pillow, wallowing in the unfairness of it all, but just before you throw the door shut, your mother is there, having followed you.

"I would like to rest–" you offer weakly.

"I feel the need to warn you," she says, pushing past your protest, "that this kind of unladylike behavior will not be appropriate for a married woman of your status. You cannot run about the woods like a feral animal; you will have responsibilities. Duties. We have not yet spoken, you and I, of what it is to please a husband–"

"And we won't begin now," you interrupt. "Mother, I'm tired. I wish to lie down."

You don’t wait for her to leave before collapsing inelegantly on your bed and burying your face in the covers. Blessedly, she says nothing more, leaving you to sulk in your misery.

Married. To a man you’ve never even met. Realistically, you knew this day would come, eventually. At the age of twenty-eight, being unwed was starting to be an unusual condition. All of your peers have been wives for quite some time; most of them already surrounded by children. You suppose you should be grateful to your parents for waiting this long–although you know that part of their apparent difficulty in finding a match was directly caused by your advancing years. The last prospect had declined your father’s offer and had instead asked for the hand of your neighbor’s daughter–who was not yet even twenty years!

You have to admit, that one stung a little–even if you felt nowhere near ready to be someone’s wife. The weight of that responsibility has always felt so suffocating, when all you ever wanted to do was be yourself. You wonder if any other wives ever have the urge to run through the woods at night, wiggle their toes in the middle of a mud puddle, or lay in the grass and stare at the stars.

You’re sure that your betrothed would not want a wife who behaved in such a way.

You create an image in your mind of the man you’re to marry. He must be objectionable, in some way, to have remained a bachelor for so long. Perhaps he’s disfigured, or his breath is horrid, or… oh God–what if he’s cruel?

You shake the thought away–too horrifying to think of. 

With an anxious mind and heavy heart, you manage to fall asleep.

“Straighten your back.”

“I’ve been sitting in a cramped carriage for over three hours,” you remark, trying not to clench your jaw in irritation at your mother’s reminder.

“Well, you’re not in one now, so do try and act like it, dearest.”

You grit your teeth and put an exaggerated curve in your spine, sticking your chin up and looking haughtily down your nose as you, your parents, and your brother walk up the stairs to the manor house currently occupied by Lord Pike, the only son of the Earl of Tennesley.

Lining either side of the stairs are the home’s staff, each bowing and curtsying as you pass them. At the front door, a large contingency awaits–his parents, you presume, perhaps some relatives, and there, standing at the front of the group, is a man.

At first glance, there’s nothing outwardly objectionable about him, as you had feared. He’s dressed smartly in a black frock coat, a maroon waistcoat, and a tie of damask silk neatly centered under his crisply starched collar. As your eyes dart over his figure a second time, you notice the gold albert chain glinting at the left side of his waist, and an amber tie pin tucked neatly below the knot. He’s tall, but not overly so, with dark brown hair that seems to be doing everything it can to escape its styling. As you warily march up the stairs, your feet seeming heavier with every step, you can make out his features. His lips are soft and plush, his eyes dark as he watches your approach. He might be a decade your senior, but his looks are still boyish and youthful. 

He stands rigidly and formally: his arms ramrod straight at his sides, and his chin lifted. His jaw is tense, but you can see the flicker of nervousness in his eyes–an anxiety that matches your own.

It disappears quickly as you walk the final steps to come face to face with him, so much so that you suddenly wonder if you’d simply imagined it in the first place, projecting your own feelings onto the face of a stranger.

The man steps forward to meet you, stiffly extending his hand and clearing his throat. 

“What a privilege and an honor it is to meet you,” he intones, his tone just as uptight as the rest of him. 

For a moment, you’re frozen to the spot–until your mother elbows you in the ribs, hitting the boning of your too-tight corset and making you inhale sharply; it causes you to remember yourself and your manners.

“I am grateful for your generous hospitality, Lord Pike,” you say, your formal tone barely recognizable to your own ears. You extend a gloved hand for him to take, and he does–clasping it gently and drawing it to his lips for a soft kiss.

You drop your eyes, unable to look directly at the action.

“Marcus, please,” he says, much more quietly this time, and without the unbearable rigidity from before. “We are to be wed, after all.”

You don’t know what to say to the man, so you say nothing. 

The two of you stand in silence, almost daring one another to speak first.

“What lovely grounds,” your mother says cheerfully beside you. “So many delightful flowers.”

Lord Pike–Marcus–awkwardly clears his throat for the second time. When he speaks, his voice is formal again, and a touch too loud.

“I had tea prepared for us in the drawing room,” he announces. “You’ve come a long way, you must be in need of refreshment.”

“How very lovely,” you answer, imitating and even exaggerating the man’s too-formal tone. If Marcus notices your mocking, he doesn’t show it, but your mother shoots you a look of warning.

Flanked by your parents, you follow your betrothed to an ornate sitting room. At first, you head straight for one of the single chairs, but at your mother's stern look, you reluctantly sink down onto a loveseat–one whose other cushion is already occupied by one Lord Pike.

He smiles at you, but something about it seems disingenuous. 

"Lovely weather, is it not?"

"I find it rather disagreeable," you answer stiffly, even though the sun is shining and the temperature mild.

"Dreadful," Marcus amends, seemingly wanting to agree with whatever you say. "It smells of rain."

"According to the almanac, it won't rain for another week at least," you counter. 

"Quite true. Tea?" he asks, holding out a delicate cup that looks comically small in his hand.

You take the proffered teacup but don't drink. 

"What sorts of activities interest you?" he asks, with the air of someone who isn't actually interested in the answer.

"I find the process of setting water to boil quite enthralling," you remark, still using the same artificially formal tone. "I like to trim the hedges in the garden by picking one leaf at a time. And you?" You smile sweetly at your betrothed, who looks entirely confused.

"I… I enjoy reading," he stammers, "taking walks of the evening." He glances over at his own father. "Hunts, of course."

"How exhilarating," you gush. "Snuffing the life out of unsuspecting animals sounds thrilling."

Edward snorts into his tea. You don't dare venture a glance at your own parents, who must surely be wondering if the arrangement was going to end within the first five minutes of meeting.

Your brother, on the other hand, delights in Marcus’ apparent anxiety with a sardonic grin.

“So, Marcus, I hear you have traveled the continent quite extensively?” Edward asks with an air of geniality. Beside him on the settee, you try to force a grin down. You know where his line of questioning is headed, having fallen into the same trap yourself many times over. 

“Yes,” Marcus nods, “In that part of the globe, I’ve traveled quite extensively through much of France, Germany, Italy, and the middle east” 

“Ah, then you must be quite excited to hear we’ve been linked to the continent by telephone!” 

Marcus pales, fidgeting surreptitiously with his shirt-cuff. “I can’t say I was aware of that.” 

“It was in the paper at least this last fortnight!” Edward exclaims, feigning surprise and pointedly ignoring the heavy stare of your father from the other side of the room. 

“Well, I…” Marcus fumbles as that steadfast exterior of his cracks for just a moment, revealing the anxiety beneath. In mere seconds, he recovers his constitution, his expression blank and amiable once again. “I am afraid I haven’t spent as much time as I ought on events as of late, though I will be sure to rectify that.” 

“No matter, no matter,” Edmund smiles, putting on the air of a man much older than his years, as is his talent. “You are a very busy man, I’m sure.” 

“Indeed,” Marcus nods, watching you and your brother briefly lock eyes before quickly returning your gazes to your plates. 

"The church in the village, that shall be the venue of the wedding, correct?" your mother interrupts, attempting to salvage the conversation before the table falls into silence. 

"Indeed," Mrs. Pike responds. "It has been decorated handsomely for the occasion, of course."

The two women start their own conversation regarding tomorrow's ceremony, leaving you and Marcus to fall silent. 

"Does the tea not suit you?”

You frown and look over at your betrothed. “Pardon?”

“You have not taken a single sip.”

You stare down at the liquid in the too-ornate cup. In the comfort of your own home, you enjoy sitting by the window and looking out over the garden, a steaming cup of tea in your lap. Here, however, the thought of drinking anything this rigid man gives you turns your stomach.

“I hate tea,” you lie.

Marcus blinks dumbly, taken off-guard by your blunt statement. After a split second of staring, he recovers; he schools his expression back into aloof disinterest. “I sincerely apologise for the misunderstanding. I can have some coffee brought up, or some hot water with lemon. I can arrange for milk–”

“No.”

At your interruption, he falls silent, and doesn’t attempt to speak to you again for the rest of the afternoon. 

When evening falls, you and your family are shown to the guest wing of the manor. You’ll sleep here tonight, but tomorrow… you shudder. Tomorrow, you’ll be sleeping in the bed of a man you barely know, on the night of your marriage.

You lie awake, staring at the ceiling. Edward is already snoring, and your parents’ breaths are deep and even with sleep as well–all three of them apparently unconcerned and unbothered by the fact that, two days from now, they shall ride away in their carriage, leaving their oldest child in the arms of a stranger.

You do not know how long you drift, prisoner to your own rapidly-swirling thoughts, but when sleep finally claims you, your dreams are likewise disquieting.

Your body doesn’t feel like your own. You’re an outside observer, looking down on the girl–woman–in an ornate white dress. 

Part of your lightheadedness, you suppose, is the fault of the corset underneath–laced perhaps a bit tighter than medically recommended. That, combined with the suffocating silk fabric of the wedding dress and the weight of the veil on your head, and you’re hotter and more uncomfortable than you’ve ever felt in your life.

You stand outside the doors to the church like a statue, your expression as grey and somber as stone, when your mother joins you.

“They’re nearly ready,” she explains. “The organist was late.”

You nod, about to place your hand on the door handle, when she stops you.

“Wait. We didn’t talk about—about your duties, about what you should come to expect tonight.”

“Mother–” you mutter, shaking your head, but she continues.

“Please,” she says, her voice softer than you’ve ever heard, making you frown and look at her face–which is etched with concern. “I want you to be prepared. I want you to understand and expect that there will be pain, so that you do not react unfavorably in the moment.”

“Pain?” you repeat, the nerves you didn’t think could grow any higher reaching a crescendo–and just moments before you’re to walk down the aisle.

“It won’t always be painful,” your mother adds. “It may not be enjoyable, but in time, you will come to appreciate it.”

“If it’s not enjoyable, then why do people do it?” you ask pointedly, arching an eyebrow and glowering in her direction.

“He will find it to be enjoyable,” she explains gently. “And it’s your duty as a wife to please your husband.”

With that, she ushers you–stunned and open-mouthed–through the church doors to meet your fate.

The cacophony of the organ is drowned out by your heart hammering in your ribcage as you slowly walk down the aisle. Your betrothed is already there, of course, and staring intently with those deep brown eyes of his. As you enter the room, his lips part almost of their own accord, and he looks almost stunned to see you. 

His gaze is intolerable–boring into you as you turn and face him at the dias, and you wish you could tell him to look somewhere else. The preacher speaks, but you don’t hear the words over the rushing of blood in your ears. Your chest hurts, the top of your too-tightly fitted corset digging into your ribs and your hips painfully, and above all else, you’re simply angry. 

You recite your vows in a monotone, staring blankly at Marcus’s chest as the ceremony proceeds. You don’t even realize the officiant has said the words “man and wife” until Marcus–your new husband–squeezes your hands to get your attention.

“We’re supposed to kiss,” he announces, as if you didn’t understand how a wedding worked.

“Yes,” you agree flatly, but remaining where you are and not stepping closer at all. In the end, Marcus is the one who moves, stepping forward to press a stiff, chaste kiss on your unpuckered lips. 

And just like that, you’ve become somebody’s wife.

You don’t know how you’re supposed to eat anything, trussed up the way you are. You barely have room for air, let alone any of the mountains of food on the table in front of you. You push some potatoes around your plate with your fork, listening to Marcus make unbearable small-talk with your father. His mother and yours are deep in a discussion about embroidery, and your brother is telling Marcus’s father about his schooling. You’re the only one without a conversation partner.

"Is the food not to your liking?"

It takes you longer than usual to realize someone is speaking to you. You glance up and realize that your new husband is watching you with concern written all over his face. 

"What?"

"The food," he repeats. "You've barely eaten."

"Not hungry, I suppose," you lie. You're starving, but the cursed undergarments your mother forced you into are digging into your stomach uncomfortably already.

"Better eat up," Marcus's father says with a laugh. "You'll both need your energy!"

The men at the table erupt with laughter, alongside a few tittering giggles from the other married ladies in the room, but you and Marcus sit awkwardly silent and unsmiling. 

"Indeed, we've kept these two newlyweds apart for long enough," your mother adds, as though the two of you are deeply in love and not mere strangers until just yesterday.

With your heart in your throat, you allow yourself to be ushered up and away from the table by Marcus’ mother. She leads you through the large manor house, chattering gently at your elbow. If you had any room in your mind to think much about her, you might have thought she was attempting to be kind–removing you for a while from the icy gaze of your mother–but your thoughts are too full of dread to take much notice of her. With a small smile, she takes your hands in hers and bids you a good night, informing you that Marcus would join you in only a moment. 

Then, down another corridor, she disappears. 

Again, anger simmers up inside you at the fact that you’ve been left like a child waiting to be collected from school. However, instead of waiting for your governess, you’ve been left to wait for your husband to collect you, as if you were no more than a piece of chattel to be moved from one location to the next. 

Still, you don’t dare move from in front of the large oak doors. 

At either side of you, the corridor stretches out, funneling all sounds down toward you. You can hear other family members retiring for the night, guests finding their rooms, and the soft, whispering chatter of staff and maids as they receive instruction. 

One voice you recognise out of the rest–the voice of your mother somewhere to your right. You listen, straining to hear her words as she speaks in quiet tones to some other unknown person. 

“Ensure that in the morning you personally collect the linens from the room,” she murmurs, her voice fading as she disappears somewhere into the unfamiliar halls of the house. “Any sheets are to be brought to myself and the countess so it may be proven that she wed her only son to a proper young lady of good morals.” 

With that, your anger boils over. It becomes a growing, frothing thing in your stomach, filling you up until you think you might scream out at the indignity of it all. 

Does the whole house know of the humiliation you are about to suffer? Are they all listening at keyholes and in servant corridors? It seems that even the most intimate moment of your life is to be a public spectacle! 

Before you can stalk after her in a fit rage, heavy steps to your left freeze you in your place. 

Your new husband and his father–who looks a little worse for drink, in your opinion–round the corner of the corridor to your left. 

Something akin to relief passes across Marcus’ expression. 

The Earl, leaning over to his son, whispers something in his ear–something that has your new husband forcing a smile. Without a word to you, he politely bids his father a pleasant evening before gently guiding you into his bedroom with a hand at your lower back. The moment the door closes behind you, however, he immediately moves away, nearly retreating across the room, and his smile falls.

“I would not–” he swallows, looking down at the floor. “I cannot, in good conscience, accept a partner who is unwilling,” he murmurs.

“I am willing, my lord,” you say stiffly, because you know it’s what you’re supposed to say. Inside, however, your heart is racing as you remember your mother’s words from earlier. I want you to understand and expect that there will be pain, so that you do not react unfavorably in the moment. You suppress a shudder of nerves.

Marcus’s eyes shoot up to meet yours, his gaze dark and discerning. 

“No,” he says softly. “No, I do not believe that to be true.”

It’s your turn to swallow and look at the floor. It’s not–of course it isn’t. You’d rather sleep in this corset all night than consummate your marriage, but surely, if like your mother said, he’d find the act enjoyable, he would want to fulfill this expected–and anticipated–duty? You shake your head, not understanding, but Marcus doesn’t budge.

“Listen,” he entreats. “I cannot ask such a thing from you. You can have your own quarters if you like, after everyone leaves. I had a wing of the manor prepared; it can be yours, all yours, if you’d rather not share–well, if you’d like your own space.”

You nod, too stunned to speak at first, but then you remember: “But how will we… the sheet,” you say weakly.

Marcus smiles–and you realise that it looks different than all the other expressions on his face that you’ve witnessed thus far, but you’re not sure why. You watch, confused, as he strides over to a small cabinet and opens it, withdrawing a small vial.

“What on earth–” 

“It’s paint,” he explains. “A bit of crimson pigment. We spill a few drops on the sheet, and no one will know the difference.”

“Why–” you begin, shaking your head in disbelief. “Why would you do such a thing? Lie to our families?”

“I’ve made quite a few vows today already, but I’d like to offer one more to you now,” your husband says quietly. “I vow to never hurt you. I vow that I will never share this bed with you unless you wish it. You are to be my partner in life–equals–and I will not take that which isn’t enthusiastically offered to me. On my life, I swear this to you.”

The man’s sincerity stuns you into silence. He stares at you entreatingly, his eyebrows upturned and his eyes wide with uncertainty.

“Is this… amenable, to you?” he asks awkwardly, holding up the vial of red pigment again.

“Y-Yes,” you answer, nodding quickly. “Yes. I–thank you.”

You watch, fascinated, as Marcus pulls out a little eyedropper and spills a couple of droplets on the sheet. The colour stands out sharply against the white fabric, and you find yourself entranced by the way it bleeds into the fibers of the material. 

“There,” he says simply, replacing the lid and hiding the vial in the cabinet again. 

You take a deep, relieved breath in. Or you try to–it feels as though your lungs can only inflate to half of their capacity. You have to get out of these torturous clothes. 

“Would you ring for a maid to assist me with my outer garments?” you ask, your voice stiff with formality again as you grapple with the prospect of undressing in front of a near stranger. Although you’ll be able to keep your chemise on, shedding your outer layers still brings more vulnerability than you’re comfortable with.

“That would surely give our little game away,” Marcus says with a little half-smile, “and alert the entire manor to what we aren’t doing.”

“Oh.” You stare down at the floor again. He’s right, of course. 

“You’re uncomfortable,” he observes quietly. “You’ve hardly been able to breathe all evening.”

“My mother was a bit ambitious with the laces,” you say dryly. 

“Let me help,” Marcus pleads softly. “I–I’ll be careful, and I won’t… look, or anything but I–you can’t possibly sleep in all of that.” He takes a cautious step toward you, his expression open and unguarded as he approaches. “Simply say the words, and I’ll–”

Rather than speak, you turn your back to him, wordlessly offering the row of tiny buttons on your wedding dress for him to undo. He doesn’t speak either, silently starting at the top of the row and gently working his way down. The quiet is almost companionable as he works, undoing button after button until he’s able to carefully draw the garment down your shoulders.

“Good heavens, this thing weighs a ton,” he muses, letting the ornate white fabric crumple to the floor in an inelegant heap. “How on earth do you stay upright with all these skirts as well?”

Despite your anxious and dour mood, you cannot stop the quiet laugh that escapes your lips at his gentle teasing. 

“We womenfolk are secretly stronger than anyone realises,” you joke as you begin removing your petticoats and your bustle cage, letting them all pool at your feet before stepping out of them. 

“I’m certain that’s the truth,” your husband responds, a small smile colouring the tone of his voice, softening it.

With your underclothes now out of the way–save for your chemise and drawers–you can feel the warmth of Marcus’s hands as they come to the laces of your corset. 

“My God, this is–” he murmurs with a frown. “However do you endure such a thing?”

You shrug, not knowing how to answer. It’s not like you had a choice in the matter.

“I had no idea,” he whispers. “I’m sorry.” He quickly loosens the garment, his hands working far quicker than they had while unbuttoning your dress in his apparent urgency. As you undo the hooks at the front, he helps to draw it away from your body and then casts it aside with a soft tsk. “If you’d like to burn it, I would gladly supply you with a match.”

“It’s my finest corset,” you remark, tipping your head back and taking in your first full breath since that morning, sighing in relief as you stretch at the waist, finally unencumbered by boning meant to keep you upright. 

“An oxymoron,” he says dryly. 

Suddenly remembering himself, Marcus steps back comically fast, turning around and averting his eyes in your state of undress. Cheeks heating with embarrassment, you quickly rid yourself of your shoes and dart over to the bed, pulling the covers up to your chin.

You keep your eyes fixed on the ceiling as you listen to the sound of your new husband undressing. You can only glance out of the corner of your eye as he slips into bed beside you, and you realise he's still wearing his undershirt and trousers just before he extinguishes the lamp.

Marcus’s bed is large enough that a wide gulf of unused mattress spreads out between the two of you, even without hugging the very edge of it–which you do. You curl into yourself, listening to the unfamiliar sound of another person breathing beside you as you attempt to relax your body and mind enough that sleep will claim you.

It's a big undertaking; your mind continues to whirl for what seems like hours before you feel the pull of dreams.

Neither you nor Marcus speak again until morning. 

Come daylight, Marcus calls for the footman to have your things brought to his room, immediately excusing himself to give you privacy as you wait for your lady’s maid–your own having been relieved of her position by your parents despite your protests. She introduces herself as Bridget in a somewhat anxious voice. She’s about the same age as yourself; meek, though she has a warm smile as she shows you to the ladies bath and dressing room. Through the door, you watch another maid enter and begin her duties. Another maid, this one obviously of higher rank, gathers the bedding to be washed, and you watch as the little red stain is carried out of the room. 

"Are you feeling well this morn, Lady Pike?" your lady’s maid asks timidly as she begins setting out your clothing.  

"Quite well," you answer tightly, hoping the waver in your voice doesn't betray you. 

Once dressed in your favorite maroon day-dress, your new husband escorts you to the dining room for a small breakfast before your families depart. The meal is dreadfully awkward; every head in the room is turned toward the two of you as you pick politely at a piece of toast. You know your mother would disapprove if you attacked your food with the hunger you secretly felt–having not eaten a true meal since yesterday morning. You wonder to yourself if the breakfast will still be available when everyone leaves and you can gorge yourself freely.

You sneak a glance at your husband. Would he think you rude, too? 

Perhaps you could steal down to the kitchens later and help yourself. Besides, if there is  anything finishing school has taught you, it is that being on the side of the staff will make your life exponentially easier. 

Again, neither you nor Marcus speak to one another. He’s stiff and formal again, and you suddenly find yourself longing for the way he spoke to you last night when you were finally alone–for the first time since meeting. The upright rigidity with which he holds himself in public was gone, then–replaced with concern, sincerity… and warmth. 

He had looked upon you with kind, understanding eyes. Eyes that are now staring at the food on his plate with vague disinterest.

Finally, after Marcus’ own family has departed, your parents prepare to take their leave. You hug each of them in turn, before wrapping Edward in a tight embrace. 

“Be good,” you whisper to him, your voice filled with emotion. “Don’t neglect your studies. Don’t play pranks on your tutors.” 

“What if they’re very good pranks?” your baby brother whispers back.

You laugh quietly, and a lone tear escapes, rolling down your cheek. “Only if you promise to describe it in detail in your letters.”

“I will if you promise to not turn into an old, boring hag, now that you’re married,” he returns.

“By my life, I shall be just as difficult as before.”

You watch your family depart with shining eyes, willing your tears to hold themselves at bay until you can retreat to your own chamber–wherever it may be–and cry in private. For now, you force a smile on your face and join your new husband in waving farewell as the last of the wedding guests depart, leaving the two of you alone.

“Never have I been more relieved to see the departure of guests,” Marcus remarks beside you. 

Your mirth takes you by surprise, and a watery giggle escapes your lips even as another tear falls.

He turns to look at you, his brow furrowing in concern as he sees your tears. 

“We shall visit often, if you would like,” he says quietly. “And we can have them over anytime you please.”

You nod, not trusting yourself to speak. You’ll miss them, of course, but it’s the finality of the situation that’s truly the source of your grief. You’re alone. In an unfamiliar house. With a stranger.

Your husband.

“I should like to show you around,” he says carefully. “If you’re amenable to such a thing? Or if you’d rather I begin and end the tour with your chambers, I’d be more than happy to do so.”

Your first instinct is to immediately lock yourself in your quarters and never come out, but before you can tell him, a moment of clarity causes you to pause. You could certainly spend this day and all your days sulking in your rooms, but in the end, the only one that hurts is you. That’s no way to live in your own house, now is it?

“It is quite a large manor,” you say carefully, “and I’ve yet seen very little of it.”

A wide, toothy smile spreads across your new husband’s face, and you finally realise what’s different about this particular expression: 

It’s completely and utterly genuine.

“Of course.” He seems surprised that you agreed to his request, but he quickly schools his expression into one of practiced formality–although his eyes still twinkle with mirth as he offers you his arm. “My lady.”

Despite yourself, you offer him a small smile and carefully tuck your hand into the crook of his elbow, and, placing his hand over your own, he gently guides you back inside.

Though your new husband’s manor house is quite large, it’s older and far less grand than most country houses you’re used to–houses filled to the brim with highly polished marble, bright rooms, and brightly dyed drapings that hurt your eyes. The main halls and the rooms used most often by guests have obviously been updated quite beautifully to suit current fashions, but as you allow Marcus to lead you slowly through the house, you see that the smaller halls and rooms used only by the sole owner of the home have remained mostly untouched. The tapestry lined rooms are somewhat dim, but at the same time they are cozy and warm–reminding you of the castles and knights that your governess used to tell you stories of to help you fall asleep.

The silent and unmoved man you married disappears once again, and the excited, talkative man that piques your curiosity takes his place. Marcus points out where additions have been made over the centuries, where old stone walls have been rebuilt and repaired, where the original 12th century walls once stood. He tells you stories of boyhood summers here, of the nooks and crannies of this old house that he explored as a youth. 

It isn't until the tour of the home is entirely over that you finally gather up the courage to speak. 

“If it is not too much to ask, why do you live apart from your family? Surely your father has a much larger and grander home than this?”

“That he does,” Marcus says, politely taking your hand as he leads you down the stairs. “Although I cannot call it home. I recall very little of my time there as a young boy. Once I was old enough, I went to Eaton for my schooling, then on to Cambridge.” 

“That I can understand,” you answer. “I never felt much at home in my own house, and most of my girlhood was spent away at school.” 

Your husband nods, falling silent again for a brief moment. He seems to be turning words around in his mind, or perhaps deciding whether or not to speak or to move on.

“This house was my uncle’s–my father’s younger brother,” he begins, quieter and less assured than before. “He was a bachelor all his life, and so he was almost a second father to me, just as I was the son he did not have… and when he died, he left the manor and the land to me. He knew I’d get far more use from it than anyone else–that I would find a home in it, rather than just another house.” 

At the bottom of the stair, your husband stops, his hand still holding onto yours. 

“I want you to feel at home here, just as I do,” Marcus says. “For it is your home too, after all.”

“And yet one door remains closed to me,” you remark, thinking of the one room you had passed by without entering.

“Oh, that’s nothing,” he chuckles, shaking his head. “Just my–my study.”

“Oh.” you look down at your hands. “Of course. I–I apologise, I overstepped.”

“No,” Marcus says emphatically. “No, of course not it’s just–”

“–private.”

“–messy.”

The two of you speak at the same time.

“Oh.”

“I–here, let me show you.” Grabbing your hand, Marcus pulls you down a side corridor, back to the large oak doors that had remained closed. 

On opening the door, your husband lets you step into the room first, though you find yourself frozen at the sheer overwhelming number of things to look at. The room is littered all about with papers and open books on every available surface. Workbenches and small tables are scattered about haphazardly, and pressed up against the single window sits a grand desk covered over with test tubes, flasks, bunsen burners, and the like, making the room look more like a chemical laboratory than a gentleman’s study. There’s a comfortable armchair tucked into one corner of the room, and a well-worn sofa in another corner. Each wall is lined with tall bookshelves that reach right up to the ceiling, packed with every sort of books you could imagine, interspersed with artifacts and small sculptures. 

However, what captures your immediate attention is the two large easels stood side by side against one wall, yet another table holding a curious brass instrument between the two of them. 

On each easel stands a painting which, to your eye, looks identical to the other. 

"Why do you have two of the same painting?" you ask.

"Oh!" Marcus looks excited as he stands by your side and joins you in staring at the wall. "It's quite the interesting story. See, one of these artworks is worth hundreds of thousands of pounds. The other is a rather convincing fake someone was trying to sell off to the British Museum."

"Which one is which?"

"Ah, that's the question, isn't it!" Your new husband claps his hands excitedly, looking more animated than you've ever seen him. "And it's a question that stumped even Scotland Yard. But look!" he dashes over to a paint-splattered workbench, which is covered with hundreds of little vials and dishes. 

"At what am I looking?" you ask, eyes raking over the untidy desk with a confused frown. 

"Pigment analysis. If you take samples from each canvas, you'll find that one was made with the most high-quality oils, and the other with a cheap imitation."

"What… what is all of this?" you ask, inspecting the little vials scattered all over the table.

"Paint. It's… my specialty, in a way."

“Your specialty,” you repeat.

“In my travels, the subject that has always interested me the most is art,” Marcus explains. “My uncle left an extensive collection, of course, but what truly fascinates me is the thriving market for forgeries.” He walks over to his desk and retrieves a pile of papers, looking down at them with an eager expression as he talks. “Do you know how many museums around the world have fallen victim to an extraordinarily convincing fake?”

“Quite a lot, I’m guessing?” you answer with a shrug.

“So many!” he exclaims, smiling happily at your response. “It intrigued me. I began to study the techniques of forgery; how to determine the genuine from the counterfeit. I’ve worked with the British Museum, with the Louvre, the Alte Pinakothek in Germany…”

“So you are a detective?” you ask, astounded at this new revelation about the man you’d just married.

“I am… an independent contractor, I suppose you’d say,” Marcus answers, picking up a test tube of old paint and examining it as he talks. “I’ve worked with the police in various countries, but I also take cases from individual collectors across the continent. I’ve invented several different methods of pigment analysis, as you can see.” He pauses, taking in your bewildered expression. “You think me strange,” he chuckles, though you can hear the self-deprecation clear through his geniality. 

“Yes.”

If he’s hurt by your blunt answer, he doesn’t show it. Slowly, ever so slowly, he approaches you–as one would a wild animal. You stare at him as he stops in front of you–closer than he had been at your wedding–and gently takes both of your hands in his.

“I know I’m nobody’s first choice,” he says softly, staring down at your clasped hands. “I know you had little say in the matter. But I hope–” his breath stutters, “–I hope you can eventually see me as a companion. That we could become friends, even. I would only wish for you to be happy here. You will want for nothing–not if I can help it. Anything you desire, anything you wish for, you will have it.” 

“I can’t say I want for many things. Books. A garden I can disappear into whenever I please.” 

“My library is yours. Anything you wish to read.”

Your eyes rake over his cramped shelves hungrily. “Are you certain?” 

“Of course,” Marcus answers, sounding surprised. “What is mine is now also yours, now that we are man and wife.”

“Oh,” you intone quietly. Of course–you didn’t even think of the possibility that these books could be considered yours as well.

“I’d like to show you one more thing,” your husband says softly, interrupting your train of thought.

“Of course.”

He extends his arm, and you take it again, surprised at how natural it feels for your hand to be gently enclosed at the crook of his elbow. You walk together down the stairs of the front hall and outside.

“The grounds are quite extensive,” Marcus explains as you walk. “It would take quite some time to explore them all, but in light of our conversation, I want you to see something.”

You walk for what seems like ages, until you come up to an old and obviously unused garden. Unlike the rest of the immaculate landscaping, this portion has grown over quite a bit with vines and weeds, although the structure is still sturdy, if weathered by age.

“This section was my uncle’s garden. It has fallen into disrepair, obviously,” he remarks. “But with a bit of care, it could be a beautiful little hideaway once again. It’s private, lush, and a perfect place to disappear into any time you wish for an escape.”

Your hand comes up to cover your mouth, touched as you are by the man’s thoughtfulness, and also at the trust he bestowed in you by giving you free roam of something that once belonged to his beloved uncle.

“It can be yours to do as you please,” he continues. “Any type of greenery you wish, any decoration you desire. You can set one of the groundskeepers to toil in it, or you can do the work yourself if you prefer. Anything you want or need–it’s yours.”

“I’d like to do the work myself, if that’s all right,” you tell him quietly. “I’d–I’d like a project. Something to occupy my days.”

“I fully understand,” Marcus says with a smile, and you smile too–thinking of his chaotic study.

He pulls out his pocket watch and examines it. “Would you look at that,” he remarks. “It’s lunchtime.”

Your stomach rumbles loudly–and to your mortification, Marcus hears it.

"Hungry?" he chuckles. 

"By either etiquette or corset, I have not had a proper meal since yesterday morning," you say truthfully. 

Marcus’s mouth falls open. "Surely you jest."

"I'm afraid not."

"And I've had you walking all over the countryside," he mutters to himself. "For goodness' sake, come eat."

You take his arm again–leaning against him somewhat, because you are rather dizzy–and trek back to the manor.

The luncheon is quite meager, not intended to be a proper meal, but Marcus quickly pulls one of the footmen aside.

"If you could, George, have Mrs. Stoker prepare a second course for luncheon? I think we will require quite a bit more than what she prepared," he tells him, eyes flicking anxiously toward you. "The poor thing is famished, please."

As the footman nods and retreats from the room, Marcus guides you to a chair and pulls it out for you to sink down. He immediately hands you a piece of bread and butter, which you accept and start to chew gratefully, no longer caring about proper etiquette. 

You tear through all the food on the table, refilling your plate when the footmen bring more as requested by your husband. He digs in too, and the two of you eat in content silence for quite some time before he speaks again.

"I've neglected you. I'm sorry."

You shrug your shoulders dismissively. "It is quite alright."

"A good husband should see to the needs of his wife," Marcus says seriously, and for some reason, the words cause warmth to course throughout your body.

You don't know what to do with the feeling, so you push it–and him–away. 

"I don't need someone to fuss over me," you remark shortly.

"Of course," he says immediately. "I'm sorry. In truth, I don't know how to be a good husband. I regret the many mistakes I will surely make."

"In this, we may be a good match," you comment. "I know nothing of being a wife, and I fear I may be a lousy one."

"I don't think you possibly could be," Marcus says, so softly that the words are barely audible in the room.

Taken aback by the quiet sincerity in his voice, you suddenly want nothing more than to be by yourself. After all, you haven’t had a single moment alone in days, and you find yourself longing for solitude. 

"I should like to retire to my bedroom for a little while to rest," you announce, standing from your chair abruptly. Marcus stands too, ever clinging rigidly to etiquette. You give the man a curt nod before turning and fleeing from the room.

When the door to your bedroom clicks shut behind you, your chest heaves in relief, and you sink down to the floor where you stand, too emotionally exhausted to go any further.

Looking around the room, you note that your trunks have already been opened, your things put away. The work of the manor's servants, you think with a sigh. This, more than any other of the overwhelming events of the past two days, makes your situation feel real. You live here, now. All your belongings are here. 

With a shaky breath, you stand and begin to look around the room, starting with the little writing desk by the large bay windows. Lifting the lid, you find that all of your stationary and ink has been put away in the little compartments and shelves within. Despite your exhaustion, you smile. Whoever had put your things away had done it in almost exactly the same manner as you would have done yourself.

Even more curious now, you continue walking around the room. What few books your parents had allowed you to own have been put away on the bookshelves. Mostly etiquette manuals, you found their value in making witty annotations and jokes in the margins. Your journals are here also, and you open the oldest one, smiling sadly at the careful cursive of your seventeen year-old self. 

Putting that one aside, you instead pick up the one on the other end with the deep blue cover and only around half of the pages filled. Head over-full of thoughts and worries, you sit down at the little desk to write.

"Your Lady!" a timid voice calls out, interrupting your reverie some time later. 

“Who is it?” 

“It is Bridget, your lady.” 

“Oh, yes, come in!” you call back, quickly trying to wipe away the frustrated tears that have escaped at steady intervals as your pen scraped across the paper of your journal.  

You turn to see the young woman smiling at you expectantly with her hands clasped in front of her body. 

"It is about time to get you dressed for dinner, your lady," Bridget announces, already headed for the smaller bath and dressing room adjoining your bedroom. 

Dinner is a formal affair, just as it was at your parents' home. Your new lady's maid helps you to dress in one of your nicest gowns and pulls your hair back into delicate plaits that cascade down your back.

You meet Marcus in the large banquet hall. Despite having seen each other just a few hours before, he takes your hand in greeting and kisses it gently. 

"My lady."

"My lord," you return stiffly, wanting to remain aloof.

He appears as though he has more to say, but he suddenly shuts his mouth and extends his arm. "Shall we?"

Unlike the lunch parlor, the dinner table is long and foreboding. You sit at one end, and Marcus sits at the other, so far apart that you can’t distinguish his expressions–nor his words. 

"What?" you call out in response to something you didn't understand. 

"The soup is quite good!" Marcus repeats, raising his voice so that it rings out in the large, formal dining room. 

"Yes!" you return at the same volume. "I wanted to thank you, husband, for taking me to see that garden earlier. It truly meant–"

"What?"

"I said—oh for goodness' sake." You abruptly stand, causing Marcus to shoot to his feet as well. He, along with the footman, watches in alarm as you grab your cutlery and march down the endless table and sit down in the seat next to him, instead.

He seems stunned beyond words, at a loss of how to respond to your actions. You help yourself to another serving of ham while he hesitantly sinks back down into his seat.

"This is quite a large table," you comment lightly. "I prefer to be able to hear my dinner-mates."

"I usually eat in the drawing room," Marcus confesses quietly. "This room is too large and formal for one man."

"It is hardly different with two."

"That settles it," he says, smiling. "Tomorrow we shall have dinner there, instead. The sun comes in through the windows at this time of evening; it's quite lovely in there at this hour."

You cast your eyes around the banquet hall. It's an interior room; all the lighting comes from the lamps on the walls. It might be the grandest space in the entire manor, but to you, it’s stuffy and imposing.

"I would like that, my lord."

"Marcus."

"...Marcus."

Your new husband smiles, the corners of his eyes crinkling with contentment.

"May I ask a question of you, Marcus?"

"Of course."

"I'd like to know more about the pigment analysis you were talking about earlier, and the scientific method. I find it quite fascinating."

Marcus’s eyes widen in surprise and confusion. "Truly?" 

"Why, of course. My father forbade me from learning such things–said science was too complex for a woman's brain to handle."

"Nonsense. I know of quite a few women in the scientific field who could best some of the most learned scholars.” His voice rings out in the room with a conviction that surprises you–and him. Blinking rapidly, he continues, quieter and more cautious. “I could teach you," he offers quietly. "If–if you'd like."

"You would do that?"

"Of course! We can go there after dinner. I can have coffee and a light dessert sent up for us as well."

You find yourself smiling–really, truly smiling–for the first time since coming here. Eating sweets after dinner? Reading books? Discussing science? It's everything your parents used to forbid in one single evening.

"I would like that," you tell Marcus, and he grins back. 

You stay in his study until the last candle burns down to the wick. When the light flickers, the man looks up from his book in alarm and looks at his pocketwatch.

"Good heavens, it's nearly midnight. Come, let me walk you to your rooms," Marcus says quietly. 

"Oh, but I'm still–" you protest, clutching your own book defensively. 

“Take it with you,” he insists. “Take an entire armful, and then come back tomorrow for an armful more. I meant what I said–these books are yours, too.”

In the end, you only leave with the one you’re currently looking through. You tuck it under one arm and slip your other hand into the crook of Marcus’s elbow, allowing him to escort you through manor and back to the rooms he’s designated to be yours. After bidding you good night, he gently takes your hand in his, bringing it to his lips for a soft kiss.

“Thank you,” you say quietly. “For the book, the–the garden, for… everything, really. I was afraid I would be quite sad today but… I had a nice time.”

Something about your words causes Marcus to stiffen. Gone is the excitement in his smile as he had explained his experiments with pigment. Gone is the fondness in his eyes as he had told you to take every book in his study if you so desired. Gone is the warmth against the back of your hand; he drops your hand and clears his throat awkwardly.

“It is quite late,” he remarks stiffly. “Far too late to be up wandering the halls. Sleep well, my… my wife.” His expression, just before he turns and marches back the way he came, is troubled. 

Confused by the sudden change in his character, you open the doors with a frown and slip inside your chambers.

A strange man, indeed.

The days that follow surprise you in their companionability. You and your new husband fall into a pleasant routine: You have breakfast together before retreating to your separate occupations–you to toil in the garden and he to his study to work on his cases. After a light lunch, he will often accompany you on the grounds, complimenting the rapid metamorphosis from overgrown weeds to flowers and shrubs, neatly planted in a row and perfectly maintained. When you tire of gardening, you join him in his study–sometimes simply reading in his leather armchair while he works at his desk, and sometimes listening curiously as he explains his methods.

As Marcus had promised, you have quickly grown to see him as a companion of sorts. His company is pleasant, his conversation enjoyable. He is, on occasion, dreadfully formal–but you like to hypothesize that this is more a product of his upbringing than a true indicator of his personality. 

It does grate on you, though–especially when the weight of expectation seems to stop his mirth dead in its tracks. He will laugh at something silly you’ve said or done, and then abruptly clear his throat and look away, making you feel as though he finds your joking distasteful. 

You enjoy him most in his study. He seems most at home among the chaos of the room, and it is where he is most likely to forget himself–becoming animated and eager rather than stiff and unsmiling. True to his word, he teaches you; reading introductory tomes on the scientific method and recreating some of the experiments outlined within. Despite your inexperience in this field, Marcus never talks down to you–he seems to delight in having a conversation partner, especially one who takes interest in the same subjects.

In the evenings, you dine in the less-formal parlor rather than the banquet hall you detest so. The sun illuminates the entire room, sending multicoloured prisms across the table wherever a beam hits the crystal glassware. 

Before the sun sets entirely but after the summer heat of midday has abated, you stroll across the grounds on Marcus’s arm. He tells you of his upbringing, of his schooling, and of his travels across the continent, and you cannot help but listen with rapt attention. You study his face in profile, following the line of his aquiline nose and watching the shape of his lips as he speaks. The evening light bathes his skin in golden light and makes his dark eyes appear almost amber.

You cannot deny that your husband is quite a handsome man.

Yet every night, Marcus escorts you back to your quarters, presses a soft, warm kiss on the back of your hand, and quietly–and formally–bids you goodnight. Not once does he ask for your company, nor does he ever seem to touch you anywhere else but your hands. A large part of you is grateful, of course, but a much smaller–and quickly growing–part of you is beginning to wonder if your marriage will remain a chaste, cautious friendship for all of your days. 

It is the same part of you that pretends to feel the warmth of his lips on your hand hours after he’s wished you goodnight.

Approximately a month after your arrival at Pike Manor, your husband announces over breakfast that he has been called to London for a case. 

“When are you to leave?” you ask, looking up in surprise.

“Right away; I should be on the road already, but I did not want to be hungry for the journey.”

“I see.” You nod, choosing to ignore the pang of jealousy in the pit of your stomach at the prospect of seeing the city. “I wish you great success in your sleuthing.”

Marcus grins. “It’s quite an interesting one,” he says, taking a folded letter out of his waistcoat pocket. “Several paintings intended for auction at Sotheby’s have simply disappeared into thin air, only to be mysteriously replaced several days later.”

“Why on earth would the thief bring them back?” you ask, intrigued. “Unless… oh! You don’t believe they were truly returned, do you? They were replaced with forgeries.”

Your husband’s smile widens. “Such an astute observation, indeed. That is why I have been called to investigate.” Stuffing the last of his breakfast into his mouth rather inelegantly, he stands and walks hastily to the front hall.

“I may be back quite late in the evening, so do not feel the need to wait up for my return,” Marcus says, pulling on his ulster coat at the door. “While I am in the city, is there anything you should desire I retrieve for you?” 

“None that comes to my mind,” you answer cordially. “Have a good trip.” 

“I think I am beginning to learn your little expressions. Come, be truthful with me.” A mischievous, teasing look twinkles in his dark eyes, a hint of a smile tugging at one corner of his mouth. “Anything you desire shall be yours. That was my promise, was it not?” 

Your face heats. “It was.”  

“Then I shall ask again, is there anything you are wanting of?” 

“If it isn’t much trouble, could you bring back some blank notebooks and…maybe more ink?”

“The ink you use to write your letters?” 

“Yes. If it isn’t any trouble, of course. I could retrieve the empty bottle for you if–” 

“No need, I already know the one you’re speaking of. I’ll return with a new bottle and a spare for you.” 

“Thank you, husband.” 

Hesitatingly, Marcus leans toward you. Then, with the utmost caution, he leans down and presses a single chaste kiss to your cheek. 

The soft press of his lips to your skin sends a little thrill through you, rooting you to the spot where you stand. When he straightens up once more, the softest of expressions washes over his features. 

“I shall send a wire should I be kept in the city any longer than expected,” he says, reaching out to give a gentle squeeze to your hand. “Have a good day, my darling.” 

His affectionate endearment has your heart fluttering in your chest, unsure if you should smile or if you should pull away. 

“I shall. Have a safe journey, Marcus.” 

You watch through the curtains as the carriage pulls away from the manor and eventually disappears from sight. Only when you can see no trace of your husband do you slowly bring your hand to your cheek, pressing lightly against the spot where his lips had touched.

You sit in your chamber and attempt to write, but the open window, with its curtains blowing gently in the breeze, calls to you. A picnic in your garden is what this day calls for, you decide. Grinning, you snap your journal shut and wander down the hallway to Marcus’s study. You shall retrieve a new book to read, then steal down to the kitchens to cajole Mrs. Stoker into giving you a parcel of snacks to bring outside with you. It won’t be a difficult task; Marcus’s cook is already rather sweet on you, and always sends extra treats up to his study for you after dinner.

No, the most difficult undertaking will be to select your reading material for the afternoon. You’ve gone through so many already; you started with his many science books–being eager to read on an as-of-yet forbidden topic, but today, Marcus’s collection of fiction calls to you. 

You walk by the worn leather armchair that your husband often reads in, and the book resting on the side catches your eye. You cock your head to the side to read the words emblazoned on the front: 

The Transmission of Life: Counsels on the Nature and Hygiene of the Masculine Function

What on earth? Frowning at your husband’s choice of reading material, you open to the bookmarked page and read the heading a little more than halfway down the page–Of Marital Relations.

Why is he reading such a thing? Both curious and emboldened, you read on. ‘The best mothers, wives, and managers of households know little or nothing of the sexual pleasure. Love of home, children, and domestic duties are the only passions they feel. As a rule, the modest woman submits to her husband, but only to please him; and, but for the desire of maternity, would far rather be relieved from his attentions.’ 

You can see that the book has quite a lot of notations written in the margins; however next to this passage, there is simply one solitary question mark inscribed in pencil. You understand the sentiment; reading such words causes your heart to pound rapidly in your chest at the implications of the author. Is this true? Are home and children the only thing you are capable of loving? At the present moment, at least, you desire neither.

You flip backwards through the pages with a stormy expression, searching for more answers. A page with a great deal of markings-out catches your eye, and you scan what was, apparently, an offending passage to Marcus: ‘The husband should be aware that while as a rule the first conjugal approaches are painful to the new wife, and therefore that she only submits and cannot enjoy them, this pain should not be excessively severe, nor should it last for any great length of time.

At the mention of marriage consummation, your face heats; you snap the book shut in an instant and back away from the leather armchair as though the tome had burned you.

You don’t know what to make of any of it. First, the fact that Marcus has chosen such a title as reading material; secondly, that the content within the pages should speak about a wife’s role in marriage in such plain and unpleasant-sounding terms. Thirdly, you cannot decipher the meaning of the marginalia. Does it suggest that Marcus is seemingly just as disturbed by the idea of your apparent frigidity as you currently are–backed against his bookshelf, your hand over your mouth as you take in what you’ve just seen? Or do they mean something else entirely?

You cannot come to grips with the words written, in plain ink, on the pages of the book–in direct opposition, it seems, to the feelings that stir within you at times. Are women, as the book suggests, without any passions outside of raising a home and children? In your own experience, sometimes you feel as though you are so overcome with emotion that you may explode–and oftentimes this is what brings you to such ‘unladylike’ ventures as running through the woods, shouting curses at your younger brother when he vexes you, or, most recently, being unable to take your eyes off of your husband as he simply goes about life.

You study his fingers as he turns the pages in his books; you watch his lips move every time he so much as utters a syllable; you analyse his gait out of the corner of your eye when he approaches you. The modest woman submits to her husband, but only to please him. Perhaps this is the issue; you have hardly been considered a ‘modest woman’ at any time in your life, and could not care less about pleasing a husband, especially if it is to your apparent detriment. 

Indeed, if your headmistress at finishing school could see you know, she would attribute your immodest behavior to remaining unmarried for so long. Now that you are somebody’s wife, it is quite possible that you may never be the type of woman the author thinks you must be. Is this what Marcus wants? Does he read the book because he is intent on modeling this image of masculinity? And what, if any, is your place in this picture?

After this puzzling revelation, you wish for an escape more than ever. An adventure. You now know exactly which novel you wish to read. Humming to yourself, you grab the copy of Around the World in Eighty Days and quickly flee the study, leaving Marcus’s book–and hopefully the feelings it stirred within you–far behind you. 

Mrs. Stoker fills a picnic blanket with nearly more food than you can carry before shooing you out of the kitchens, scolding you in her low, scratchy voice about “unbecoming behaviour for a lady”–but delivered with a fond twinkle in her eye. Arms laden with bread, cheese, and fruit, you make your way across the grounds and into the familiar little garden that you’ve made your own. You’ve tried your best to retain the wild, lush feeling of the setting–planting lots of creeping vines and winding morning glories around the lattices. It feels like escaping into a jungle, or into a secret little world that’s yours and yours alone. As you find a place to settle for the afternoon, you wonder idly if this was the very same place Marcus’ uncle came to escape the world–a world he never felt he belonged to. 

Spreading the blanket (and your feast) out around you, you settle on the grass, kick off your shoes, and wiggle your toes contentedly in the sunshine. You pull off a chunk of warm bread and take a bite, humming in satisfaction as you open your book and begin to read.

You lose yourself in Phileas Fogg’s adventures for quite some time, not coming up for air until the shadows have switched places and begun to lengthen in the late afternoon sun. You could stay out here all evening, but your body is beginning to ache, sitting on the ground as you are, and even though nothing remains of your little feast–you threw quite a lot of bread to the birds–you are feeling quite hungry again. 

You don’t bother dressing for dinner, and you tell Bridget so when she arrives at your room, dismissing her and telling her to enjoy her own evening. You have a small supper in the parlor, and you’re taken by surprise at how much the silence unsettles you. In so little time, you’ve become accustomed to Marcus’s presence in your life. Just as you now feel perfectly at home in what was once an unfamiliar and forbidding house, you feel at home with the man who inhabits it, as well. 

It is almost as if… you miss him.

At any rate, being without him in this large house is strangely unsettling. You find yourself retreating to the study, seeking out the familiarity of habit, and; you must admit to yourself, surrounding yourself with things that remind you of your husband. It smells of him, this room–like leather, paint, and old books, and if you close your eyes, you can detect something underneath–something deeper, muskier, and more masculine.

You settle into the soft settee rather than his armchair–not wishing to acknowledge the book you’d snooped through earlier that day–and open Jules Verne again. You read as the night falls and for quite some time after; and still, Marcus has not yet returned. It is so late that you have to retrieve more oil for the lamp, but you continue to keep your silent vigil rather than retreat to bed. You’ve waited this long, after all, and he surely cannot be much longer…

Not a quarter of an hour later, you hear familiar footsteps approaching down the hall. The sound of passers-by is quite common, with all of the manor’s staff, but these are not the light feet of scullery maids. No, they are heavier, confident–striding with purpose as they reach the door to the study. The door opens, and there, looking at you with surprise, is your husband. Lord Pike.

“The hour is late,” he remarks softly. “I quite expected you to be already asleep.”

“I have been absorbed in a book,” you tell him, “and did not realize the time.” It’s not quite a lie.

Marcus glances at the spine and grins. “Have you circumvented the world in the time it took me to go to London and back?”

“I have indeed; your train must have been delayed,” you tease. 

“It was indeed. Twice, in fact,” he laughs. “Next time, perhaps, I shall travel by balloon.”

You snort, rather unladylike, at his playfulness. “I should like to see such a sight.”

His eyes are bright and full of mirth as he responds. “Seeing as you have already done it, I should like you to come along as my navigator.”

“Ha! We shall find ourselves in the middle of the ocean, I’m afraid.”

“Perhaps we will just take the train, then.” Your husband smiles warmly and pulls a small parcel out of his coat. “Your new journals and ink will not last forever, after all.”

You gasp softly as he deposits the package in your lap. The ink is the same–just the type you prefer–but the journals are far more ornate: bound in leather, with thick, cream-coloured paper. You examine each one in turn, carefully holding them in your hands to look at the beautiful cover designs, then flipping through the blank pages. At the bottom of the pile is a magazine–a copy of The Strand–which you hold out to him, expecting it to be something he purchased for himself that was mistakenly wrapped together with your journals, but Marcus simply shakes his head and gently pushes it back in your direction. 

“The new Holmes story has been published. I read it myself on the train, and… well, I thought of you and how you might enjoy it.” He clears his throat awkwardly, stuffing his hands in his pockets as he watches the realisation wash over you.

“This is… for me?” you ask, eyes widening.

“But of course.” He smiles softly, extending his hand to you. “But I’d caution against starting it at this hour; it’s one of those stories that you cannot put down again until finished.”

When he escorts you back to your quarters, he seems hesitant to let go of your hand after he kisses it. His eyes search yours; that strange, unfamiliar fire seems to dance within his pupils. Before you can stop yourself, you suddenly throw your arms around his neck, burying your face in his shoulder and giving into the urge to breathe him in. His arms are so warm; his chest so strong and broad, and for a moment, you simply allow yourself to melt into his embrace. 

Marcus stiffens at first, his sharp intake of breath indicating his surprise at your actions, but after just a moment, you feel his hands press against your back, pulling you closer.

“Good night, Marcus,” you whisper into his suit coat.

“Good night, my darling.”

He releases you and steps back, but his hands still seem to gravitate toward you even as you separate–although they stop short of touching you. You can’t bring yourself to move, even though you’d both already said good-night. Unsure of what to say, you simply stand before him in awkward silence for a few torturous minutes before growing skittish and retreating into your bedroom.

When the door clicks shut, however, you turn and gently place your palm on the wood. Closing your eyes, you imagine the warmth of Marcus’s palm pressing back.

The next day is oppressively hot. Too hot to continue working in the garden, but sitting indoors in the still air seems almost worse. You take your leave of Marcus in his study and retreat to the woods at the back of the property. The shade and the breeze finally makes the heat tolerable, and you smile to yourself as you start to explore. You've always loved wandering through your own woods, and this is your first opportunity to walk through the forest at Pike manor.

As you delve deeper into the trees, you realize that you can hear the faint sound of water. Grinning wider, the sound propels you forward, ducking under branches and stepping around bushes until you find the source: a little stream babbling through the undergrowth. 

Seeing the water, you suddenly feel as though you cannot tolerate your shoes a moment longer; you sit down on the ground–likely getting dirt down the back of your canary-yellow dress, but you hardly mind–and start to unlace your boots. 

The first step into the cool water causes a giddy laugh to escape from your throat. For the first time since coming here, you feel like yourself again, just for a moment–happy, wild, and free.

Your focus is on the little minnows darting around your toes, and you don't hear the sound of footsteps moving toward you through the leaves. 

"What on earth are you doing?"

You startle, turning around at the sound of your husband's voice behind you. 

"M-Marcus! I–I'm cooling my feet in the stream I found."

 "You've wandered quite far away," he comments, his expression slightly wary. 

"Am I not allowed to do so?"

"No! I-I mean yes! Of course you're allowed, I was simply… surprised at how deep in the wilderness you are, Lady wife."

"I won't get lost," you promise. "I used to do this all the time back home."

Marcus is silent for a few moments as he watches you.

"...Is the water quite refreshing?" he asks, looking curious. 

"It feels wonderful," you answer. 

You study him as several conflicting expressions seem to flicker across his face. Uncertainty, curiosity, wariness, and then–longing.

"Could… could I join you?" he asks quietly. 

Your grin must be incandescent as you nod rapidly up and down.

Marcus swings his head around, looking for somewhere to sit. When he finds nothing, to your surprise, he plops down on the ground and starts to untie his shoes. 

You watch giddily as he tucks his socks inside his shoes and sets them aside before carefully climbing down the bank. 

He lets out a rather undignified yelp at the first touch of water to his bare feet. 

"Cold!" 

You laugh outright at the shock on your husband's face. 

"Does it not feel refreshing?" you ask playfully.

"As refreshing as running barefoot into the snow in January."

"That's quite the overreaction; this water must be twenty degrees cooler than snow, at least."

"It must be the difference in temperature between the outside air and the water that makes it so very shocking," Marcus says with a little chuckle. 

"You just need to get used to it," you say with a sly grin. 

"How exactly am I supposed to do that?"

Before you can evaluate the wisdom of the idea, you kick your foot through the water, sending a wave of water to splash against his trousers.

Marcus gasps, staring down at the dark stain in shock. You stand frozen to the spot, suddenly worried that you've gone too far. 

"I cannot believe you did that," he murmurs, but a small smile is spreading across his face as he talks. "You wild creature."

And he bends down, sticks his hand in the current, and sends a cascade of water back in your direction. 

You shriek in surprise and delight, kicking more water at him before taking off, splashing barefoot down the stream with your husband at your heels.

You let out another loud peal of laughter when you feel the cold water hit your bodice from behind. 

"You'll wish you hadn't done that!"

"Is that so?" he teases, just as you turn and cup the water again, sending it as high as you can into the air. 

It hits him squarely in the chest. He gasps in shock as his white shirt is drenched through, the sopping material plastering to his skin. He looks down at it, then back up at you with a glint in his eye that you've never seen before. 

Giggling nervously, you take a few steps backward, but your foot lands on a smooth, flat stone slick with algae, and suddenly your legs are out in front of you as you come down hard into the deepest part of the stream.

For a moment, neither of you move. Your chest heaves from the surprise submersion into the water. You're completely soaked from head to toe; droplets of water drip from your hair, down onto your skin, and into your bodice. 

Marcus's expression has turned from playful to horrified. He surges forward, helping you back up to your feet in a panic.

"Oh my goodness," he mutters over and over again, and you start to giggle.

"Your dress is surely ruined," he says regretfully. "They'll never be able to get the mud stains out."

"I can simply wear it whenever I come down here to the stream," you tell him, but he's shaking his head and frowning. 

"This… my behaviour has been far from appropriate," he murmurs. 

"We were having fun," you say quietly, your face falling as that rigid, formal expression you hate returns.

"It is unbecoming for people of our station," he announces stiffly. "Where are your shoes; I shall bring them to you and help you home."

"But I'm–"

"We've gotten quite wet enough, I believe," Marcus says sternly. "Come along."

You trail after him stormily, feeling more like a scolded dog and less like a wife.

You remember his promise from weeks before, on your wedding night: that the two of you were to be partners–and equals. Right now, you feel nothing but.

"I'm going to bathe before dinner," Marcus announces as he marches through the front doors to the manor. "You should do the same before you catch cold."

"Mar–Husband," you murmur sorrowfully.

"I'm afraid the mud will never come out of this shirt, either," he comments, talking more to himself than to you. 

Heart heavy, you climb the stairs after him and head for your chambers. You don't quite understand your husband. At times, he seems to be a warm and playful person; other times, he's cold and forbidding. 

It's as though he's two different men at once. One of those men scares you somewhat. The other–well, you aren't quite sure what to call the feeling that stirs in your belly when he looks at you with those mischievous, yet kind eyes.

That man–he's a friend, a companion. He reads with you in the evenings and laughs at your silly jokes. He kisses your hand at the end of every day when he bids you good night, and it's becoming your favorite part of the day. His lips are warm and soft on your skin, and every night you go to bed wondering what they'd feel like on your lips.

You wish you could call up how it had felt when he had kissed you at your wedding. You can barely remember the day, much less the brief moment that his lips had been on yours. Even if it was purely for the ceremony, even if it had no feeling or meaning behind it, even if his face had been contorted into that formal mask that you've grown to despise…

You wish you could feel it again. 

"My goodness! What on earth happened to you, my lady?" your maid cries at the sight of you: wet, bedraggled, and covered in mud in your doorway. 

"T'is a hot day; I was playing in the stream."

"I fear your dress is ruined, my lady." 

"Why is everyone so concerned about my clothing?" you snap, exasperated and grief-stricken. "Is this entire household so very preoccupied with what I do and where I go?"

"I'm sorry, my lady."

"Is anyone allowed to have fun, or is that forbidden as well?"

"Pardon?"

"Your lord is the most frustrating, confusing man I have ever had the displeasure of knowing," you mumble as the wet material of your dress is peeled away from your skin and discarded on the floor with a wet plop.

"Lord Pike is your husband," she points out.

"And who is my husband? I'm afraid I do not know the man I married. He's kind, and then he's cold. He laughs, and then suddenly forgets how to smile. I do not know if he finds me to be a worthy companion or if he simply tolerates my presence."

"My lord has been alone for quite some time," Bridget says quietly. "He does not know how to have a friend, much less a wife."

"Does he even want one?"

"Did you wish to become one?" she asks pointedly, and you fall quiet again.

"Pardon my boldness, Lady, but I have not seen him look at anyone the way he looks at you."

"What, with disdain?" you snort.

"Your bath is ready," Bridget says quietly.

You slip into the water–blessedly cool, thank goodness–and close your eyes.

"I hear the weather will break tonight," your maid says conversationally, and you can tell she's desperate to change the subject. "We are long overdue for some rain."

"We are," you agree. "My garden needs it sorely."

"As do the crops, of course."

"Of course."

You’re dressed in deep emerald green velvet. Gold brocade is embroidered into the bodice of the dress and on the hem of your velvet skirts, your shoulders exposed to the cool, still air of the manor. It’s quite stunning, and if you weren’t feeling so affronted by your husband this evening, you’d delight in his gaze, in the way his wide eyes always dart back and forth over your form as he reverently breathes “Beautiful” every time he meets you at the top of the stairs for dinner. 

You meet Marcus there as always, but when he begins to turn away from the parlor, you make a questioning noise in your throat.

"The evening sun is currently streaming into the parlor," Marcus says by way of explanation. "With today’s heat, it is intolerably warm in that wing of the house, and far cooler in the banquet hall."

"I see," you answer tightly. You allow him to escort you into the dark, stuffy room instead.

He’s quiet as he eats, seemingly not willing, or perhaps able, to make conversation as he has on previous evenings. He stares into the middle distance as he chews, and you can’t tell if he’s lost in thought or simply avoiding eye contact.

“Does a case occupy your thoughts tonight?” you ask, putting as much gentleness into your voice as possible to attempt to guide him back to you.

“Nothing you need to be concerned with,” Marcus says tightly, shaking his head and stabbing a piece of chicken with his fork. Looking down at his plate as he is, he can’t see your resulting ire. 

You don’t attempt to engage with him again for the rest of the meal. Afterward, when the footmen start to clear the dishes, you abruptly excuse yourself, walking quickly out of the darkening banquet hall and heading straight for the heavy oak doors at the front entrance to the manor.

It's already beginning to sprinkle as you lift your skirts and run across the lawn toward your garden. It hardly matters; you can tolerate the stuffy house and your equally-stuffy husband not one moment longer.

The droplets cool your forehead and you laugh humorlessly at the notion that you may be scolded for turning up soaking wet twice in one day. It isn't simply the weather making you hot. Anger and some other emotion you cannot begin to name simmers in your blood. 

You cannot stand him. You simply cannot stand him and yet—why does the sight of your husband make your heart ache in your chest? Why can you not seem to erase the image in your mind's eye of Marcus standing in the creek shaking with laughter, the planes of his chest showing through his soaked shirt? 

But no–that behaviour was unbecoming. For him, or for you? Could he, as your mother warned, not abide by your carefree nature? Did he think himself above simple joys such as splashing one’s bare feet in cool water?

A tear mixes with the rain on your face as you run, but you hardly realise it. In no time at all, you're collapsing on your favorite stone bench in your garden, head in your hands. As you sit, the rain begins to pick up, turning from light sprinkles to a veritable downpour. You straighten, watching the droplets pelt the leaves of the vines climbing up the lattice next to you.

The night is already beginning to fall, but in the twilight, you can still make out the figure of Lord Marcus Pike running in your direction carrying an umbrella, and you sigh loudly in consternation.

"Insistent on catching your death today, are we?" he remarks when he reaches the bench, somewhat out of breath. 

"I’m confident that no one has died from a rainstorm in the middle of July."

"Still, to find you sopping wet on not one, but two occasions in the same day suggests a pattern of behaviour."

"Of unbecoming behaviour?" you mutter, turning away from him to stare at the rain. Silence falls. You make no effort to move from your spot on the middle of the bench, nor do you acknowledge the man again until, finally, he speaks.

"Please, tell me what have I done to upset you so?"

"I'm not upset."

"You are sitting in the dark in the rain," Marcus points out.

"I can do what I wish; it is my garden. You said so yourself."

"I did not imagine this particular situation when I said it."

"You should have considered every possible outcome before making promises like that."

"You are being ridiculous."

"I'm not."

You turn to meet his gaze–glaring at him, allowing all the indignance and fury show through in your expression. He glowers back with pursed lips and a clenched jaw, but his eyes are swimming with… some strange, unidentified emotion that makes them black and shining as coals.

"You vex me, you know that?"

"Oh, I vex you?" you retort.

"I don't know what to do or say around you. You're so… beautiful, and I lose all sense of reason whenever I'm near you."

“That is hardly an excuse for being horrid.”

“You think me horrid? All I ever wish for–all I strive to be–is to be a good husband and a good man.” 

"Yes, and every time I think I get close to knowing the type of man you truly are, you close yourself off to me, and I'm left wondering if I married a ghost."

"I did not want you to think me improper–"

"Propriety be damned!" you shout, standing up to advance on your husband in a fit of fury. "I'd rather spend my days reading science books and running barefoot through the creek then do another cursed thing that everyone else considers to be 'proper'!"

Marcus is silent for a moment–his expression blank as he regards you, standing an arm’s length away and breathing hard from your paroxysm of hostility. You’re afraid your outburst has angered him past repair–that he’s going to tell you to pack your things and go back to your parents’ house to live out the rest of your days–but when he opens his mouth, it’s not an admonition that spills from his lips, nor is it an order to leave. It is a soft plea, barely audible over the cacophony of the rainstorm.

"I should like to kiss you."

No sooner do the words leave his lips than you find yourself stepping into Marcus’ arms. Your mouths collide in a fit of fervency, his lips hot against your own rain-chilled skin. What feels almost like an electric shock courses through your body. Months of restrained passion–whether it be out of pining for the man you’d married, or because he rankles your nerves so profusely–pours out of your body and into the kiss. You clutch at him, your fists balling into the material of his dampened shirt as you drown in the feel of his lips on yours.

A gasp inadvertently draws itself into your lungs as you pull away, looking up into the eyes of your husband and finally seeing the man you’ve grown to admire–to love–staring back at you in astonishment. He says nothing, but simply shakes his head in utter disbelief, cradles your cheeks in his hands, and pulls you back to him. 

When once you’d stiffened at the touch of his lips, you now melt into the feeling of it. After the first tentative kiss, Marcus is emboldened; his hands gently guide your head to one side, and he to the other–slanting your mouths together in a deeper and more tender kiss. Nothing exists outside of this moment–not your families’ arrangement without either of your choosing, nor the expectations thrust upon you as a wife of a high-born aristocrat. Even your husband’s unbearable rigidity is nowhere to be seen as he presses closer and closer still, one of his hands coming to your lower back and bringing your bodies flush together.

No, the only thing you can feel from Marcus is passion. Even the rain pelting on your head is a distant notion–merely a trivial inconvenience–compared to the love and tenderness in his embrace. He holds you as one might a priceless artefact–rare, precious, and utterly cherished.  

Your shiver when the wind picks up has less to do with the rapidly falling temperatures and more with the way Marcus is still holding your cheek in his palm as though you'll break, and yet at the same time kissing you like he'll never need air again.

Even so, the action makes him pull back with a little chuckle. His hair is plastered to his forehead, and you can't help but giggle back.

“Let us go inside before we catch our deaths,” he whispers, still smiling. He extends his hand, and, still looking up at him with wide-eyed disbelief, you take it. The wind whips around you as you both run toward the manor. Marcus tries in vain to keep the umbrella over your head, but after just a few minutes, the whole thing turns inside out in a particularly strong gust of wind. 

“Leave it,” you laugh as he tries to right it again and cover you from the rain. “I can’t get any wetter.”

The wind finally wrenches it from his grasp, and he joins in your laughter as it sails away into the night. Hand in hand, you run through the storm until you’re crashing through the front entrance, laughing hysterically, out of breath, and drenched from head to toe. The moment you’re safe inside, Marcus reaches for you again, winding his arms around your waist and pressing his lips to yours. 

You respond in kind, the fire in your belly igniting despite the chill in the air. You can’t get enough of the feel of them–they’re soft, warm, and pliant, and they move against you with a passion that causes a soft sound of pleasure to escape your throat. It’s a foreign sound to your ears–one you’ve never heard yourself make before, but Marcus groans softly in response. 

“Marcus,” you sigh softly. 

“Darling,” he murmurs against your lips, and you shiver again. “You’re shaking. Should I… should I escort you to your chambers so that you may… get dry, and go to bed–if that’s what you wish?”

“No, please,” you shake your head, looking frantic. “Please, I–I need–”

You can’t give voice to what stirs inside of you, but you know you can’t bear to part from your husband for a moment. Marcus seems to understand somewhat; his eyes soften even further, and he takes your hand again, pulling you forward until you're standing at the doors to his own quarters. Rather than enter, though, he turns and palms your cheek, his eyes raking over you in desperation. 

“On our wedding night, I made you a promise,” he whispers. “I promised that I’d never share my bed with you unless you wish for it. I need you to tell me—is this what you truly wish?”

“I don’t know,” you admit in a small voice. “I simply know I do not wish to be parted from you at this moment.”

“Then come,” Marcus murmurs softly. “Come in, and let us at least get dry and warm again.”

He takes your hands in his and pulls you gently forward–and all the while, his eyes never once leave yours. 

You can't help but think about how different tonight is from the first time you were in this room. He had barely looked at you then; you were terrified and upset and couldn't stand to be near him. Now, you cling to him, seeking the comfort of his lips again as he walks backwards into his bedroom with his arms around you. 

When you finally break apart, you make a soft noise of protest, but Marcus holds out his hand placatingly, disappearing for a brief moment before returning with an armful of large Turkish bath towels that he drops onto the settee next to him. He takes one, and, with a playful smile, gently covers your dripping hair and squeezes the water out of the ends.

"Turn around, if you would like," Marcus murmurs, a little quiver in his voice.

You obey with your heart in your throat. This, too, feels much different than your wedding night. He gently moves your damp hair to the side and slowly begins to unfasten the buttons at the back of your dress. One by one, he gently sheds your clothes, casting aside the wet emerald dress and your undergarments. Each layer brings you closer to being bare in front of him for the first time, and when you're down to just your chemise and your drawers, you can feel yourself trembling slightly. 

"It's all right," Marcus whispers softly in your ear. "I won't look–not yet."

He helps pull your chemise over your head as you kick your drawers away, and then blindly reaches for another large bath towel and wraps it around you, pressing a soft kiss to your bare shoulder as he does.

His kindness and patience makes something swell within you. You turn to face him, eyes wide as you slowly lift your hand to his cheek. His eyes flutter open again at your touch, and his gaze is dark and longing as he turns slightly to kiss your palm. 

Holding your eyes, Marcus's hands come to the buttons of his vest, quickly shedding the outer garment before undoing his shirt. You swallow thickly as each inch of bare skin is revealed to you. 

You want this. Oh, God, do you want this. But why? Each touch, each kiss makes you feel as though you're burning from the inside out, but if your mother was right that it would only bring you pain, why does it feel as though you'll die if you stop?

Marcus hastily towels off his hair, making it stand on end, before drying his chest and unbuttoning the front of his trousers. You tear your gaze away and stare at the floor as your heart hammers loudly in your chest. You focus on breathing until you feel him gently take your hand and lead you forward until you’re standing next to his bed. Rather than guide you to lie down, however, he simply steps closer, slowly encircling you with his arms and bringing your bodies close. The large bath towels cover both of your delicate areas, but the feel of his bare arms and chest still causes heat to work its way up your spine.

You sigh softly–you can’t describe how comforting it is to be in Marcus’s arms. Any latent fear about what’s to come is pushed aside as he slowly guides your mouth to his again. And again. And again. Soon, you’re clutching at him, panting softly into every kiss as he makes fire ignite in your chest. 

As naked as you are to each other, Marcus’s hands remain chaste. One gently clasps the back of your neck, keeping you just as he wants–against his lips. The other palms your jaw, his thumb brushing slowly back and forth against your cheekbone. You gasp ever so slightly into his kiss, and, as you part your lips, his tongue gently slips inside. 

The gasp turns ragged. A surprised noise is trapped in your throat and you all but throw your arms around his shoulders, hardly even realising how your nails are digging into his skin or that your chests are pressed together with the towel trapped between you. You aren’t entirely sure what you’re doing, but you return in kind, parting your lips and cautiously touching your tongue to his. 

Marcus groans softly, the grip on your neck tightening imperceptibly as you open to him. It feels wild–you aren’t in control of your own reactions; you can hardly contain your response to his kisses. You’re barely aware of the little whimpers coming from your own throat, let alone being able to stop them from escaping. Yet Marcus only presses closer.

“Come–” he murmurs–shakily, but smiling–against your lips, “–Please, God, before I fall over.”

You giggle breathlessly and allow him to guide you gently down onto the bed. As soon as you’re horizontal, with your husband hovering over you with awe etched into his expression, however; the fear returns. Your mother’s voice returns. When Marcus ducks his head to kiss you again, you know he feels the change in you; he pulls back quickly, eyes raking over your face in confusion and alarm.

“Darling, what troubles you?” 

“I am fine,” you answer, but the waver in your voice makes the words hardly convincing.

Marcus studies you, two little creases on his brow as he tries to make sense of the change in mood. His gaze softens; his lips part in worry.

“Are you frightened?” His lips barely move as he speaks.

“I was told that it would be painful,” you answer. You feel as though maybe you should have lied to protect him, but the honesty comes to your lips quickly at the open concern in your husband’s eyes.  “And that I will not enjoy it.” 

Understanding and horror washes over Marcus’s face. 

“No. No. I cannot–I could never—” he stammers. “Darling… I will never hurt you.” The words are thick and rasping with heavy emotion. “I would sooner die.”

But your own mother had said—

“Can you even promise such a thing?” you ask skeptically.

Marcus takes your face in his hands and presses a soft, warm kiss to your forehead. “I can, and I will. It does not need to hurt,” he promises. “It shouldn’t. I can–I can bring you pleasure. If you would trust me–?”

You want to be wary, but all you can see in his eyes is honesty and sincerity. Despite the man’s stiff demeanor, despite his rigidity, despite his awkward, stilted small talk–he’s never been anything but kind to you. 

You believe him. Of course you do.

“I trust you,” you answer softly.

Marcus smiles shakily. “I am glad,” he whispers. He kisses you again–urgently, and full of passion. This time, you return his affections.

“I should like to see you,” he confesses quietly. “May I?”

Breathlessly, you nod. Your heart is in your throat as he gently takes hold of the edge of the bath towel and slowly draws it out from where it’s tucked neatly around your chest. He keeps his eyes on yours the entire time instead of looking at the skin that he’s exposing. He doesn’t stop until you’re entirely bare, your nipples pebbling slightly in the cool air of the bedroom. 

“You’re beautiful,” he whispers–and yet, he hasn’t taken his eyes off of yours. Only when you smile back does Marcus finally drop his gaze. His breath catches as the sight of you, and at the utter longing in his expression, you find yourself feeling… beautiful. Enticing. Like a woman.

“I think it is only fair,” you say with a playful formality, “that you render yourself likewise uncovered, my lord.”

Marcus’s grin is cheeky, full of mischief and affection. “I cannot possibly refuse such a polite request,” he teases. 

At your behest, he slowly draws the towel out from around his hips.

You gulp. 

“Shhh,” Marcus urges, winding his arm around your waist and pulling you against him. “I do not want for you to be afraid of me.”

“Oh,” you exhale quietly, overcome by the feel of so much skin. He kisses you again, and his hands wander–skimming down your spine, clutching softly at your waist, and–oh, God–moving down to grasp your hip as your bodies slowly move together. 

True to his word, it does feel… pleasurable, thus far. The warmth and softness of his skin against yours makes you dizzy with need, and when his lips leave yours to trail a path of kisses down to your neck, you find yourself arching your spine to bring him closer. You can feel the stiffness of his length pressing insistently against your thigh, and you find yourself wondering when he will… well, when he will put it inside.

Instead, however, his hand slowly moves inward from its place at your hip, until his fingers are brushing gently at the little bud between your legs. The light touch is at the same time foreign and perfect. You gasp wantonly at the feel of him touching you in a place so very intimate in nature. His breath is hot against your neck as he pants, open mouthed, while his fingers explore the uncharted territory. 

"How I've longed for this–for you," he groans raggedly into your skin. “Oh, my darling wife. Tell me—Tell me that you have desired for this moment.”

“I–oh–” you whimper as his fingers begin to slowly circle around the little bundle of nerves. “I did not know that–M-Marcus–I did not know it could feel–” Sparks of desire–of pleasure–shoot up and down your spine at his touch. “I have… thought of you,” you confess to him. “I have imagined your lips on mine many times, but I did not know–”

“Did not know… what?” Marcus asks gently, pulling back to look into your eyes as… something within you… builds. 

“That this could feel… s-so…” 

“Yes?” Your husband’s eyes are wild, his voice breathless and rough with pleasure, and as he watches you try to form words, that feeling inside of you reaches a crescendo.

“Wh–oh!” you cry out, your lips parting of their own accord. Your core pulses rhythmically, and all the tension seems to leave your body, somehow pulled out of you by the movement of Marcus’s fingers. 

“Oh my,” you gasp, as soon as you regain the ability to speak. “Oh, God.”

Marcus is breathing just as heavily as you are. His eyes are greedy, raking over your face and watching how you writhe on the bed as a result of his actions.

You slump, spent, on the pillows as the strong surge of ecstasy finally abates. “Marcus,” you murmur, staring up at him in utter disbelief.

“I did promise,” he says with a shaky grin. 

“I want—oh,” you sigh. “Can you do that again?”

“I will do it as many times as you ask,” Marcus grins, palming your jaw and giving you a gentle–yet somehow still passionate–kiss. “And perhaps a few more besides.”

Holding your gaze, he sucks a finger into his mouth and then brings the hand back down between your legs. This time, his hand explores deeper, past the little bundle of nerves and down to your centre. His touch is light through your folds at first, then grows bolder as the finger slips gently inside of you. 

You cry out in pleasure again. The feeling is the same as before, yet somehow different. It causes the same thrill to rise inside of you, but with his finger now inside, that feeling is stronger. Deeper. 

“Oh, yes,” Marcus whispers reverently as he pushes the digit even further inside. You can only pant open-mouthed as he buries it to the hilt, sheathed inside your heat. “Oh, my darling, I fear I will never tire of this,” he murmurs, a small smile on his face as he watches your intense reactions. And then… and then… the finger starts to move, thrusting slowly in and out of your channel, and you lose all sense of reason.

“...believe… I… should be the pers–oh! …saying that,” you manage to stammer.

“Yes,” your husband urges, the heel of his hand pressing flush against you as he continues the dizzying movement of his finger inside of you. “Yes, never tire of it either, I beg of you,” he murmurs, kissing your jawline, your cheeks, your nose, your forehead– “Let me have you like this always. In my bed, at my side, just–oh, love, just say you will stay.”

“I will,” you promise, as the coil of heat and tension inside of you tightens, tightens, tightens. “I will, Marcus, I will.”

With a little choked-off gasp, you fall apart around his finger as waves of pleasure crash against you for the second time. Marcus leans forward, his forehead touching yours as your heartbeat gradually begins to slow. 

“Tell me,” he whispers roughly. “Tell me I can–oh, please.”

“Yes,” you agree, nodding rapidly up and down. “Yes, Marcus.”

“I won’t hurt you,” he promises again, desperation and longing in his voice. “On my life, I will not.”

“I know.” You nod again. 

Slowly, keeping his eyes glued to your reaction, Marcus moves between your parted legs and covers your body with his, keeping most of his weight on his elbows so that he doesn’t cause you any discomfort. He kisses you again–softly, slowly–as one hand reaches in between your bodies. 

You feel him notch at your entrance, and you whimper softly–in anticipation or trepidation, you do not know.

“Eyes on me,” Marcus whispers. “Don’t be afraid.”

He pushes forward, and just the tip of him slips inside, but merely that seems already enough to fill you to the brim. He continues until he meets some resistance part of the way in, and stops. His eyes are wide and anxious, those two little creases returning to the center of his brow, and you know, suddenly, what he needs to do. 

“Just do it,” you nod, closing your eyes.

He lowers his head, and you feel his lips, warm and gentle on one closed eyelid, just before he swiftly sheathes himself to the hilt, pushing through any barrier that yet remained.

You cry out softly–although more in shock than in pain–and Marcus makes little soothing noises in your ear as he stills again and waits for you to adjust. 

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, kissing your face over and over again. “I’m sorry.”

“I’m all right,” you assure him. “I am. You didn’t hurt me.”

“I want all that you feel to be pleasure,” Marcus whispers. “Only that. Never pain.”

“I know.”

He flexes his hips experimentally, and you feel the movement deep inside of you. 

“Oh–” a ragged, wanton noise tears its way out of your throat.

“Yes?”

“Again,” you demand.

Again, your husband moves, and something stirs in your belly, at the base of your spine. Rhythmically, he undulates against you, his skin sliding against yours and his shaft hitting something you’ve never even dreamed of, bringing you an ecstasy you never knew existed.

Your hands scrabble at Marcus’s shoulders as you desperately seek out his mouth, kissing him messily as the pleasure yet again begins to rise within you. It’s like nothing you’ve ever felt before–God, you never knew such a feeling could occur within you, that your body could be so alight with desire.

Your bodies become slick with perspiration as you move, but it only makes the experience even more sensual. Marcus’s hair is falling forward over his forehead, his eyes dark, burning coals as he takes you over and over again. Feeling your enthusiastic response, he speeds up–hitting something deeper and harder as he does.

You keen for him. With no thoughts left in your head, you babble incoherently as your pleasure builds, and it only seems to spur him on. 

“I–oh! I–Marcus, oh, love, it–it feels so—please, never–never stop. Oh, my love, it–ah!” 

Something deep within you snaps, and your entire body convulses with ecstasy as you come undone. Marcus groans in response, a broken, pleasure-soaked sound that sends chills down your spine. 

“Feels so good,” he moans. “Oh, darling, I’m going to–” 

He seems to lose his rhythm; his hips stutter once, twice, and then he stills, burying himself to the hilt and nearly crushing your bodies together in his passion.

Some time passes; although exactly how much, you do not know. All you know is that Marcus is wrapped around you–or you around him, perhaps–and his length is still buried within you. The deep stretch of him abates as you lie there, forgetting all else but the feeling of being held so closely, and so tenderly. After minutes or hours, he stirs–making you groan softly in protest–but he only chuckles deeply and pulls back to look at you with fondness in his eyes. 

“Darling,” he murmurs. “My darling wife.”

“Marcus,” you answer back, voice still full of awe and amazement.

“You are so beautiful like this,” he says reverently. “Please–would you stay here with me tonight?”

“If this is what happens when we are in the same bed, I fear I may never return to my own quarters,” you grin.

Marcus chuckles. “And I fear we may lose a little sleep over the coming days if you allow me such privileges.”

Kissing the tip of your nose, he finally slips from within you, eliciting a little hiss of discomfort from you that causes his eyes to widen in alarm.

“Are you hurt?”

You shake your head. “It is not pain, exactly; I am not entirely sure how to describe it. I simply feel… different. As if I’ve just run a great distance, and my legs are burning from overuse, and yet it does not detract from the exhilaration of running in the first place.”

Your husband laughs softly again. “Then I will let you rest for tonight, I think,” he teases. “Let me get these bath towels out of the way, and then I’ll turn out the lights.”

You shift your weight as Marcus draws the towel out from where it’s still resting underneath you and casts it to the side of the room. As you roll to one side, his sharp intake of breath makes you startle slightly, unsure of the cause until you follow his gaze to the sheet below. You exhale softly in surprise at the small smear of blood–barely larger than that which would come from pricking one’s finger–staining the linens just underneath where you had been joined.

“Are you sure you’re all right?” Marcus asks quietly.

“I am,” you promise. 

“I suppose our families got what they wanted after all,” he says, shaking his head with a chuckle. 

“And it serves them right that they’re not here to see it,” you say, your voice clipped and short. “I much prefer these matters to be private and on my own schedule, thank you very much.”

“On this, my lady, we agree completely.” 

Marcus shoots you a smile–that lovely, crooked, mischievous grin that you adore so much–before getting up and extinguishing the lamps, bathing the room in darkness. You feel the mattress dip as he slides back in beside you, but he seems to hesitate before touching you again.

“Marcus?” you whisper.

“Yes?”

“Will you hold me as you were before?”

Arms immediately wind around you and pull you flush against him, your back to his chest. He holds you tightly and tenderly, burying his face in your skin where your neck and shoulder meet.

“Marcus,” you whisper again, even softer than before.

He makes a soft questioning noise against your skin.

“Don’t be distant to me in the morning,” you plead softly, before you can think better of it. “I can’t bear it.”

“Distant?” Marcus sounds confused.

“You are playful one moment and standoffish the next. You look at me with fondness, but then speak to me with a rigidity that doesn’t fit your expression. You laugh, but then you stop yourself as though you’re afraid to do it. I do not know which type of man is the one I am married to, but I must tell you I detest the man who acts cold and aloof.”

Your husband is quiet for a long time–long enough that you aren’t sure if your outburst has angered him, or if, perhaps, he’s fallen asleep. When he speaks, it nearly startles you, despite the low volume of his voice in your ear.

“I am truly sorry,” he begins, and you can hear the regret in his tone. “I did tell you, I–I do not know how to be a good husband to you. I only know what I’ve been told; I was assured repeatedly that no woman would want an eccentric or unserious husband."

“Oh. Oh,” you say softly, as the realization washes over you. Suddenly, all of your husband’s strange and erratic behavior makes sense as the puzzle pieces fall into place. “You know, I was told no man would want a strong-willed and stubborn wife."

Marcus’s grip tightens at your words. You can feel his mouth open and close, but he stops short of speaking, so you continue.

“I like you this way,” you admit quietly.

“Which way is that?” he rumbles.

“Warm. Smiling. Luminous.”

His sharp, stunned intake of breath cools your skin. 

“And I like you wild and barefoot and running through my creek,” Marcus murmurs back. “Although that image does pale in comparison, now that I know how you look in my bed.”

“I quite believed that you didn’t like me at all,” you confess. 

“I believed the same, especially when you disagreed with every word upon our first meeting.”

You giggle softly. “I am sorry–I was rather upset by the entire situation.”

“And now?” Marcus’s voice is careful. Vulnerable.

“I did not know you then,” you tell him. “I did not know the shape of your smile, nor the sound of your laugh. I did not know your desk is splattered with paint or that your shelves are covered with books that you read to me in the softest, sweetest voice. I did not know the mischief in your eyes or… or the warmth of your lips,” you say, dropping your volume to a whisper. “Nor the feel of your bare skin against mine just as it is now. All I knew was the rigid, closed-off man I saw before me, but now I know his secret,” you tease. 

“And what might that be?”

You wiggle your hips playfully as you settle into Marcus’s arms, your eyes finally starting to feel heavy with sleep.

“That you’re just as wild as me.”

*

fin

#marcus pike #marcus pike x reader #marcus pike x f!reader #marcus pike x you #marcus pike fanfiction #the mentalist #the mentalist fanfiction #pedro pascal

[irish-dress-history]

Photos of 16th-17th century Irish clothing

Extant garments in the National Museum of Ireland

Notes: The garments in this post are all bog finds which means their current color may not be their original color. Although some of these items were found with human remains, no photos of human remains are included in this post.

Killery Cóta Mór (great coat) and brogues:

photos by hayling billy used under non-commercial, share alike license

The Killery outfit comes from an adult male bog body found in Killerry parish, Co. Sligo in 1824. It includes a cóta mór, triús, a brat, and shoes which are on display in the museum, and a sheepskin biorraid (conical hat) which fell apart shortly after it was found (Briggs and Turner 1986).

Killery triús (trews):

photo by hayling billy

Killery outfit with and without brat:

The outfit is generally dated to the 17th c. (Dunlevy 1989). It matches Luke Gernon's 1620 description of Irish men's winter apparel:

"in winter he weares a frise cote. The trowse is along stocke of frise, close to his thighes, and drawne on almost to his waste, but very scant, and the pryde of it is, to weare it so in suspence, that the beholder may still suspecte it to be falling from his arse. It is cutt with a pouche before, which is drawne together with a string."

Additional photos of the outfit: cóta front, hem, buttons, and brat.

Shinrone gown:

photo by hayling billy

The Shinrone gown was found in a bog in 1843 in Co. Tipperary near Shinrone, Co. Offaly. Unlike the Killery outfit, there were no human remains or other items found with it (Briggs and Turner 1986). The ends of the sleeves and possibly also the bottom of the skirt are missing. The sleeves would have had wrist cuffs or ties that allowed them to be fastened around the wearer's wrists. It probably also had loops or rings along the U-shaped center-front opening for lacing. It is typically dated late 16th-early 17th c, based on its similarity to a circa 1575 illustration by Lucas DeHeere and to the dresses described by Luke Gernon in 1620 (Dunlevy 1989, McGann 2000). It could be older however, because Laurent Vital described dresses with this type of sleeve in 1518.

Copyrighted, better quality photos: left front, right front, back Additional details: side-front, front waistline

Tipperary Cóta Mór:

photos from Dunlevy 1989 and hayling billy

Another Cóta Mór. This one is from Co. Tipperary, exact find spot and date unknown. Like the Shinrone gown, it was not found with human remains or other items (Ó Floinn 1995). It is probably also from the 17th century (Dunlevy 1989).

Additional photos: front, side, front buttons, front detail, side

Brat and hats:

photo by hayling billy

I haven't been able to find any clear photos of the label on this display, but based on the excellent condition and the presence of the leather tie, I think this is the Meenybradden woman's brat.

Closeup of the tie:

The Meenybradden woman is a bog body found in Meenybradden bog, Co. Donegal in 1978. The brat was wrapped around her as a shroud and secured with the leather tie (Delaney and Ó Floinn 1995). No other garments or artifacts were found with her, although she may have been wearing a linen garment such as a léine when she was buried. Linen tends to not survive in bogs. The Meenybradden woman has a calibrated radiocarbon date of AD 1130-1310, but some archaeologist have suggested humic contamination from the peat may be throwing off the dating. Her brat is identical in cut to others from the 16th-17th centuries (Delaney and Ó Floinn 1995).

Meenybradden brat laid flat. (photo from Delaney and Ó Floinn 1995)

Wool hats:

Hats from Boolabaun, Co. Tipperary made of wool felt which has been cut and sewn to form the shape. They have togs of unspun wool worked into them giving them the appearance of faux fur. Dunlevy suggests a 15th-16th c date for them (Dunlevy 1989, McClintock 1943).

Wool cloak:

photo by hayling billy

The museum label says it's from Glenmalin bog, Malinmore, Co. Donegal, but I think this may be a mistake. According to Ó Floinn (1995), the artifact with accession number 1946:416 from Malinmore, Co. Donegal is a bale of linen. Ó Floinn's table also gives accession number 1946:416* for a group of clothing from Owenduff, Co. Mayo which includes a gown, a jacket, and a cloak. If the cloak in the photo is actually the one from Owenduff, it is probably from the 17th c (Dunlevy 1989). Alternatively, someone might have misidentified a wool cloak as a bale of linen. The museum label dates this as late Medieval to post-Medieval.

*Either Ó Floinn made a typo or this is a mistake in the museum records. Museums are not supposed to give the same accession number to 2 different artifacts. In the NMI's defense, 1946 was probably a messy year for everyone.

Bibliography:

Briggs, C. S. and Turner, R. C. (1986). Appendix: a gazetteer of bog burials from Britain and Ireland. In I. Stead, J. B. Bourke and D. Brothwell (eds) Lindow Man: the Body in the Bog (p. 181–95). British Museum Publications Ltd.

Delaney, M. and Ó Floinn, R. (1995). A Bog Body from Meenybradden Bog, County Donegal, Ireland. In R. C. Turner and R. G. Scaife (eds) Bog Bodies: New Discoveries and New Perspectives (p. 123–32). British Museum Press.

Dunlevy, Mairead (1989). Dress in Ireland. B. T. Batsford LTD, London.

Gernon, Luke (1620). A Discourse of Ireland. https://celt.ucc.ie/published/E620001/

McClintock, H. F. (1943). Old Irish and Highland Dress. Dundalgan Press, Dundalk.

McGann, K. (2000). What the Irish Wore/The Shinrone Gown — An Irish Dress from the Elizabethan Age. Reconstructing History. http://web.archive.org/web/20080217032749/http:/www.reconstructinghistory.com/irish/shinrone.html

O’Floinn, R. (1995). Recent research into Irish bog bodies. In R. C. Turner and R. G. Scaife (eds) Bog Bodies: New Discoveries and New Perspectives (p. 137–45). British Museum Press.

Vital, Laurent (1518). Archduke Ferdinand's visit to Kinsale in Ireland, an extract from Le Premier Voyage de Charles-Quint en Espagne, de 1517 à 1518. translated by Dorothy Convery and edited by me. https://irish-dress-history.tumblr.com/post/721163132699131904/laurent-vitals-1518-description-of-ireland

#16th century #17th century #irish dress #dress history #gaelic ireland #historical men's fashion #historical women's fashion #bog finds #irish history #historical dress #brog #bratanna #irish mantle #headwear #triús #cóta mór

[eoieopda]

aphelion (knj)

aphelion (n): the point in the orbit of a comet at which it is furthest from the sun.

Kim Namjoon was as perfect when you lost him as he was when you found him.

Pairing: Kim Namjoon x AFAB!Reader Type: Flashback Prequel | Genre: Fluff & Angst, Smut | Rating: M (18+) AU: Strangers ⇢ Lovers ⇢ Exes, Lacunaverse (aka Lacuna!AU) Word Count: 19K Content Warnings: ANGST ANGST ANGST; gratuitously autobiographical; POV switches; Namjoon and MC are both musicians but not envisioned as "idols"; emotional support producer!Yoongi; self-insert!OC, jinseo; panic attack implied (crying, rapid breathing, chest tightness); depressive episode implied (lack of self-care, lack of appetite); a relationship dying in slow motion (ouch.) Smut Warnings: Vaginal fingering, lil bit of biting, implied unprotected sex, reader rides it like she stole it. A/N 1: This is the prequel to Lacuna and its sequel, Redamancy. It takes place over the course of two years (2020 to 2022 — we’re pretending COVID never happened, btw) and will have month/date info. at the top of each vignette. You can read the series chronologically (starting here) but I definitely recommend reading in the order it was written (Lacuna ⇢ Redamancy ⇢ Aphelion) because I think dramatic irony is fun and sexy. A/N 2: Endless thank you's to my emotional support moots, @jihopesjoint and @here2bbtstrash for beta-reading this unabashed entry from my diary. A/N 3: To my "Namjoon" — You were the best thing I didn't get to keep. I hope you found the sun. Suggested Listening: Spotify Playlist. ⚠️ 18+ only ⚠️ minors and ageless blogs will be blocked, on sight. my content is not for you. i do not want to interact with you. please respect my boundaries.

2020/7/18; 18:23

As awful as he knew it sounded, Yoongi was grateful to have someone in his life who was equally riddled with social anxiety. That flicker of dread he felt in the pit of his stomach was easier to digest when there was a hand — metaphorical, mainly, because the real thing was the tiniest bit sweaty — to cling to whenever he had to feign extroversion. Before you popped up into his life, perpetually on vibrate mode in the way that he was, he’d ventured out of his studio even less than he did now.

With you, there had always been a silent understanding: neither of you ever wanted to attend the company events that appeared simultaneously on your calendars; neither of you ever successfully shook off the feelings of guilt and obligation that prevented you from bailing altogether; and neither had ever — would ever — consider attending without the other. Co-dependence at its finest, you wore each other like a backpack and held on tight.

One of the terms of this unspoken social contract was that, when it came time to rally for one of the aforementioned, godforsaken label parties, Yoongi rushed over whenever you put up the Bat Signal. Instead of a cartoonish symbol in the sky, it always came in the form of a text — usually with a minimum of six (6) very urgent emojis — declaring a fashion emergency. No questions asked, he showed up on your doorstep every time. Yoongi never had any valuable input to offer, but he could tell you when you looked nice.

You always did, but he tended to keep that part to himself.

When Yoongi finally arrived at your apartment this time, he didn’t bother knocking the way he used to. By now, he knew that part of your pre-party panic included unlocking your door for him whenever you sent out your SOS. So, he let himself in and left his shoes at the door. Immediately, he heard a relieved sigh waft out from your bedroom down the hall.

“Oh, thank god!”

He waited for the blush in his cheeks to fade before he continued his journey to you, willing his standard poker face back into existence before it ratted him out. 

“Do I need to call in a helicopter evacuation?” Yoongi called out to you as he padded off in your direction. “How bad is the avalanche?”

Before he could get halfway to your bedroom door, you poked your head out through the doorway. You had those pink, plastic cylinders in your hair — the ones that looked spiky and uncomfortable, but that you somehow never complained about — and half your makeup done. Even in that cactus-printed bathrobe, Yoongi wouldn’t have been surprised if you wound up with a spread in the next issue of Nylon.

You grimaced. “Admittedly worse than the holiday party, but nowhere near as bad as the Great MAMA Catastrophe of 2017.”

“So…” Yoongi teased with a tilt of his head, “Yes to the helicopter evacuation, then?”

He didn’t have time to emotionally or physically prepare for whatever awaited him on the other side of your bedroom door because you grabbed him by the lapels of his jacket and pulled him inside as soon as he was within your reach.

Oh, good god, kid.

Yoongi opened his mouth to express how impressed — terrified? — he was by the explosion of outfits littering every surface of your room, but he quickly realized that no words would do it justice. He opted for a trademark, flat-line smile and a quiet grunt. You grimaced a second time, knowing full well what he hadn’t said out loud

Scurrying around him, you tore like a tornado through the immediate area to clear a path for him. You were clumsy enough to trip over every stray shoe but had reflexes — shockingly — quick enough to right yourself before your stumbling could send you to the ground. Once the carpet was sufficiently visible, you gestured to the small opening on your bed with a platform boot you’d unearthed somewhere along the way.

“You can, uh —” You continued waving the shoe in the direction of your bed, searching for the rest of your sentence. Yoongi watched in real time as your train of thought left the station.

More than a little endeared by your scattered brain, he offered, “Sit?” 

“Yes!” You snapped your fingers and pointed a finger-gun at him with a sheepish smile, “That. Do that while I try to find my vocabulary. It’s gotta be somewhere in this blast zone…” 

Voice already petering off, you wheeled back around to your regurgitated wardrobe.

Yoongi dropped into the only open spot on your mattress and leaned back to rest his weight on the palm of his hand. Settled into his usual space and routine, he fished his phone out of his pocket to check the time, as if the answer to that question would make a difference. 

It was half-six.

Ugh.

As always, the pair of you would wind up late; and, as always, that would still somehow mean that you’d be the first to show up. No matter how hard you tried to avoid it — leaving later and later for every party — you were perpetually, dreadfully guests numbered one and two.

“I never know what to wear for these things,” you whined, once again a disembodied head appearing in a doorway. 

When did you even sneak off into your closet? How were you physically able to reach it?

The rest of you reappeared underneath your head. You were clutching a dress in one hand and a skirt in the other, looking like your will to live had been hung up in their place. Worse, you had that little anime pout on, which didn’t bode well for the schoolboy crush Yoongi was secretly harboring, but you didn’t say anything. You just kept looking at him, eyes all pitiful and sparkly.

“Do you want me to ask him about the dress code?” he offered, unsure if that was what you were after but otherwise at a loss for solutions.

The look of mild-to-moderate panic washing over your face caused Yoongi to sigh. He knew you were thoroughly starstruck — he’d heard you gush over Namjoon and his new release for hours by now — but maybe he’d underestimated the extent. Your relief was immediate when he waved you off and said, “I’m not going to tell him that you’re the one asking.”

Yoongi [18:30]: on a scale of sweatpants to tuxedo, how hard do i have to try?

While he waited for an answer, Yoongi glanced back up to check your status. You’d once again disappeared in the few moments he’d glanced down at his phone screen. So damn sneaky. There was a significant amount of shuffling coming from the depths of your closet. Something shifted, then you yelped.

“You okay?” Yoongi called out, primed to get up and dig through the presumed rockslide for you.

Meekly, you popped back into view with one hand rubbing gingerly at the top of your head. You frowned. “I found my snow boots.”

“Sounded like your snow boots found you, kid.”

Yoongi’s phone buzzed in his hand. He ripped off the velcro-grip gaze he held on you and blinked down at the screen.

Namjoon [18:34]: Hyung, since when do you give a fuck about trying? lol

Yoongi chewed the inside of his cheek. He wasn’t sure what information to divulge: that he wasn’t asking because he gave a fuck; that you were the one who did; or that the only reason Yoongi was having this conversation at all was because you were the one that asked him to. He settled on something vaguely truthful.

Yoongi [18:37]: fuck off, joonie. since i’m bringing someone special and i want you to meet her.

The reply was immediate and three-fold:

Namjoon [18:37]: Call me Joonie again and see what happens 🤔 Namjoon [18:37]: Wear jeans in case I gotta chase you down for that. For real, though, it’s casual. Namjoon [18:37]: Also 👀

Yoongi shoved his phone back in his pocket without bothering to reply. He wouldn’t know what to say if he did, anyway. You weren’t the kind of person he knew how to summarize in a quick text; so he’d have to let your presence speak for itself. It always did.

When he looked back up from his hands, you reappeared in the closet doorway in a flouncy little dress. He had to stop himself from asking if you’d wear it to his funeral when he inevitably dropped dead. Once he succeeded at that, he swallowed thickly and focused on the two pairs of shoes you were holding, one in each hand.

Your face scrunched up while you mulled over your options. Without looking up, you asked absently and borderline shyly, “Did he respond?”

It took a beat for Yoongi’s brain to catch up; sundress season truly was the silent killer. In the pause, your inquisitive eyes flicked up to see if he’d simply ignored your question. He fumbled, pointed to the chunky, heeled sandals in your left hand, and then shot you a thumbs-up.

You rolled your eyes with a snort and knelt down to slip into his choice without further comment. As you did, you triple-checked that the ankle strap was secured and Yoongi didn’t have to guess why: the last time you wore them out, you hadn’t buckled yourself in properly. The thick tread had snagged on a curb; and your shoe didn’t come with you when you stepped up onto the sidewalk. You waited on one leg, the other foot bare in the wind, while Yoongi returned to the street to grab what you’d lost.

When you finished your ministrations, you stood back up to your full height — now with fifteen added centimeters — and brushed your hands against the back of your dress’ skirt. The expression on your face was somewhere between exhilarated and vaguely nauseous.

You clapped your hands together suddenly and sighed, “We doing this, Yoongs?”

He rolled his eyes so you wouldn’t get the wrong idea. He was endeared by that stupid nickname but unwilling to let you know as much. Still, he followed when you led him out of your bedroom; when you grabbed a laughably tiny and arguably useless purse off your hallway console table; and when you skipped out of your front door.

“Who’s driving?” Yoongi glanced over his shoulder at you as he hit the lock button on your door’s keypad. He didn’t need to ask — you had the alcohol tolerance of a newborn baby and couldn’t assume the wheel after more than two drinks — but he knew it made you feel better when he did.

Sheepishly, you pursed your lips.

He sighed with a microscopic grin, “Garage gate wouldn’t open, so I’m on the side of the building.” Then, he shuffled towards the elevator with you in tow. Even with the added height of your shoes, your short legs still struggled to keep up with his pace. 

As soon as the elevator doors re-opened on the ground floor, you threaded your arm around his and handcuffed him to you with your elbow bent. Before he could make a joke at your expense, you raised a manicured finger and said, “Do not start with me, Min Yoongi.”

So, he didn’t. He simply opened his passenger door for you and closed it once you’d slid into your usual place. As soon as he slid into his and pressed the start button, your phone automatically hooked to his Bluetooth stereo; and he couldn’t even whine about that fact because you’d already queued up some song he’d never heard in a language neither of you knew well. True to form, you didn’t let that stop you from singing along as loudly as you could — all the way to the venue.

It didn’t take long for Yoongi to find a spot or to parallel park in it, much to your amazement. It did, however, take ten minutes of silent sitting for either of you to say a word.

“Do we have to go in there?” you asked, damn near inaudibly. 

Where you sat, your left knee bounced at a speed almost imperceptible to the human eye. Yoongi only noticed because his knee was doing the same. He exhaled the breath he’d unknowingly held hostage and glanced at the time displayed on his car’s touch screen. He grimaced. “Shit started an hour ago. How much do you wanna bet that we’re still the first people here?”

You unbuckled your seatbelt. “Even if we are,” you started as you pushed open the passenger side door, “I’m not waiting to start the clock until guest number three arrives.” You shot him a pointed look as you slid out of the car. Adjusting your dress once you’d made it to your feet, you added, “One hour of kissing hands and shaking babies, then we’re out of here, right?”

Yoongi clamped his mouth shut, but it did nothing to ward off the laughter that made his shoulders shake. He nodded firmly, let his feet hit the pavement, then let his car door shut behind him.

“Compensatory lamb skewers, as usual?” He asked once he rounded the back of the car to join you on the sidewalk. On instinct, you threaded your arm through his to keep yourself on your feet, and your feet in your shoes. “But not from that place you picked last time. I’m ninety-nine-percent sure they clean it with a garden hose at night.”

You grumbled something about never being allowed to pick the restaurant before reaching for the door handle and petulantly jerking it open.

The second your respective feet stepped over the threshold, you both froze. It was the social equivalent of rigor mortis, the pair of you standing with locked limbs and gawking at the sheer number of people inside the hole-in-the-wall venue Namjoon had chosen. Clearly, he’d intended this to be as quaint as possible. Even more obviously, management hadn’t given a shit or fuck about that goal.

“This is,” you inhaled deeply as if you’d never get the chance again, and on the exhale, you wheezed, “So much. Oh my god.”

No matter how many times his shaking eyes scanned over the crowd ahead, Yoongi couldn’t find a single person he recognized, let alone wanted to spend an hour talking to. He snapped to look at you in the same moment you turned to him.

“What an hour this minute has been.”

“Lamb skewers?”

“Yes, please.”

Just as quickly as you’d entered, the pair of you turned to head out the door. Yoongi couldn’t grab the handle before a loud voice rang out from behind, “Hyung!”

A hand clapped Yoongi on the shoulder, spinning him around and leaving his emergency exit out of reach.

“So glad to see a familiar face,” Namjoon’s grin took up his whole face, but his mouth didn’t move with his words. They were forced out through gritted teeth, pleading the way his eyes were: If you leave me here, I’ll kill you.

Yoongi glanced at you out of the corner of his eye. He would’ve asked you — not with words, anyway — to make up some excuse to get you both out of there, to grab take-out and watch Naruto on his couch, but you couldn’t answer. Your starry-eyed gaze was aimed above you, and he’d venture a guess that everyone in the room had disappeared.

Everyone but Namjoon.

Damn it.

Somewhere, somehow, Yoongi heard a record scratch.

“Oh, shit,” Yoongi coughed, suddenly aware of his obligation as a mutual friend. Gesturing languidly between you and Namjoon, Yoongi reported for duty. “Joon, this is —”

Namjoon finally seemed to realize that you were standing there with Yoongi. He tilted his head to look down at you, and as soon as he did, Yoongi watched in slow motion as Namjoon’s eyes grew three times their usual size. Your name barely cleared Yoongi’s lips before Namjoon was extending a hand for you to shake.

Somewhere, somehow, the music seemed to swell.

Am I having a stroke?

The next minute that passed felt like an hour, too, and nobody said a word. It was you looking at Namjoon; Namjoon looking at you; and Yoongi’s eyes flitting back and forth between his friends with a kind of bemusement he couldn’t fake if his life depended on it. He’d crashed-landed in the middle of a drama, and he didn’t know what else to do, so he cleared his throat and said, “Uhh — shots, anyone?”

The next hour flew by in sixty seconds, and Yoongi couldn’t wrap his brain around how that could be. He’d lost faith in the concept of linear time, he knew that much. The two people he sat next to were meeting for the first time, but there was a familiarity present that he couldn’t put a finger on. Like you were both saying hello in this life after saying goodbye in a previous one.

Throughout the conversation, Yoongi couldn’t keep his attention on the words being tossed back and forth; not even the ones he was offering up. Huh, he thought, so, this is what it looks like when people meet who they’re meant to.

“Listen —” You smacked your hand down on the tabletop, swallowing down a laugh as you faked incredulousness. You pointed directly at Yoongi, causing him to choke on his whiskey. “I don’t care if I have to read translations on an app, Nas’ lyricism is unparalleled —”

“Facts,” Namjoon chimed in with a tip of his glass. 

The way your eyes sparkled in response wasn’t lost on anyone.

Yoongi rolled his. “Okay, but from a production standpoint, we all know that —”

Simultaneously, you and Namjoon sucked in breaths. The arguments you let loose didn’t match in words, but the sentiment was the same, downright seismic in its intensity.

“Don’t you dare bring Kanye West into this!”

“Hyung, I swear to God, if the next name out of your mouth is Kanye West, I’m leaving my own fucking party.”

The eldest raised his hands defensively. “Fine, fine, fine,” he conceded. Yoongi slumped a little lower in his chair, accepting defeat. He glanced down at his phone to check the time — as if that wasn’t a lost cause — and when he looked up again, you and Namjoon had deviated down some winding tangent about the core of hip-hop being poetry.

It was odd, the way Yoongi’s stomach flipped then. Not jealousy, but fondness. Hunger, too, though that was secondary to the weird glimmer of pride he felt watching a bridge he’d unknowingly built link two spheres of his life together. There was a strange sense of clarity, to top it all off; one that changed all the question marks in his head to periods.

You and Yoongi would be friends. 

Yoongi would be at peace with that fact. 

The slightly sweaty hand that pulled you through that event wouldn’t be his; and he would be at peace with that, too.

Yoongi would grab lamb skewers on his way home and wait for your call tomorrow to hear how the rest of your night had gone without him.

With a signature, flat-line smile, Yoongi slid off his stool and slid his empty glass towards the bartender. Then, he clapped a hand on Namjoon’s shoulder. The younger stopped mid-sentence with a start and blinked up at Yoongi, whose smirk immediately dropped, deadpan.

He glanced at you and confirmed that you were too busy ordering another drink to overhear. Then, he leaned down towards Namjoon and whispered, “Don’t fuck this up, Joonie.”

Namjoon gulped. Yoongi could hear it as he turned away, letting that smirk reappear once his back was to Namjoon.

He won’t.

2020/7/18; 21:06

Namjoon’s face hurt.

There was a telltale ache in his cheeks that confirmed it: he hadn’t smiled that much, that completely, in a long damn time. At the rate things had gone over the last two hours, he wouldn’t be surprised to catch his reflection in the bathroom mirror and find wrinkles demarcating just how crinkled his eyes had been. It was a wonder he’d been able to see you at all with the way his laughter leaked over his lash lines. Then again, your grin was burned into his brain already. Given the way you lit up, he was convinced that he’d see you — just you — even in the dark.

“Stop laughing at me!” you whined with your hand covering your mouth. Though you tried to hide it, Namjoon could still see you grinning, even with your mouth full. “I feel very attacked.”

He snorted. “Not an attack, just an observation. Can’t say I’ve ever witnessed someone order a beverage they don’t like just to eat the garnish.”

Quickly, you skewered another blackberry with the end of your straw and guided it under the hand covering your mouth. When you placed the straw back in your drink, the fruit was gone; your eyes were sparkling.

“Are you just jealous that you’ve never thought to do it?” You tilted your head to the side as you chewed. The little flex of your eyebrows made his stomach flip, so he swallowed hard and wondered if you noticed.

“Honestly,” he started with a sigh. He slumped down in his seat, looking as pathetic as possible while he eyed the remaining fruit in your glass. “Yeah. Little heartbroken, too.”

“Oh?” You pouted and Namjoon was on the brink of passing the fuck out.

The hand over your mouth dropped. You shifted on top of your stool, grabbed hold of your blackberry malt, and leaned in as you scooted it across the bar to Namjoon. The smile tugging at your lips was petal soft, though the flash of bright white teeth hit him like high-beams. He was a deer; he was frozen; and he didn’t give a shit if you ran right over him.

Elbows against the bar, you leaned even further. This time, when you tilted your head to the side, your hair gave way and left your bare shoulder in his line of sight. For the first time in his life, Namjoon finally understood why something as innocuous as a short-sleeve or exposed ankle was deemed pornographic a century prior. In the year 2020, he was losing his mind over an acromioclavicular joint and some — smooth, touchably soft — flesh.

“Because I haven’t offered to share?”

Jesus Christ.

He was seconds away from biting down on his fist to keep from groaning. That coquettish, candy-coated voice of yours was a problem in and of itself, but when you looked at him from under your lashes like that, Namjoon was ready to call in a bomb threat to his own party. He couldn’t simply fuck off with you, though — not without an excuse he could sell to Bang Si-Hyuk later.

Namjoon needed an out, now. Unfortunately for him, all he could think about was biting down on that shoulder, following the curve of it with his —

He needed to get a grip. Fast.

Swallowing hard, he cleared his throat. “Exactly. Rude.”

You smirked; he winked. To keep his mouth occupied, Namjoon grabbed the spare straw from your drink and speared a blackberry for himself. Holding his prize out in salute, he nodded his head with a smirk of his own. “Geonbae!”

You smiled sweetly again as you watched him pluck the fruit off the end of the straw with his teeth; but you grinned with all you had when the whiskey-drenched berry hit his taste buds like a punch. Sour, unbelievably potent after steeping so long high-proof liquor. Every part of him clenched at once, prompting you to laugh with your whole chest.

What a perfect fucking sound.

“Shit,” Namjoon sputtered. His face unpuckered and gave way to a grin that likely rivaled yours.

“How are you not tanked right now? Seriously, I’m twice your size and can handle my liquor. That —” He waved his hand towards your glass, “— nearly knocked me on my ass.”

You opened your mouth to respond — to tease him mercilessly, he hoped — but you were cut off by the horrendous sound of Namjoon’s phone vibrating against the bar and his own empty glass. The cacophony rattled in his rib cage. Both of you flinched at the sudden interruption, leaving him to wonder if you also forgot that anyone else existed.

Namjoon glanced quickly at the illuminated screen, then back up to you. He would’ve ignored his texts in a heartbeat — indefinitely, without hesitation — but you squeezed his hand as you slipped off your stool to your feet. With your promise that you were headed to the restroom and would be right back, he gave himself permission to look back down at his phone.

Yoongi [21:43]: you tell her about that comet thing? she’s an unrelenting nerd like you. she’ll be into it.

If he could have, he would’ve kissed Yoongi through the phone for two reasons. The first of which was that, in the time he’d spent talking to you, Namjoon had completely forgotten about the one thing he’d talked about incessantly for the past month: the upcoming appearance of Neowise. The second was that, once again, Yoongi had come in clutch with a reason to bail on a social obligation.

Namjoon [21:45]: You’re a lifesaver and I love you. Yoongi [21:46]: ew

Namjoon was still chuckling when, unexpectedly, he felt playful fingertips trail across his shoulder blades. You, he quickly realized as you walked behind him and sat back down on your stool. He shivered, even after the trace of your touch was gone.

“All good?” you asked with a soft smile.

Yeah, he thought, really fucking good.

Namjoon grinned automatically. He picked up the spare straw he’d used earlier and harpooned another blackberry, not having learned his lesson last time. The whiskey hit his tongue, burned beautifully on the way down, and emboldened him.

Without hesitation, he asked, “Do you wanna get out of here? There’s something I want to show you.”

Your wide eyes blinked back at him, then they scanned the room to confirm that, yes, it was still packed with people — up to and including executives from the label. Yes, he did just offer to ditch all of them for you, consequences be damned.

“Yes,” you responded, as if that was the easiest decision you’d ever made.

Namjoon got to his feet and held out his hand to you. “Not afraid of heights, are you?” His smirk all but dissolved when your fingers interlocked with his.

“Not if the fall would be worth it.”

He didn’t know what to say in response to that statement — one so simple, made so easily as if it was a thought you repeated to yourself often. You’d stunned him, really, and Namjoon was uncharacteristically lost for words. So, you both fell into a comfortable silence as he led you out of the venue, ignoring every wayward stare on the way out. 

Even after he opened his passenger door for you and slipped himself behind the wheel, he couldn’t get over what you’d said. It took root in the back of his brain. In all the years he’d been in this industry, he’d determined that there were only two types of people: the ones who jumped without thinking and the ones who only ever did the latter. You, it seemed, were neither.

Not if the fall would be worth it.

As he drove, you hummed along to whatever played on the radio, gaze taking in the city lights. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the neon from roadside signs wash over your face as they passed. Pretty in all colors, he thought, in every light.

Five minutes passed before he realized that you hadn’t even asked where he was taking you. Maybe you’d made an assumption that you were headed back to his place, which, while true, still wasn’t entirely accurate. Or maybe you simply trusted him. Determined that he was one of those calculated risks worth taking.

Namjoon was warm all-over when he finally reached his parking garage and turned into his assigned space. By the time he rounded the back of his car to open your door for you, you were already standing and smoothing down the skirt of your dress.

God bless sundress season.

“Didn’t realize you were a fan of his work.”

He froze. Oh, fuck. 

Swallowing down the embarrassment of broadcasting his thoughts out loud, Namjoon shrugged. The corner of his mouth twitched, threatening to ruin his nonchalance. “Credit where it’s due, you know?” 

He then glanced down at his watch and confirmed that he was running out of time. When he looked back up at you, you were visibly puzzled but you didn’t question him. So, he questioned you:

“You didn’t develop a fear of heights on the drive over, right? Fall still worth it?”

Your response didn’t come in words. To his surprise, you held out your hand and stared expectantly — sweetly — at him until he took it. 

You didn’t have the key code to operate the elevator or any idea where you were headed, but you tugged Namjoon along after you as you crossed the parking garage. It was then that he noticed the sheer height of the shoes you were wearing and how carefully you moved in them. Not like heels were foreign to you, but with deliberate steps as if you expected one or both of them to make a break for it. He made a mental note of it.

After typing in his access code to summon the elevator, Namjoon gazed down at you. Trying to hide his smile again would’ve been an exercise in futility, so he didn’t bother. Without thinking first, he mused, “You know, you still haven’t asked where I’m taking you. That’s a lot of trust.”

“I mean, if my untimely end comes at the hands of Kim Namjoon of all people, my ghost will have a really interesting story to tell.” 

Your snicker made his knees wobble. You stepped into the elevator as it opened, leaving him to stand starstruck outside the doors. 

“Coming?”

When Namjoon finally regained use of his limbs and joined you in the elevator, he pressed the button for the top floor, overshooting his own by three. With every second that passed as the two of you ascended, the centimeters slipped away — overcome by what Namjoon could only assume was a gravitational pull. 

He’d orbit you if he could.

“This way,” Namjoon instructed. He gestured to the door at the end of the hall with a sign that promised roof access.

You stayed close, your hand so near to his that he could’ve grabbed it and held it a thousand times before you reached your objective. He held the door for you and watched you duck under his arm as you stepped through, damn near salivating at the way your perfume lingered in your wake.

The door in question opened to something halfway between an exposed patio and a fire escape. If Namjoon had to venture a guess, none of the other residents knew this place existed; it was exclusively for maintenance staff who needed to access the electrical meters contained in the locked room in front of you. Your eyebrows furrowed as you stared at it, understandably struggling to figure out why Namjoon had brought you to a place like this.

Sensing your confusion, he nodded his head towards a steep metal staircase which led up to the building’s roof. Staircase was a generous description, really. The only difference between those steps and a ladder was the presence of handrails and a slightly more forgiving angle.

When you caught sight of them, your confusion dissolved into surprise. You paused. Anxious eyes darted down to your heels as you shifted your weight from one to the other.

Weighing your options, Namjoon figured. Bare feet or twisted ankles. 

He offered a third and crouched down in front of you, glancing over his shoulder with a smirk. “Coming?” He quoted.

You looked at him in disbelief, like he couldn’t possibly be offering to take you up those steps on piggy-back — but he was, and he was dead serious. He said as much, and you had to bite down on your lips to keep your shy smile to yourself. As had been the case all night, your reciprocal offer was intrinsic trust.

Once you secured yourself on his back, you looped your arms gently around his neck. A quiet giggle immediately flooded his ears. Namjoon peeked at your face hovering over his shoulder and smiled when he saw that you were, too. Your laugh was music, more than anything else.

“This feels like that scene in Twilight.”

Because Namjoon has a sister, he automatically knew what you were referring to, as embarrassing as that was to admit. It was worth it, though, when he bought into your bit. You beamed like the fucking sun when he warned, “Hold on tight, spider monkey.”

He kept one hand on the railing and the other secured over your crossed forearms as he took the steps slowly. When none were left, it was just you, Namjoon, and an uninterrupted expanse of orange and pink. 

“Holy shit,” you gasped, squeezing his bicep.

He took your silent cue and ducked back down so you could return to your own two feet. 

“Beautiful, right?” Namjoon kept his voice low as if he were in a place of worship. 

In a way, he was.

You wobbled, not because of your shoes, but because you were staring straight up, spinning slowly in your spot while you drank in a fleeting, tangerine sky. As the sun continued to sink, bright white stars popped up to take its place. You seemed intent on counting them, but they couldn’t hold Namjoon’s attention — not with you fawning underneath them.

“Reminds me of home, kind of.” You matched his tone like this mattered as much to you as it did to him. “The buildings are always in the way here. After a while, I stopped bothering to look up.”

It felt natural, the way you reached out for his hand to keep you tethered. The same was true when he tugged gently and pulled you closer. You tucked yourself under his arm, nestled into his side. There was heat rising from his chest to his cheeks, but he still shivered.

Trying to keep his focus on the point of all this, Namjoon glanced down at his watch to confirm that the sun’s interference would be gone within minutes. Softly, he dropped his arm so he could place his hands on your waist. You let him turn you until you stood with your back to him; then, you followed his pointed finger with your eyes.

“Keep your eyes on the Northwest, alright?”

Playfully defiant, you turned your head to smirk up at him instead. “I’m admittedly shit at directions.”

Namjoon wouldn’t have noticed if the stars above him disappeared. For all he knew, they’d relocated to the dilated black of your pupils. There was a hint of a challenge twinkling there, too. He wasn’t known for backing down.

“This is the southeast.” Namjoon covered his fondness with a feigned frown and tapped your left hip bone with the pads of his middle and ring fingers. “The sun’s behind you.”

“I know it is,” you acknowledged. Despite that fact, you were still gazing over your shoulder at him. 

Oh. 

His eyes widened when he caught your meaning; yours crinkled at the corners. Namjoon didn’t have a single clue how you could smile that warmly without using your mouth at all.

It’s decided, he thought. Wherever this night takes us, I’m down for the ride. You lead, I’ll follow.

There was a distinct drop in his body temperature when you eventually — belatedly — followed his directions. Instinctively, Namjoon pulled you even closer so he could properly wrap his arms around your waist. Your shoulder blades pressed into his chest as he leaned down to your ear.

This time, you shivered.

“See that up ahead? Under the Big Dipper.”

You were quiet for a moment, likely searching for whatever secret he was pointing out to you. There was no room for doubt when you finally did see it because you gasped for the second time. 

Breathless, you asked, “What is that? A meteor?”

Now visible against inky black, Neowise burned on the horizon. 

“A comet,” he gently corrected you. “A new one — well, one we didn’t know about until March. It’s just now coming out of perihelion.”

At the forefront, its bright white mass led a slow charge down the sun’s gravity well. The tail was smeared behind it as if someone had dragged a paintbrush through the cosmos. Once-in-a-lifetime wasn’t scientifically accurate; and heavenly felt pretentious. Namjoon couldn’t think of a word in any language to describe the way he felt in that moment, but he prayed it would last.

You were equally awestruck. For a while, it was simple, silent wonderment as the two of you kept your eyes on the horizon. Peaceful, despite the faint blare of car horns wafting upwards from the streets below. Namjoon might venture far enough to call it perfect.

“What happens now?” You eventually asked. He glanced down at you when your voice cut through quiet, though your starry eyes didn’t register his movement. Thoroughly transfixed, you stayed still.

Namjoon felt himself frown. The answer was scientific fact, but it sounded like an unhappy ending. 

Like leaving. 

“Aphelion,” he sighed. “It’s headed for the point in its orbit that’s farthest from the sun. All that light you see right now comes from gas made by solar heat, so… it’ll grow colder the farther away it gets. Then, it’ll get so dark that it’ll be more or less invisible.”

You repeated that word quietly to yourself like you were testing the weight of it in your mouth. Aphelion. There was an undeniable heaviness to it. Namjoon wondered if you felt it, too.

He continued, “Not sure if or when it’ll ever be like this again.”

2020/7/18; 23:12

If you could have, you likely would’ve stayed on that rooftop until morning. 

The back of your dress would be even dirtier from sitting down on the concrete the way you had; and your elbows may ache a little more after additional time spent leaning back onto flattened palms, but it’d be a small price to pay. Calm like that was invaluable. Until you stared at that uninterrupted sky, talking through every thought you’d ever had with someone who understood them all, calm like that was foreign to you.

You never had the opportunity to sit still, much less settle. Never got to be quiet, never got to linger. On that rooftop, you received a necessary reminder that your universe was bigger than a schedule full of obligations. Bigger than hotel showers, each less user-friendly than the last. Bigger than drinking boba tea alone in an airport, letting life carry you like a dandelion seed all over the map. 

It was endless.

You wished that moment had been, but the news helicopter hovering nearby had said otherwise. As it turned out, television coverage of the comet was more important than your personal enjoyment of it. The loud chop of propellers against air had been bad enough; the gusts of wind those propellers kicked your way were even worse.

Even though he’d been sitting right next to you, Namjoon had to shout for you to hear him. You’d squinted as if that would make sense of the shapes his mouth had made — it didn’t. You’d heard his voice but not his words.

I need to learn to read lips, you’d thought. The problem with that realization was that the harder you’d focused on his, the more you wanted to nibble on them. And then the urgency you’d felt no longer had anything whatsoever to do with the aircraft. You hadn’t gotten the message until Namjoon stood up and offered his hands to help you stand, too.

Through the climb back down to the door, the walk up the hallway, and the elevator ride to his floor, Namjoon hadn’t dropped your hand. Now, it was taking longer than you imagined was usual for him to unlock his apartment door because the thumb of his dominant hand was still roaming over the back of yours.

“Finally!” 

His sigh was half-exasperated, half-relieved, all swoonworthy when the key — at long last — did what he’d been begging it to do. Namjoon pushed the door open. This time, neither of you had to urge the other to come along.

The second your shoes crossed the threshold into his apartment, you damn near crumpled on the ground they occupied.

Holy shit —?

Less of an apartment and more of an archive, Namjoon’s space was artfully curated. In the literal sense. Everywhere you looked, there was some painting, some exquisite sculpture. All of it was breathtaking — and shockingly breakable, which made you wonder how they’d survived ownership by someone so endearingly clumsy.

He chuckled sheepishly when he saw the way you gawked, open-mouthed, at his collection.

“You didn’t tell me you lived in a museum!” You were dizzy. “I swear, you’re going to have to get security to escort me out at closing time. I’ll stand, and ponder, and muse all day; and I’ll never leave.”

In hindsight, that sounded more like a threat than a warning.

Suddenly rushing so that you could explore more fully, you moved to bend down and undo the ankle straps of your heels. That was, coincidentally, the moment Namjoon attempted to address his own shoes. Your heads collided with a thud that made you both hiss and retract.

“You good?” Namjoon frowned apologetically. As he did, he lifted his hand to run his fingers gingerly over the bump likely forming on the crown of your head. You were too busy vibrating to do much more than nod.

Is one touch all it takes? This doesn’t bode well for you.

As if his goal was to kill you where you stood, he dropped his hand slowly, caressing the side of your jaw with his knuckle and a touch that was barely there. Deep brown eyes smoldered as they focused on you. Then, that husky voice completed the attack combination.

Knock out! Game over!

He tapped your chin with the pad of his thumb and said, “Stay here.”

As if you’d want to be anywhere else.

Before you could wrap your brain around the turn of events, Namjoon knelt in front of you. His right foot remained planted on the ground, leaving his thigh parallel overtop. Thank god for his black jeans. If you drooled at the sight of his quadricep straining against the denim, no trace would be left.

Knees wobbling, you followed his cue and shifted your weight to one foot. The other was guided up to rest against his thigh so he could address the ankle strap for you.

Is your mouth hanging open? Why is it so dry?

Your body shouldn’t have clenched the way it did at something so innocuous. Really, he was being polite. Self-preserving after your eagerness nearly left him concussed. But he must have heard your heart hammering against the wall of your chest because he looked up at you and — no, there was nothing polite about the way his eyes trailed over your body.

Nothing innocuous about his low voice wrapped in velvet saying, “You look like an angel when you look down at me like that.”

It was a miracle that you didn’t break skin with the way you pinched your bottom lip between your teeth.

You must have blacked out after the first shoe was discarded; you weren’t mentally present to notice the other one’s removal. When your soul re-entered your body, Namjoon was back to standing at full height — and he was significantly taller now that you stood barefoot on his doormat.

Incapable of eloquence, you simply peeped, “Hi.”

Either you were going insane, or there really was a faint buzz of electricity humming in the few centimeters between Namjoon’s body and yours. Something was conducting through every nerve of your body, tingling.

“Hi.”

His little half-smile made your stomach flip. You didn’t know what to say next because the only thought in your head was something between a prayer and a plea.

kiss me kiss me kiss me kiss me

When the tip of his tongue broke through the seam of his lips to wet them, the only conclusion you could draw was that he’d read your mind. He didn’t listen, but the glint in his darkening eyes confirmed it: Namjoon knew exactly what you wanted and he was holding back. Instead of his mouth, he gave you his hand. 

Not bad for a consolation prize. 

His fingers slotted between yours like they were the reason those spaces existed in the first place. 

That’s the thing about magnets — they attract what they’re meant to. You didn’t need to look for him to find him. Unpaired electron that you were, you knew it intrinsically when someone was spinning in the same direction you were. Even though it’d been the furthest thing from your mind in every moment leading to the present, you couldn’t deny it now: 

You found someone that clicked.

There was static sparking in the air when Namjoon led you from the foyer into the living room. Every breath was charged, even the one that caught in your chest when you saw the full extent of his collection.

“I feel like I’m walking barefoot through the Met,” You hummed, eyes flitting from portrait to portrait. Traditional, contemporary, modern — all of it chosen thoughtfully and displayed the same way. “What’s it like to live in it?”

He paused and you paused with him. He looked shy for the first time all night. “Like I’m not alone with my thoughts, if that makes sense?”

Perfect sense.

“You’re not coming home to an empty apartment if you’ve got a piece of Yoo Youngkuk’s mind on the walls.” You gestured with your free hand  to a painting hanging to your right. It filled the otherwise neutral space with bright blues, greens, and yellows. “Gotta have some enrichment in the enclosure, or the fishbowl we live and work in will drive us crazy.”

When you glanced back at Namjoon — who was silent and completely still — he looked as if your words had punched him in the chest. Not like he was in pain, but as if the wind had been knocked right out of him. He was silent, though his mouth was slightly parted, and he blinked slowly back at you. You didn’t know what that look in his eyes meant, but it was a far cry from the lust in them before you started rambling.

Now, you had to worry about whether you’d offended him somehow. Fuck. You’d done it again, piggy-backed off someone’s statement to add the two cents no one asked for. Have you ever kept a single thought to yourself? 

You quickly pointed to a different painting.

This one, unlike the abstract pieces you’d examined so far, was earth tones in oil paints. Sitting in the center was a young woman in white, staring down at her bare feet as if one of them had stepped on something sharp.

“What’s her story?” You asked.

Namjoon cleared his throat to reactivate the vocal cords you’d seemingly paralyzed earlier. “That’s Eurydice on her wedding day. She married Orpheus, if his name rings any bells.”

It doesn’t.

“She got bit by a snake on her wedding night, which is — uhh, admittedly not ideal.” Namjoon visibly struggled to hide his smirk when you snorted in response. He continued, “She died, which is even worse, but Orpheus went to the underworld to save her.”

“Did he?”

Namjoon grimaced. “Orpheus was not great with rules.”

“Did Orpheus leave his own reception to chase a woman?” You teased with a raise of your eyebrow.

You watched his eyes darken in real time. Viper quick, he tugged at the hand he never let go of and led you right back to him. To keep yourself from colliding fully with his chest, your free palm flattened against it. His pulse raced at your touch, but you couldn’t pay attention to anything other than the searing warmth radiating off of him.

“I suppose he did.” He leaned down, nose tip nearly bumping yours. “There’s an important distinction here, though.”

Namjoon’s hand left yours, lifted up to rest with his fingers under your jaw and his thumb above it. You were sure that your shallow, useless breaths were fanning over his chin, given how close in proximity his mouth was to yours. His breath hit your lips and left them tingling.

The best you could do was whisper, “And what would that be, Namjoon?”

“Orpheus went home empty-handed.”

You didn’t mean to growl in response the way you did, but he’d awakened something feral in you, and there was no turning back. No caging it in. Just your hands gripping tight to his shirt, pulling him down to kiss you the way you wished he had hours ago. That was primal, too. All teeth and tongue with his fingers threading through your hair, and —

And he laughed. 

His shoulders shook just enough for you to notice. It was the quickened exhale of breath through his nose that gave him away, more than anything else.

“Is something funny?” You questioned him when you pulled back breathless. His eyes were crinkled, swimming with mirth. 

Tease. 

You and your now-unoccupied lips changed targets, dipping down to assault the exposed underside of his jaw. Mumbling against his skin, you urged, “Share with the class.”

He opened his mouth, and for a moment, he seemed to be on the brink of answering. Whatever words he might have found were lost again in an instant when your teeth nipped playfully where his neck met his shoulder.

“All those blackberries you ate — oh, fuck.” Namjoon groaned, even more so when your tongue flicked over the faint indents you’d left behind.

After leaving an opened-mouth kiss on his collarbone, you looked up at him from under a curtain of lashes. His head was thrown back, but he sensed your stare; half-lidded eyes fluttered down at you, transfixed. It was a look you felt everywhere, downright pulsing as it shot straight to your core.

You weren’t ready for the hands in your hair to migrate, and that fact was made abundantly clear by the tiny gasp he stole from you in the process. He reveled in it; the corner of his mouth twitched triumphantly upwards. His left hand resettled on your hip while the knuckles of his right hand brushed over the space just below your belly button.

Namjoon must’ve known he had you spellbound because his smirk was full-fledged when he pinched the fabric of your dress between his fingers. Gently, he tugged what he’d claimed, causing the hem to flutter against the tops of your thighs. You were left damn near liquified. More puddle than person, dripping dizzy under such a torturously soft touch.

He didn’t know you were kerosene until he struck the match.

“If your kiss tastes like blackberries...” He trailed off, head tilting to the side. His right hand dropped further. It hovered, red hot, just millimeters away from your core. “How sweet is the rest of you?”

You erupted in flames when his fingertips finally made contact with your clothed cunt. Clenching your desperate thighs together did nothing to extinguish the blaze, nor did the arousal that slicked the innermost parts of them. Swallowing down the whimper building in your chest, you did your best to keep cool. 

Eyebrow arched, you whispered, “Asking questions won’t get you answers, Namjoon. You’ll have to find out for yourself.”

The intention might’ve been to wind up in his bedroom at the opposite end of his apartment, but the execution was short-sighted. The farthest your lip-locked staggering got you was the adjoining, open kitchen — more specifically, the kitchen island. The chilled, marble countertop forced a hiss out through your teeth when the undersides of your legs settled on it. With Namjoon’s hands scorching the tops of your bare thighs, though, you were far from frozen.

Fingers raking through his hair, you let him kiss you stupid — until you couldn’t remember how it felt not to. Whiskey-laced and wanting, you licked into his mouth with a stifled whimper and came to two irrefutable conclusions. They spun pirouettes in your brain as his fingernails scratched up your thighs and under the hem of your dress.

Kim Namjoon was made to be kissed.

Up, up, up, his hands moved slowly until you felt his index fingers hook over the waistband of your underwear. He didn’t have to ask for your help; automatically and eagerly, you dropped your hands until your palms flattened against the countertop and lifted your hips. Down your thighs, off your ankles, tossed carelessly over his shoulder, gone — accomplished with his bottom lip kept as a souvenir between your teeth.

Kim Namjoon tastes like blackberries, too.

He was panting when he finally broke away. Large hands slid under your knees and pulled you forward. Now sitting at the very edge of the counter with Namjoon’s body between your thighs, you could feel him throbbing behind too-tight jeans. You were seconds away from reaching out to touch him, but he was the quicker draw.

The tip of his middle finger slid through your folds, wading through the slick that had pooled there. He moved slowly from the button of your clit to your entrance. That teasing filled your head with static and the silence with obscenity: you cursing under your breath as your forehead dropped to rest against his shoulder; you gushing, though he’d barely begun to touch you.

“All for me?” He hummed. Namjoon’s eyes were locked on your face, as if he was collecting mental snapshots of the fucked-out expression he’d put there. “Sweet thing.”

His lips connected with the underside of your jaw in the exact moment his digit finally slipped inside of you. You were sure he felt the way your mouth fell open, even if neither of you heard your breath catching in your throat. It didn’t take much effort on his part to coax it out of you, though; just a few slow pumps, and then you were whimpering near his ear.

You had to rely on your arm around his neck to keep you tethered. If you let go, you weren’t sure where you’d end up — floating off to join Neowise in its orbit, or crashing down into a heap at Namjoon’s feet. But then he added his ring finger, and you clung to him so tightly that you might’ve wound up in his rib cage instead.

“Oh, s-shit,” you keened as his fingers curled upwards. He’d found his target and attacked it slowly, forcing you to walk towards your orgasm rather than sprint — the way you needed to. The way you were willing to beg for. “Namjoon, please. I n—”

You felt the curve of his smirk against your skin. Before you could finish asking, he murmured low in your ear, “Say less, beautiful.”

The kiss he placed on your temple was the last thing you remember before his increased pace lit the fuse waiting deep in your abdomen. His thumb pressed against your clit, winding quick spirals, and he didn’t let up until he blew your mind sky-high.

When the smoke cleared and your pieces fell back into place, you had to blink to get the stars out of your eyes. “You should’ve warned me,” you panted. Namjoon was puzzled, which only made you beam. “You didn’t strike me as the dexterous type.”

The feigned shock on his face didn’t stick for long; it was quickly replaced by a shit-eating grin that made you tingle for an entirely different reason.

“These hands are good for two things, and two things only.”

You snorted, flexed an expectant eyebrow. “Breaking shot glasses, and…?”

Namjoon shook his head. His fingers were still shining with your orgasm when he brought them to his lips. It was ridiculous how he could still look pensive with you dripping down to his knuckles.

“Making you cum, first and foremost,” he corrected you matter-of-factly, like it was an undeniable truth dictated in one of the many books you’d seen littered around his apartment — and really, it should’ve been. 

He took those glistening fingers into his mouth to clean you off of him; you couldn’t look away from his tongue as it ran down their length. You swallowed hard when he did. Then, he released them with a lewd pop that made you clench around nothing. “And making you cum again.”

You rolled your eyes, as if you weren’t still irreparably charmed by him. Namjoon bit back a grin, like he didn’t already know.

“My hypothesis may be confirmed, by the way,” he mused.

The magnetism you’d felt earlier brought him back to you again. His arms snaked around your waist so easily that you had to remind yourself — over and over — that they were strangers to you, not a home. That this was adrenaline; this was infatuation; this was one night.

You hummed in response, “Is it?”

It felt like home when Namjoon kissed you, softness laced with eagerness. Or like wax pooling on an envelope, the deed now signed and sealed.

“I’ll have to re-run the experiment, of course. Scientific method and all that.” He waved his hand, as if this was obvious. Yours landed a playful swat on his bicep that only deepened the dimple at the corner of his smile. He kissed you again and you let him. Lips still flush to yours, he mumbled, “Your pussy may be even sweeter.”

2020/7/19; 01:04

You should’ve been exhausted. Your social battery — and your physical battery — should’ve been depleted. You, an introvert and a homebody, should’ve been halfway to sleep in your own bed by now, in your own clothes. 

When you left your apartment all those hours ago, you were already prepared to hibernate for twice as long as you’d spent on the outside. That was the way it always worked. A plan you never deviated from; one you never wanted to. But you’d been firmly rooted in the moment — every moment — since you arrived at that party, and you hadn’t spent a second since wishing you were elsewhere.

Your voice cut through the music flowing from the speakers built into his bedroom walls. “I’m not buying it, that’s all I’m saying.”

You twirled at the center of the rug and watched the fabric of Namjoon’s loaned t-shirt attempt to keep up with you. It hung over your frame like a potato sack, leaving a comforting weight as the excess material spilled over your shoulders and landed halfway down your thighs. 

Funnily enough, it fit like the dress it’d replaced.

Pausing to swallow down the last sip of the soju you’d been splitting, you gestured towards him with the empty bottle. From where he sat on his bed, Namjoon raised his hands defensively. That sheepish smile admitted that he knew your offense was justified.

“You’re a musician who is fluent in English. You’re also a human being living in a society,” you huffed. “There is simply no way that you don’t know the words to this song.”

He had to cover his face with his hands to muffle his laughter. Even before he hid behind his palms, you could see the way his mirth made his eyes swim. They sparkled even more in that moment than they had in the thousand other times he’d looked at you throughout the night. Once again, you tried to convince yourself that it was due to the rose-colored glasses you couldn’t seem to shake off. 

A trick of the light.

You were doing it again, and you knew it — conflating relief and hope; confusing the temporary sense of belonging somewhere with the ability to stay anywhere. You weren’t looking for this, weren’t looking for him, because you knew exactly what you couldn’t have. But you also knew that your heart was racing in your chest, and its rhythm was starting to sound more and more like, “maybe, maybe, maybe.”

Apparently, you’d been staring. Looking at Namjoon for too long made your knees wobble more than your sore muscles did, so you had to avert your eyes when you snapped back to reality. Brushing off that odd flutter in your chest, you brought the empty bottle back to your lips, tilted your head back, and belted out the lyrics you knew he knew.

“Oh, wake me! I'm shaking.” 

You took your clumsy choreography to the next level with an exaggerated shiver. Namjoon watched through the cracks between his fingers, unable to ignore the person coming unzipped mere meters away. Undeterred, you threw the back of your hand up to rest against your forehead.

 “Wish I had you near me now.” Then, you wiggled your hips in time with the ad-lib. It was barely audible underneath the chuckling from the audience. “Uh-huh.” 

His hands dropped to his lap as yours shot straight up into the air, where you held them. The expression on his face was indecipherable when he gazed back at you. Whatever it meant, it was quickly morphing maybe into something more hopeful and — terrifyingly — committal.

“Said there's no mistaking —”

Namjoon said it on an exhale, weightless and without any effort. It sounded natural tumbling out of his mouth and into the space between you. It sounded a lot like: 

“I think I love you.”

Without missing a beat, you reeled your arms back down and set the soju bottle onto a nearby dresser. Head tilted to the side, you crossed your arms and smirked. “How sure are you? Enough to wager on it?”

He didn’t seem at all surprised by the way you bought in immediately. You wondered if you truly expected him to be. After all, you weren’t, even if a reasonably well-adjusted person should have been. Perhaps, you thought, you weren’t one of those.

Namjoon’s response came just as easily as his first admission, a perfect volley. “At least seventy-nine percent sure.” You couldn’t see the way you lit up, but you’d have liked to imagine that it matched the way he did. Quicker still, he added, “And yes, I would. All in.”

There’s that magnetic pull again. 

You skipped back to where he was waiting on the bed and crawled over the mattress to settle in front of him. Up close, you could see the sakura tint to his cheeks; it blended perfectly with the faint freckles dusting over the heights of his cheekbones and the bridge of his nose. You’re beautiful, you thought, and it’s no wonder that the sun found you worth kissing.

Something about his proximity to you made you bold; you didn’t fight it. You simply smirked, “Then let’s make a deal, Joonie.”

Intrigued, he raised his eyebrows but didn’t interrupt. 

“Two years,” you hummed as you tilted your head to the side. Then, with a thoughtful finger tapping at your chin, you elaborated, “If in two years’ time you realize that you were right — and you’re one-hundred percent sure — you’ll win a prize.”

Namjoon nodded firmly. He put his hand out to shake on it, but you sat up on your knees. His gaze followed, leaving him to stare up at you as your fingers slid through his hair. You kissed him to finalize the contract, like all true devils do. 

“Deal,” he murmured against your lips.

It scared you, just a little, how melting into him already felt like a routine. Like you’d done several times already that night, you spilled into his lap with your knees on either side of his thighs. Namjoon’s arms accepted you immediately; they enveloped you, kept you anchored against his chest.

This time, it was you who laughed. 

Namjoon nudged your cheek with the tip of his nose. “What was that about sharing with the class?”

“I just — I’m not normally like this, you know? Completely unable to keep my hands to myself,” you snickered. “Can’t stop touching you.”

To emphasize your point, you removed your right hand from its place at the nape of his neck. Once your fingers were no longer woven through his hair, your fingertips traced light, languid lines, starting at his collarbone. Your eyes followed as your ministrations led you over the slope of his left pectoral muscle, down the bare warmth of his chest. 

“So, don’t.”

When your eyes flicked back up to Namjoon’s face, you got the impression that he hadn’t stopped staring at yours. Right hand trailing further down, you maintained that eye contact and watched his pupils blow when you reached the bulge in his boxer briefs. Experimentally, the pad of your index finger whispered along the length of his cock; you relished the subtle twitch you received in response.

“Is this where you want me to touch you?” You asked.

He was throbbing under your touch, growing hard once again, as if you hadn’t been at this for hours already. That didn’t stop you from driving him further wild. More breath than words, you teased, “Or here?”

With a light hand, you flattened your palm to encompass him more fully and squeezed, prompting him to curse.

“Fuck.” 

Namjoon’s eyelashes fluttered, but he seemed entirely unwilling to let them close. Desperate brown eyes pleaded with you, sending heat straight to your core. 

“Need you, pretty thing. Hand, mouth — doesn’t matter, just fuck me.”

Your fingers slipped away from the base until they resettled at the crown. Even without looking, you could feel the spot where his leaking tip had soaked through the fabric. He groaned when your fingers pulled away, though he stopped in his tracks when he realized where they were headed. 

Namjoon shuddered when your hand dipped under the waistband of his briefs and picked up exactly where you’d left off.

“How do you want it, Namjoon?”

As you stroked him, you pressed your lips to his. Slow, hungry, like you’d die before you’d get the opportunity again. 

To the best of his ability, Namjoon rolled his hips forward with each pass of your fist. And when you redirected that teasing pressure to his balls, he downright jolted, let loose some deep sound from the bottom of his chest. The sound hardly had time to dissipate before you felt the hem of your shirt lifting above your hips. 

Breaking the kiss just long enough to pull it over your head, it was gone in an instant, landing somewhere unseen off the edge of the bed. Ridding him of his briefs was a more concentrated effort. You pushed up on your knees so he could shimmy them down far enough for you to discard them entirely.

“How are your legs, pretty girl?” His palms warmed the tops of your thighs as he massaged his way from your kneecaps towards your hips. 

Dipping his head down, Namjoon nipped affectionately at your earlobe and earned a squeak from you. His low chuckle vibrated through you. He was quick to redirect himself, though the teasing didn’t end at his teeth. 

“You seem to like being bossy, but I can take over if you’re tired.”

You feigned a scowl. “Are you baiting me?” 

The wicked grin on his face answered for him, but it was quickly replaced with wide-eyed surprise when you pressed your hands against his chest and pinned him back against the pillows.

He shrugged, eyes still sparkling with mischief. “Not my fault if you take it, sweets.”

“Never would I ever have assumed that Kim Namjoon is a pillow princess.” 

You pointed accusingly at him with one hand while the other slid into the space between you to line yourself up with his cock. 

Impish grin still locked and loaded, he leaned up on his elbows until your extended finger was centimeters from his face. He kissed the tip of it chastely between his words, like his own tip wasn’t dripping with you, seconds away from obscenity.

“Hook — line —”

You dropped down on his length, and it shut him up immediately. 

Though Namjoon was certifiably, world-endingly thick, you’d acclimated well enough to the stretch of him in your time together so far. He didn’t seem prepared for you to take him to the hilt in one fell swoop, if the way his head crashed back against the pillows could be taken as a hint.

With a swirl of your hips, you grinded down into his lap. Coquettishly, you finished where he left off. “Sinker?”

“Christ,” Namjoon groaned. He squeezed his eyes shut, then followed up immediately with a sheepish laugh. “Feel like I can’t even watch you do this. You’re too fucking good — never gonna make it out of here alive.”

Pride bloomed in your chest at the compliment, even though he was prophesying his own downfall between your spread legs. 

You imagined he could feel it for himself: you weren’t any more likely to survive. Not full of him, with your slick spilling down his cock as you bounced. Definitely not with the sick sounds of your ass colliding with his pelvis, squelching with every thrust. 

There was something blooming below your navel, but this time, it wasn’t pride. A tingling heat coiled tight, desperate to snap again. You needed it, but the burn in your thighs was stronger by far.

“Joonie,” you whimpered, incapable of caring about how pathetic you knew you sounded. Your head, previously thrown back, drooped forward to find him and his flushed cheeks fighting to maintain composure.

God, he looked as fucked out as you felt. 

Namjoon focused on you immediately, attentively, and your heart leapt of its own accord. He curled his finger and beckoned you to lean forward. 

“Come here, pretty girl,” he sighed.

Less gracefully than you would’ve liked, you all but crashed into him, sweat-slicked chest to chest. Arms wrapped around you like they were made for that very purpose.

Anchored.

Dangling from the last, frayed thread of your resolve, you were damn near speaking in tongues. Namjoon pushed up onto his heels and buried himself in you — over and over and over — at a punishing pace, hellbent on unraveling both of you at once.  

Your moan was halfway to a sob. All the words you knew had been knocked loose some time ago, leaving only his name and please. They rattled around your skull, alternating as they spilled out of your mouth.

“Say less, baby,” he panted.

There was a kiss pressed to your forehead, and then there were stars bursting behind your screwed-shut lids.

2020/11/2; 07:22

Namjoon sat across from you at his kitchen island with a mug of coffee in one hand and a book he’d forgotten the name of in the other. He’d started it over an hour ago, though the two turned pages might indicate otherwise. Instead, he’d spent his time attempting to read whatever scrunched-up, pensive expression you had written all over your face.

You hadn’t said much since the two of you sat down, just pushed your sliced fruit around your plate with chopsticks that had yet to pass your lips. Every now and then, you’d hummed in response to the random thoughts Namjoon relayed out loud. Ultimately, whenever you’d realized he said something at all, your eyes widened; and you’d blinked your way out of whatever daydream you’d gotten lost in.

He loved that about you, your internal wanderlust. Even if he didn’t always know where your train of thought was headed initially, he’d board it with you regardless, find out on the way.

Eventually, you plucked a blackberry off your plate and popped it into your mouth. Your eyes were still glued to your laptop when you started to chew. Then, he suspected that the tartness of it truly hit your tastebuds. The lightbulb switched on and you were back, beaming across the countertop, warming him like a UV lamp.

“Hi,” you peeped.

Namjoon loved that about you, too. Infinite hellos sprinkled throughout his day at random; feeling like you missed him whenever you looked away, and that you found it necessary to greet him when he finally stepped back into frame. 

He lit up, too. “Hi. Where’d you go just now?”

You swallowed. Whether it was exclusively the fruit or anxiety, too, he didn’t know. That is, until you claimed your bottom lip between your teeth and mumbled, “Got a weird email from the Overlord.”

The sip of coffee Namjoon had taken while he waited for your answer was a bad idea. He sputtered, nearly spitting it out onto that book he couldn’t care about. The would-be spit-take made your brows raise on your once-crinkled forehead; your amusement was palpable, even if you did him the courtesy of not laughing in his reddening face.

“If Bang finds out you call him that, he’s gonna want it on the nameplate outside his office,” Namjoon coughed. Clearing his throat, he bumped his fist against his chest to shake loose any coffee that might be lingering near his airway. “Weirder email than usual?”

You nodded, then you waved him over to you. It was an odd thing to be grateful for, but he was glad you didn’t just turn your laptop around and scoot it towards him to read. You always took any opportunity for closeness.

When he crossed around the island to you, Namjoon threaded his arms around your waist and ducked down to rest his head on your shoulder. The second he laid eyes on your screen, he was paralyzed. You had so many browser tabs open that none had enough space to display what they contained.

Is this what the inside of your brain looks like?

“Jagi,” he started, breathing in deep to keep from laughing with his entire chest. 

It was bubbling there beneath the surface, he could feel it. Begging for composure, Namjoon buried his face in your hair. Vanilla and honey. Instantly calm, perfectly prepared to nudge you further. “How — how did you even find your inbox?” 

Just to fuck with you, he pressed his fingertips against that secret spot on the right side of your rib cage. It was the one place on your body he’d been able to confirm was ticklish.

Eventually, maybe, he’d learn his lesson. Today was not that day.

You squealed, thrashed wildly in his hold until your elbow wound up on the right side of his rib cage. It was hard enough to make your point, but way too gentle to hurt. Still, Namjoon had to capitalize on it. He sucked in a gasping breath and stood bolt upright to clutch his chest like he’d been shot.

With you watching wide-eyed, he staggered backwards — away from you, away from the kitchen — until the back of his knees hit the sofa in the adjoining living room.

At some point, Namjoon would have to shoot up a thank you to the God of Entertainment. Somebody had clearly been looking out for him when open-concept apartments came into existence. His slapstick would’ve been so underwhelming if there were doorways involved.

Flopping backwards, his limbs splayed out across the backrest and cushions. Whatever parts of him didn’t fit spilled over the edge and dangled above the floor. He froze that way, playing dead with his tongue jutting out of the side of his mouth.

Waiting, waiting, waiting…

“Hope you watered the plants before you died, Joonie,” you called out. You sounded distant, like you hadn’t gotten up from your stool. “If you left it up to me, they’ll be dead soon, too.”

Joonie.

God, the way his heart still fluttered at that. Coming from you, that nickname didn’t sound stupid, or inspire him to choose violence. It wasn’t patronizing, wasn’t followed by some shit-eating grin. It was soft. Made him soft.

Jooniejooniejoonie.

“Actually, for all you know, I’ve got a tab open somewhere with an article on how to keep plants alive.”

Namjoon heard the faint scrape of the stool as you pushed it away from the counter. Then, the soft pad of your slippers coming his way. The hints were lost once you hit the plush living room rug, and so were you — until he felt your knees slotting on either side of his legs.

You settled down on top of him with your cheek pressed to his chest and your hair tickling his nose. Bravely, he didn’t sneeze.

Hand slipping down to the small of your back, he rubbed spirals into the space between the hem of your sweatshirt and the waistband of your sleep shorts. He hummed, “What’s on your mind?”

For more than a few moments, you were so quiet — so still — that Namjoon had to wonder whether his ministrations had put you straight to sleep. If that was the case, he’d keep going, blow off his to-do list for as long as he could just to keep you like this.

This. 

Neither of you had settled on precisely what this was. 

For nearly four months, this something was one of few constants in his life. Yours, too. It wasn’t a secret that needed keeping, but whatever this was felt too important to share. It belonged to the two of you, not anyone else — with the sole exception being Yoongi, who would’ve noticed the massive, tectonic shift whether or not he’d been the one to kick it off. Everyone else, though? Non-factors, as far as Namjoon could tell.

Until —

“Label’s expanding overseas.” It came out muffled, either because your cheek was smushed against his sternum, or because you really had fallen asleep in the pause. You continued, slightly clearer, “Putting a flagship sub-label in Los Angeles to crowbar their way into the American market.”

Namjoon wasn’t surprised, not really. Si-Hyuk had been daydreaming about this leap for as long as Namjoon knew him. It was only a matter of time before he got his little contractual ducks in a row. If anything, Namjoon was surprised that it took him this long to do it — what, with American money and American awards on the table.

But he knew you, knew that you didn’t give much of a shit about executive decisions, so long as they didn’t get in the way of your decisions.

That was precisely why he knew you were bringing this up for a reason.

“The hard launch is at the end of the month, so Bang is hoping to sign some of us over in the meantime. He’s trying to boost the curb appeal, I guess.”

You sighed and Namjoon felt the rush of air leave your lungs.

Namjoon nodded carefully to avoid knocking the top of your head with his chin. He sighed, too. “To water the plants.”

You didn’t say the quiet part out loud, but he could sense your brain working overtime; damn near hear your train of thought as it picked up speed. He half-expected to feel heat seep from your head to his chest while all your synapses fired off at once. 

The warmth came from your eyes instead. You shifted so that your chin rested in the space between his pectoral muscles; and as soon as your gaze settled on his face, the crease between your eyebrows relaxed. Your pupils dilated, too, blown wide enough for him to notice the shift.

So, that’s what love looks like. 

Not merely a neurochemical reaction or some grand, Hallmark-style gesture. Love looked like you, looking at him, while a wave of patent relief smoothed out the worry digging trenches in your features. And if he had to describe how it felt, well… The only word that came to mind was home.

“Is he asking or telling?” 

Part of him wondered; the other part knew there usually wasn’t much of a difference between the two. 

Even more quietly than before, you responded, “Asking — like, actually asking.” 

The wrinkle in the center of your eyebrows reappeared, informing him immediately that you were split between the answer you wanted to give and the one you felt you should. Namjoon wouldn’t dare to make that call for you — to press down on either side of the scale — so he leaned forward and kissed you in the middle, right on top of that conflicted little crease.

“Joonie,” you started in a tone split three ways. Shy, sad, and sparked with a sense of hope that made you wary.

Bang Si-Hyuk wasn’t alone in his daydream. You brought it up considerably less than he did, but Namjoon sensed that this was because you didn’t want your motives to be speculatively linked with the prospect of profit. That would be the furthest thing from the truth. 

For you, it was about your craft — Namjoon felt comfortable calling it that —  and the million ways you could improve it with new collaborators, new ideas, new experiences.

For Namjoon, it was about you; and hoping that when you dove into life head-first, you never touched the bottom. Wanting everything you wanted to fall straight into your hands like confetti. And, if he could remain just a little bit selfish, he wanted to stick around and watch you catch them all. 

If you wanted him, too, the rest of it would fall into place, one way or another. It’d have to, because Namjoon was struggling to remember how his days passed at all without you laughing through them. Maybe he’d have to reacclimate to sleeping without your knee pressed into his back, but he was confident that he could. 

He could wait for you until this detour was over. 

He would wait for you.

Without needing to think twice about it, Namjoon kissed your forehead and smiled with his lips still pressed to your skin. It was routine, as easy as breathing when he said, “Say less.”

You both stayed there on that couch for a while, though he couldn’t guess how long. Simultaneously minutes and months, but somehow — confusingly — it didn’t feel like the clock was moving at all. He could’ve easily believed that the universe has pressed pause on the moment, but you peeped and he had proof to the contrary:

“I’d be there by Thanksgiving.” 

The realization clearly made you a little bit giddy. If your tiny gasp hadn’t given you away, your pulse would have. Namjoon could feel that hummingbird heartbeat against his own rib cage, and — shit, did that fondness squeeze his heart with a vice grip

You sat up, wild-eyed and urgent. “Is pumpkin pie just for colonizers, or are they obligated to share it?”

Fuck, he loved you.

“Joonie, this is serious.” You pouted and it was all he could do to bite back a grin. “I’ve always wanted to try it.”

He nudged your cheek with the tip of his nose and smirked, “Just do what they do.”

“Steal it?” You snorted, devolving into a fit of giggles when he began to pepper kisses down your cheek, then along your jawline.

Eighteen in total, one for every stroke.

Saranghae.

Namjoon hummed in agreement, “Steal it.”

2021/6/19; 04:11

Most people — normal people — were in bed at four o’clock in the morning. You were not most people, though situations like this were becoming more and more normal to you. Unfortunately, you’d been forced to learn that normal and easy weren’t interchangeable. If they were, you’d have gotten used to taking the red-eye by now. 

This was your third late-night flight. Not at all coincidentally, this was your third trip home since you left it for Los Angeles. You’d spent seventy-eight hours in the air, making this trip; flown more than 57,480 kilometers in less than a year.

Seven months, technically, but who’s counting?

The elapsed time seemed to run in dog years, though the calendar maintained that only seven months had passed. At the rate they slipped through your fingers, it felt like seven years of trying your best to take advantage of every break in your schedule. Flinging yourself across a black sky on a semi-regular basis, even if you’d just gotten off a tour of your own. Praying that the odd hours and lack of layovers meant your thirteen-hour trip didn’t steal a second more than was absolutely necessary.

Time, you’d learned, was a luxury you failed to properly budget for. Unable to do much else, you accepted whatever scraps you could afford. Make them worth it, you’d demand of yourself each time you landed at Incheon. Every time, your excuse would follow: I’m trying, I swear, but I’m so tired.

Instead of a bed, you were slumped in Namjoon’s passenger seat, clutching the small bouquet he’d brought you in a hand too exhausted to register the brush of soft, white petals. You’d never lose track of his fingers interlocked with yours, though. His touch was inimitable, and the warmth of it stuck with you long after it was gone.

“Pretty,” you mumbled, gaze zeroed in on the flowers. You lifted your right arm to bring them in for closer inspection. It was futile, mostly, given how bleary your eyes were. You guessed, “Baby’s breath?”

This airport ritual of his combined two of your favorite things: the careful consideration he made in choosing flowers that conveyed messages, and the dimple that appeared on his cheek when you guessed correctly. Gifting you an additional prize, Namjoon raised your clasped hands off the center console. Without taking his eyes off the road for too long, he flashed a sleepy grin at you and kissed your knuckles.

Fuck, you loved him.

He turned onto the expressway, let your hands drift back down between you, and yawned. Automatically, you yawned, too. 

As he drove, Namjoon’s sleep-drenched brain did its best to ask about all the updates you might’ve acquired since your last phone conversation. He asked about the extended play you were writing, the weird leak in your apartment, and the only friend you’d truly made in the time you’d lived there.

“What’s their name again?” He asked, visibly embarrassed that he’d forgotten. “Jisoo?”

With a chuckle, you corrected him, “Jinseo.”

He echoed you firmly under his breath, clearly determined to commit it to memory this time. Word association was apparently part of that process, you realized. Your heart fluttered wildly when Namjoon proceeded to state the first thing that came to mind about her, proving that he did listen when you talked.

“Jinseo’s the attorney who tried to slide into Yoongi’s Instagram DMs,” Namjoon stated, as if he were being quizzed. “He never looks at them. She’s been checking for three weeks to see if he’s even opened it.”

The way he recited this fact made it sound like he’d learned it from a book, rather than overhearing your friend’s complaints directly while he spoke to you on the phone. Still, he glanced at you for confirmation that he was correct. You nodded, proud.

Then, you provided the update he’d been seeking: “For the record, he still hasn’t.” 

You mustered enough energy to laugh along with him, but neither of you was awake enough to keep the conversation going. At least, you hoped that was the case. The alternative — that you’d run out of things to talk about — was worse. It was all you could think about, and now silence crept into the lulls, sitting heavy.

Namjoon was the first to speak again, after a long pause: “It’s lunchtime back home, isn’t it?”

It was an innocent question — a caring one, checking in on you — but it struck like a sucker punch, nonetheless. There might come a day that association didn’t sting, but you knew intrinsically that this wasn’t it.

Los Angeles wasn’t home, even though you’d lived there for the better part of a year. Seoul wasn’t home, either. You had no real roots in either location, continuously jumping back and forth between the two. Namjoon was home, though he was beginning to feel temporary, too.

“It’s so early for you, Joon.” You squeezed his hand. “We can go back to bed, and grab food later. I’m not hungry yet, anyway.”

A lie, but a well-intentioned one. You hoped your stomach kept quiet, kept your secret.

Though he wasn’t looking in your direction, there was a flicker of sadness in his eyes that you couldn’t have missed if you tried. You were sure it matched yours whenever the sixteen-hour time difference made you miss his calls. His schedule lately had made them fewer and farther between.

“I’m sorry,” Namjoon sighed. 

He meant it, and he emphasized as much with a reciprocal squeeze of your hand. It stung, knowing that he was apologizing for all of it, up to and including this moment; and that neither of you was at fault for any of it.

“We’ll be back in sync in no time. I’ll —”

You cut him off with a whisper and your best attempt at a smile, “Pssssst.”

Thankfully, Namjoon was stopped at the only red light that still separated the two of you from his parking garage. Otherwise, the way his alarmed eyes flitted in your direction may have had consequences.

“Say less,” you mimicked, like any of this felt the way it did before. He beamed, but his grin left just as quickly as it appeared. 

Namjoon looked away when the light changed, unaware that your face fell before you could catch it. Something that insignificant shouldn’t have had the power to make you that sad; but it did, and you didn’t know what to do with that fact.

The rest of the ride continued in silence. If Namjoon also felt like that silence was suffocating, there were no hints about it in his expression or his posture.

Does this feel easy to you? Am I the one making it hard?

He had to let go of your hand to park in his assigned space, and he forgot to reach for it again when he finished. You knew it wasn’t intentional, but that didn’t make it hurt less. Didn’t make the tears biting at the corners of your eyes any less embarrassing.

For two people as jet-lagged and otherwise exhausted as you were, it didn’t take long to drag yourselves from his car to his apartment. It took even less time for Namjoon to begin shuffling off towards the bedroom. Halfway there, he realized you weren’t still close behind. 

“Where —?” He turned his head to search for you before he turned his body fully. Ultimately, he found you hovering near the kitchen island. The relief in locating you was quickly diluted with concern. “You okay?”

Are we? Is this?

“I think I left my phone in the car.” You patted down the pockets of both your joggers and your jacket, brows furrowed. Then, you picked up the keys he’d just set down on the counter top. “Gonna run down and look for it.”

Too tired to be steady, Namjoon swayed slightly where he stood. You couldn’t help yourself. That magnetic pull tugged you over to him, pushed you up onto your toes, and demanded that you kiss him until that confused frown curved upwards. 

For a moment, you smiled, too.

“Go back to bed,” you whispered, leaving a kiss at his temple. You hadn’t meant to speak so softly. Your voice was caught wherever your breath was, and they refused to cooperate. “I’ll join you in a minute.”

He nodded, accepting a proper kiss before his bedroom-bound shuffling continued. Out of sight, you heard the thump of his lead limbs collapse back into his mattress. You felt it in your chest, which was tightening by the second.

You turned for the door, ready to run, only to stop dead in your tracks. Just ahead of you, tending to a snake bite, was Eurydice. The sight of her portrait hanging on the wall threatened to rip out the sob you’d worked to keep buried. She was all you could think about when you slipped out the door, and stumbled down the hall.

Maybe Eurydice would’ve lived if she’d never met Orpheus.

Shoulders shaking by the time you reached the stairwell, you shoved your hand into your pocket as you crumpled downward onto the concrete steps. You pulled out your phone and gripped it tight, like closing your fists around it could keep you together, too.

With the extent of your tears, you couldn’t make heads or tails of that bright, white screen. You did what you could, though, like you always did. Warbled voice bouncing off the walls around you, you found a loophole and slipped through it. 

“Hey, Siri —” 

The swirling grey, red, blue, and green at the bottom of your screen looked more like a life-preserver than anything else. Automatically, you pleaded, “Call Yoongi.”

It was a fifty-fifty chance, calling him at this hour.

He’d either be awake because he never went to sleep in the first place, or he’d have just drifted off. Either way, you were already sorry for bothering him. When he picked up on the first ring, that was the very first thing you said to him. 

Immediately, his tone shifted from the grogginess of his initial greeting. Now, he sounded worried. You wondered if you’d woken him up, but you didn’t ask.

“Hey — whoa, whoa, whoa — what’s wrong? Your plane didn’t crash, did it?”

He wasn’t trying to be funny and you didn’t mean to laugh, but you did. Sort of. It was some odd, gasping sound that felt wrong as it came out of your mouth.

“I’m fine,” you kept repeating, as if you could manifest the outcome. “I’m fine. I just — I need someone to tell me if I’m crazy, or just doing this whole thing wrong —”

“Doing what wrong?” Yoongi cut you off. “It doesn’t sound like you’re breathing properly, if that’s what you mean. Can you take a deep breath? Count to five on the inhale and on the exhale.”

You did what he said. It helped with what it was meant to, but hyperventilation had been the least of your concerns.

“Sit on the floor if you aren’t already. If you can, lean your back against a wall and flatten your palms on the ground, okay? That’ll help you feel anchored.”

Halfway compliant, you slumped against the metal railing next to you. You threaded your left arm over the lower of the two rungs and held on tight. Part of you wanted to laugh at this, too. It wasn’t much different than the safety bar on a rollercoaster; the way your stomach dropped was identical.

“I can come get you if you tell me where you are,” Yoongi continued. “That twenty-four-hour place has lamb skewers now. We can eat, and you can tell me what’s wrong.”

You didn’t know where to start. All of it, you thought, it’s all wrong.

The answer you blurted out was, “I love him.”

“I know, kid,” Yoongi sighed, and it sounded like an apology. He didn’t need any further explanation. “I know you do.”

Your voice broke when you continued, splintering painfully in your throat. It wasn’t a question you had any conscious intention to ask. It was simply shrapnel flying out of your mouth: 

“Is loving someone supposed to hurt this much?”

2021/11/13; 14:36

Your fourth trip home felt different than the rest. There was something in the air that you couldn’t quite put a finger on. Whatever it was, it’d kept your stomach in knots from the time you left your apartment until you wandered through customs in Incheon. 

It’d only gotten worse when you finally reached the sidewalk outside the airport. Your first instinct had been to cry, though not for the reason you usually did; you’d swallowed that urge with a hastily taken sip of boba. Just like he had for your three previous homecomings, Namjoon was waiting for you, flowers in hand. 

Flower, singular.

Of the two of you, he was the one with encyclopedic knowledge of floriography. Regardless, you knew enough to understand what that lone, white tulip said. It was an apology; and by now, you were well acquainted with those. Even still, you hadn’t gotten any better about accepting them because he still hadn’t done a single thing to be sorry for.

Sorry.

That word had slowly mutated into a punctuation mark over the last year. It’d wormed its way into every sentence, whether or not it had any business being there.

Hi, sorry, I was in the studio when you called. I love you, sorry. I miss you, sorry. I’m so proud of you, sorry, I wish I could have been there.

You heard it even when neither of you spoke, felt it in every bit of quiet. It sat between you on the drive from the airport to that restaurant you used to like — the one by the lake. It filled your unoccupied hands on the walk in from the parking lot, rested like a centerpiece in the middle of your table.

Neither of you ate much. You wished you’d had some semblance of an appetite, if only to fill the pit growing in your stomach. To distract from the way Namjoon’s eyes went glassy whenever he looked at you, or to keep your bottom lip from trembling.

Silent and sorry, the two of you watched the wind force waves; which, in turn, forced anchored row boats to collide with the dock.

Anchored.

There was that word again.

It’d been sitting untouched in the backlog of your vocabulary for longer than you’d care to admit. You knew its dictionary definition, of course, but it’d never been a word you’d ascribe to yourself. Leading up to last November, it wasn’t a feeling you’d knowingly craved, either. If you were honest, you might have hated it and its synonyms, too. 

Rooted. Tethered. 

They were on the tip of your tongue now, finally yours to taste. It was a bitter pill to swallow, realizing that your resistance to them had always been a coping mechanism. Your amygdala trying to intervene.

Until you met Namjoon, stability had been unfamiliar and elusive. It’d outrun you for so long, there’d only been one conclusion left for you to leap to: You didn’t deserve to catch it.

But you did catch it. You found him, opened yourself up to believing that you were the kind of person who got to have roots. For a year, you tried so hard to nurture them, loved the beautiful thing you’d grown in spite of yourself. 

You earned them, so why couldn't you keep them?

Namjoon noticed your breathing pick up. He knew you well enough to see precisely what direction your brain was spiraling in; and that you needed a gear shift. So, he hummed, “Been thinking about changing up my hair.”

“Oh?”

It certainly caught you off-guard, but you figured that was the point. You weren’t sure if you should have — or why you felt you couldn’t — but you reached up to run your fingers through it. Longer than last time, lighter.

“I’m not sure if the blonde has ever actually suited me,” he laughed. “What do you think? And, seriously, give it to me straight.”

You nibbled on your lower lip as you studied him. No matter how many times you stared at his face, you uncovered some new, favorite feature. Today, it was his irises, warmer than you remembered them being. Namjoon became more beautiful the less you saw him, as awful as that thought felt.

“I do like the blonde,” you mused. His cheeks blushed, just barely, but it squeezed your heart to know that was still a reaction you could pull from him. “But I think it would be nice to see Kim Namjoon as he exists naturally, you know? I haven’t met him yet.”

He smiled — genuinely, with his eyes and all his teeth — and it ached. 

“I’ll make a note of that,” he promised with a laugh. Then, he gestured to your largely untouched plate “D’you want a box for that before we go?”

“No, thank you.” You shook your head. It slipped out before you could stop it. “Sorry, I guess I wasn’t as hungry as I thought.”

The corner of his mouth lifted again, less happily than the last time. You knew as soon as you saw it that his half-smile was an apology, too.

2021/11/25; 19:59

Over the last week, Jinseo Kang had spent more time in your apartment than in her own. The spare key you’d given her at the start of your friendship was intended for emergencies, and while this wasn’t what either of you had in mind back then, that was the only word she could use to describe the state of you now.

In twelve months of knowing you, she’d gathered enough trivia about you to fill a memoir. Of the facts she’d collected, two came to mind immediately whenever Jinseo thought of you. The first was that you were a workaholic to a borderline clinical degree; so resistant to rest that the mere thought of being unproductive gave you hives. The second was that, despite the cursed hours you kept, you were never not in contact with Min Yoongi.

Since you’d flown back from Seoul, you’d done neither. 

Jinseo didn’t have to ask to know what happened; you didn’t need to say a word. In fact, you hadn’t — not that she’d heard — since you touched down at LAX, two days ahead of schedule. The only reason Jinseo even knew to pick you up was a direct reply on Instagram that didn’t look a thing like she’d hoped. Worse, the only way she’d been able to recognize you in her passenger seat was by the signature, mint green headphones clenched tightly in your hands.

Immediately, she’d noted the absence of your smile. That was a seismic shift, in and of itself. As was the case with those pastel headphones, that smile of yours wasn’t something you’d ever be caught dead without. Part of you never got off that plane, she’d thought then. Looking at you now, crumpled on your couch, Jinseo knew better. A piece of you was missing long before you boarded that return flight in the first place.

From your kitchen, she glanced over at the heap of blankets, though she didn’t know why she bothered. You hadn’t moved, hadn’t done much of anything since you shuffled out of bed at two o’clock in the afternoon. Still, she had to check for proof of life. Proof that you were still there, somewhere, even buried.

Illuminated by the television screen and underscored by A Charlie Brown Thanksgiving, there was movement. Half-hidden by a pile of knitted throws, she spotted the top of your head. Like it did every other time she saw the tangled bun sitting crooked there, her heart sank. I know you’re in there. I’ll find you, I promise.

In the absence of an instruction manual, she’d have to make one. This was a crash course — what to do when love dies in slow motion — and Jinseo was flying by the seat of her fucking pants. Maybe she didn’t know how to pull you out of this pitfall you were trapped in, but she could hold your hand and refuse to let it go.

So, that’s precisely what she did.

Before making her way to you, Jinseo grabbed the dish she’d been preparing off the counter. Spare fork in hand, she rounded the kitchen island and made a beeline for you. You didn’t react when she reached you, unless you counted the way you hugged your knees a little tighter to your chest. Jinseo certainly didn’t; she would’ve sat directly on your feet if you hadn’t cleared the space.

This close to you, she could see the way your jaw was still clenched. Going on eight days now, it was impressive, in some sick way, that the unrelenting pressure hadn’t left you with a mouth full of dust. See? She wanted to grab your knee and shake it, make sure you heard it loud and clear: Look what you can survive!

She didn’t, though. Jinseo simply held out the plate in her hands and stared at you expectantly until you sensed her gaze on you. Red-rimmed and glassy, your eyes lifted to meet her face and she was not going to cry at the sight of you. Nope. Swallowing thickly, she glanced pointedly at the plate, then back up to you. 

You were unfazed, barely conceding a blink. You didn’t even look down.

Please, sweet bean. Please eat something.

She tried again, nudging your knee with hers. “Happy Thanksgiving.”

For whatever reason, that holiday greeting was the only thing to reach you in a week. Finally, you looked down.

Jinseo hadn’t finalized her expectations prior to this moment, but the short list had included an eye roll, a groan, something. Even if you didn’t reciprocate, she would’ve been grateful for a response of any kind. Her list hadn’t included you bursting into tears over a piece of pumpkin pie, but that’s exactly what she got.

Charlie Brown can go fuck himself. There’s no such thing as good grief.

It was a reflex, dropping that plate onto the coffee table like it’d bit her. With her hands now free, she grabbed your shaking shoulders and pulled your limp body towards her until you all but collapsed in her lap. Even then, she squeezed you tighter.

I will not let you shatter. I will not let you slip away.

The two of you stayed there, just like that, for however long it took you to let go of the tears you’d stockpiled for eight straight days. And when you were finally quiet — finally still — Jinseo thought for sure that you’d finally fallen asleep.

“I think I hate him.”

Your voice was weak from lack of use; so much so that Jinseo could barely register that you’d spoken at all. Once she did, she didn’t know where to start.

Quietly, she asked, “Namjoon?”

With your head in her lap, Jinseo felt it shake. Again, you surprised her.

“Yoongi,” you whispered. God, you sound so broken. “I can’t stop thinking about it, and I know it makes me a bad person, but I’m so fucking angry at him. I went to that party because he begged me to. I wouldn’t have — I wasn’t looking for him.” 

Your voice cracked. “I wasn’t looking for him, for anyone. I’ve lost everything, and I don’t know what to do now. I’m so angry that it hurts.”

“That’s grief, sweet bean,” she corrected you gently. You sniffled, glanced up at her from the corner of your eye. “Not anger. Grief is just love with nowhere left to go.”

At this, you sat up more fully than you had in eight days, albeit looking more hollow than you ever had. Face tear-stained and bottom lip quivering, you croaked, “I don’t know what to do with it all.”

“Call Yoongi,” Jinseo hummed as she squeezed your knee. “If you need a place to put all that love you have left, then write one.”

2022/7/7; 00:00

Namjoon couldn’t remember the last time he had a day go the way it was supposed to; and frankly, he was getting sick of his own shit.

That morning had started off fine. 

Scratch that. 

It started off as well as he could possibly expect it to, waking up in an empty bed with no kneecap pressed into his spine. He drank coffee at his kitchen island, alone, and ignored the blackberries he’d unwittingly scooped onto his plate with the rest of his fruit. Dumped them in the trash before he lost his mind over a berry. Read half a book and remembered none of it. 

All things considered, Namjoon was doing just fine.

Unfortunately, things started going off the rails somewhere around sundown. He and Yoongi had wrapped up the last track on Namjoon’s upcoming release; and for once, Yoongi agreed to leave his studio. Agog and aghast, Namjoon dragged his favorite recluse to every sordid bar in that pocket of the city. As he piloted his tailspin, Namjoon repeated one thought, over and over:

Any dive he stumbled into was better than an empty apartment.

As he spiraled, he drank enough to blur the image of you, which was plastered on every television and burned inside his brain — but not too much. Namjoon learned a long time ago that he couldn’t sleep if he went to bed alone, so he made a habit of not doing that. After all, he didn’t have to like himself; he just needed to live with himself.

Whatever her name was, Namjoon only fucked her because she looked like you.

Her presence on your side of the bed might’ve summoned you because, when he finally checked his phone, your name was tied to a missed call. Better — or worse, he hadn’t decided — there was also a voicemail. The thought alone left him dangling precariously between wanting to cry and needing to vomit. Phone in hand, he staggered toward the bathroom before he’d made his choice.

Closing the door behind him, Namjoon leaned back against the wood. Everything was spinning, though none of it could be attributed to the whiskey he’d had several hours prior. This was all you.

You and that gravitational well he couldn’t ever seem to leave, trapped at his furthest point from you and growing colder all the time. Darker, too.

Aphelion, he remembered with a humorless laugh, not sure if or when it’ll ever be like this again.

Fuck!

Namjoon startled himself when he slammed his hands down on the counter, less due to the involuntary action and more due to the fear of breaking his phone. In a panic, he glanced down. It was perhaps the one thing left that he hadn’t shattered.

Typing in the code to his voicemail felt like disarming a bomb, given how urgently his fingers moved. He needed it, whatever it was that you deemed important enough to say to him. Needed you, but this was the closest thing he had, and that was fine.

“Hey, Joonie. It’s me — well, that much is probably obvious, I guess? Uhh — Anyway, Yoongi mentioned that you finished cutting the album today. I just —”  

Namjoon’s racing heart stopped dead in its tracks. You’d paused for so long that he feared the recording stopped there. Thankfully, you started up again, taking his pulse along with you.

“I just wanted to say, congratulations. You’re — I’m sure it’s incredible,” you sighed, “I hope you’re proud, and I hope you’re doing well.”

He was neither of those things. It’d been months, and it still hurt to breathe whenever he thought about you. He thought about you all the time, asleep or awake, no matter what — or who — he attempted to distract himself with. No matter how much of himself he lost track of in the process.

You were all he wanted, all he wants, all he’d ever want.

Namjoon caught his reflection in the bathroom mirror. Purposefully avoiding his own eye contact, he looked up, just above his crumpled brow. That bleached blonde hair still didn’t suit him, now even less so than when he asked for your opinion that day by the lake. He made a note of what you’d said, just like he'd told you then. It’d been sitting inside his medicine cabinet since the day after his whole fucking world exploded. 

Jaw clenched, he broke the magnetic seal between the mirrored door and that bottle of black dye.

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#re: aphelion #re: lacuna #re: redamancy #knj #bts #kim namjoon #namjoon #namjoon angst #namjoon smut #namjoon fluff #namjoon x reader #namjoon x you #namjoon x y/n #namjoon fanfiction #namjoon fanfic #bts fanfiction #bts fanfic #btshoneyhive #btsafterdarknet #micdropnet #jade writes #trashlibrary

[mehidktbh]

One Call Away

Pairing: Mafia!Simon “Ghost” Riley x Fem!Reader

Summary: Simon gets a call one day from you, you're panicking and crying on the other side when you tell him your co-worker did something terrible to you. But you don’t realise he’s about to be right outside your building.

Warning: Established relationship, gore/blood, torture, swearing, inappropriate behaviour, Soap is like Ghosts’ right-hand man, unwanted/un-consensual touching, crying, angry!Ghost, angst and fluff

A/N: Thank you to @fatedeniedhope for the help and inspiration with this and many more fics. Hopefully, everyone loves this because I'll definitely make more.

(No one knows how hard coming up with an idea was, I mean fuck I was stumed but this isn't my best work and hopefully, they'll be other (better) work soon.)

You sniff again, wiping the tears that continue to seep from your eyes, your nose is a bit runny and you feel hopeless. You pull your phone from your pocket, you're hands tremble and quake as you try to swipe through it before you tap on the contact you most dearly trust. The screen displays the brightly labelled name of your dear husband, someone you hate to call some days due to him always being busy but at this time you need him more than ever.

♡ ♡ ♡

The loud sound of talking echoes through the work building, you sit down at one of the many chairs at the conference table. Cups full of tea or coffee surround the number of papers and files, pens and pencils sit beside them un-neatly and un-used. A big projector hangs from the ceiling as it brightly displays the recent sales and downfalls. What's hitting hot and not, people's preferences and what changes can be made to the company.

"We'll revise after your thirty-minute break." Your boss said roughly, his voice is tired and demanding as his eyes skim over everyone sitting at the table. His head nods allowing everyone to stand and go off, and you're dying to get something to eat and maybe drink. After all, drinking tea and coffee every day for the same time for almost a week.

The sound of your shoes click against the flooring, you make your way past several people, some sit in their office cubicles while others stand mindlessly in a line waiting to use the printer. Your eyes wander over to the vending machine that sits there on its own, the hallway is mostly empty expect a few people walking up and down. The sounds of the vending machine pull you closer, you were originally thinking of going down the street to get something but now you scrapped that idea.

You stare in awe at the many foods displayed behind the clear display case, ranging from cholate to chips to anything unhealthy wise. But at the moment you are on a running thirty-minute timer and the last thing on your mind is eating healthy. Revenging through your pocket you pull out your wallet ticket away in your blazer. The black leather wallet is full of different credit cards and stamp cards that come from your favourite places.

You pull out a $20 dollar note and push it through the vending machine, typing in the numbers on the little keypad before watching the machine slowly get your items. "Good morning, Y/N." A masculine voice came from behind you, nearly scaring you as you turned around to face your co-worker. "Hey, John" You smile, nodding your head to greet him as he stands calmly against the vending machine, eyeing you up and down. "How's the meeting going?" He tries to make small talk and despite you wanting not to you engage in a small conversation.

"Actually I'm just about to head back," He sucks his teeth in, pouting his lips together, "That's a shame." His voice is low and sad, a smile appearing when you awkwardly laugh back, the sound of your food and drink smack against the machine. You bend down to grab them from under the flap before you hear John shuffle behind you.

"See you around, Y/N..." He mutters, his eyes trained on you as you bend down so you can better grasp the water bottle that rolls further away from your hand. You hum uninterested in what he just said before you feel his hand grab your ass, his hand low enough to feel his fingers graze your inner thigh, A short snickering came out from him before he walked off, you can basically see the asshole smirk from where you stand now in shock and anger.

♡ ♡ ♡

"Simon..." You sniffle, hearing your husband's mood change instantly when he hears your heartbreaking tone. "Fuck- what happened?" He asks, a demanding tone lacing his sympathetic tongue as he leans into the phone more. Trying to hear you better through your sniffling and hiccuping. Simon could hear your throat closing up, the way your soft kind voice was fast and sloppy.

"I- Can you come get me, please..." Your pleading falls hard against his ears as he shoots up from his leather chair, the sound of his heavy footsteps echoing through his hollow office. "Of course, dear." You sigh in relief as your back is met with the bathroom wall, you feel like the walls are closing in around you even though you have enough space to stretch out. "Now tell me what happened" You try to ignore the amount of background noise going on behind your husbands' phone, from him demanding someone to bring the car around to him getting in the car.

"My co-worker he... he touched me..." You were quieter, you couldn't shove the feelings of embarrassment and shame from coming up to stop you from saying those words properly. Simon angrily groans on the other side, you can just imagine him in the back of the car squirming with anger. Feeling the tightness that he has as he holds the phone to his ear, "Wait there, sweetheart. I'll be there in a second and I'll deal with that fucker', okay?" He reassures you of your safety and now all you want is to be in his arms, to feel his warmth and loving voice.

"Mhm" You hum softly, your tears low clearing up but the back of your throat still burns from your silent sobbing earlier. Simon receives the sound of the phone being hung up as he tosses it aside, barking at the driver to hurry up before he turns to Soap. A simple nod is all Soap needs before he turns to look out the window, a gory image set in his mind.

♡ ♡ ♡

You sit alone in your office room, the blinds closed and fending off any wondering eyes as you sit down in your chair looking straight at your computer. Your mind isn't set on work and instead, the time tickling from the clock that sits on your office desk, slowly ticking down till your squirm in your seat.

You nervously wait anxiously for what's about to happen, you haven't heard since you stupidly hung up on your husband. And now all you want to do is hear his soothing voice, his calloused hands and his beefy figure but all you can do is wait. Feeling as if the moment you had just a second ago wasn't real.

"Y/N." The door opens up, closing behind itself as a well-known voice soothes you, you jump up from your chair before falling into your husband's embrace. You feel stupid for letting yourself cry again after telling yourself you wouldn't once Simon would be here but now crying is all you can do. Burrowing yourself further into Simon's chest you clutch onto his suit, not one of you caring if a dark spot appears wet.

"Don't worry about that idiot, Soap took care of him." He whispered into your ear, his hand came out to wipe the stream of tears away. "You didn't... kill him, right?" You questioned. Still, that guy deserved all the hell he could get but the day he disappeared everyone would of pointed fingers at you. The thought of him dying was terrible but wasn't pleasant either.

"Don't worry about him, love. He won't bother you again" You nod, feeling the smooth silk fabric of Simon's (suit) handkerchief up against your cheek. The floral design was pretty to look at, the design is something you remember when you got it for him for his birthday. The thing is now something you see every day on each of his suits, the square handkerchief is different from his lifeless-coloured clothes and stands out. Reminding everyone he has a special someone.

You spot bits of blood smudges on it, the same ones you guess he cleans off his knuckles or hands when he's done with "business". "Come on, let's go home." He waits near the door, standing tall and neat as he watches you pack up quickly, throwing your laptop into your bag before your grab his hand tightly.

♡ ♡ ♡

Blood spills out upon the concreated floor, the red liquid is something Ghost has seen thousand times, he's covered in it and reeks of it too. "Toss him out." He stares at the hopeless men in front, the ropes thicker than shit as his skin burns redder than his blood. Soap nods in agreement, the sound of the wooden chair screeching harshly against the concert floor dies out the further he's taken away.

He mindlessly wipes away the blood from his hands, the floral handkerchief swallows the liquid whole. Ghost stands there, continuing to wipe the blood away, remembering your face as he does so. How frightened you sounded when you called him, he swore he nearly had a heart attack at that moment, hearing you huff for air. But now he neatly packs the handkerchief into his pocket, his mind set on getting back into bed with you.

He tries to gather up excuses to sugarcoat you into staying in bed in the morning but there's no need to work when he's already done it for you.

#simon ghost riley imagine #simon riley x reader #simon riley x y/n #simon riley x you #ghost simon riley #ghost riley #cod ghost #simon ghost riley #simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley x you #mw2 fanfic #cod mw #mw2 x reader

[the1975attheirverybest]

Video Games

A/N: Based on this request:

I'd like angst to soft Matty if you could 🥺 Like he is angry at the beginning and scary, but she Has a terrible day, something terrible happened that he didn't know, when he finds out he is really sorry and soft ect <3 idk about the plot just something like this only if you feel like it of course

Warnings: Angst to fluff

---

Jamie and George exchanged a look. A look that Matty knew very well. A look that said "do you wanna handle this, or should I?" He rolled his eyes. "don't patronize me!"

Jamie decided that this fell under his job title. "Matty-"

"I just feel like you guys aren't listening." Matty repeated the same sentence he'd been saying in various iterations for the last twenty minutes.

"We're listening, mate" Adam spoke, from the far corner of the room, in a conciliatory tone.

"Let's put it to a vote." Jamie looked around the room for the guys' support.

"We don't do that, Jamie-"

"You don't do that for band stuff. This is label stuff, Matty."

"Well, then, the only people who should be voting on this are me, you, and George. We're the co-producers and you're gonna sort it out." Matty's voiced betrayed his emotional state a bit more than he would've liked.

Ross and Adam nodded, putting their hands up in surrender to assure him that they were no threat to this democratic process. They knew that Matty wasn't trying to exclude them, he was just simplifying matters, hoping that it was him and George against Jamie. He was about to find out how wrong he was.

"Alright," Jamie declared. "By show of hands, all in favor of moving with this contract today?"

Matty watched in shock as George's hand went up.

"George! What the fuck is the matter-"

"Matty, shut the fuck up and listen for a second!" George, finally having had enough, interrupted him. "I know you want to produce their record.

"And you don't?"

"Mate, I said shut the fuck up. Listen, I would love to work with them. They seem cool and fresh and I think they'd bring a lot to the table sonically. But, you're thinking like a producer right now-"

"How else am I supposed to think when production-"

"Like an artist, Matty! Like the frontman of the 1975 like around 2013."

Matty was finally all out of words, he simply crossed his brows, slowly realizing George's point.

"remember when all these labels suddenly wanted to work with us? and they'd come to us with offers and contracts, and what would you say to them?"

"To go fuck themselves."

"Exactly. Put yourself in these young kids' shoes, man. They're 19 and 20, or whatever. They want to make good music, they're excited. And they want to protect their artistic identity. If they need our help, they'll ask for it."

Matty was silent for a long minute while George and Jamie's eyes watched his body loosen, gradually. "Whatever," he finally mumbled, waving them off dismissively. "Do what you want" He got out of his seat heading straight to the door.

"Matty, where're you going? we need your signature."

"Smoke."

Jamie watched Matty leave with his cigarette packet and his lighter still on the table. "bro-" he attempted to call after him. "He's not really going for a smoke, is he?"

George smiled. "It's all good. I'll sign on his behalf."

***

In the parking lot, Matty searched the pockets of his jacket for a lighter and a pack of cigarettes and realized he'd left them upstairs. "fuck's shakes." he muttered to himself, unlocking the car door and driving to the nearest smoke shop.

As he put out the end of his cigarette on the sidewalk, he spotted a coffee shop across the street and made his way over for a cup of coffee and a pastry that he could count as lunch. He'd hardly made it out of the shop, though, before a flustered guy, rushing from the other side of the street ran straight into him and spilled the piping hot cup of coffee all over Matty's shirt, causing him to drop his "lunch"

"FUCK ME!" Matty yelled out instantly taking off his leather jacket and unbuttoning his short to prevent any burns. "Thanks, bro! Really fuckin polite of you" he called after the guy who didn't even stop for an apology.In his haste to undress in the middle of the street to avoid a visit to the hospital, Matty hadn't realized that the phone in his hand had absorbed some of the splash, as well.

He searched the back of his car for a gym bag, an old tee, anything at all that he could put on for the rest of the day, but there was no clothing to be found anywhere. He rested his head on the steering wheel, mumbling a string of profanities to let out some of his frustration. He could really use a drink right now. Maybe something to eat, too. Showing up at a bar without a shirt on might not be the best idea, though. He needed to head home immediately. Music is probably the only thing that would help in this moment. So, he dug into his pocket to retrieve his phone and was stunned to see that it was effectively fried.

"FUUUCCCKKKK!!!" He screamed out in the confines of his car.

***

Matty let out a long, drawn out sigh as he walked into his home, pushing the door shut behind him and turning the lights on in the entry way.

"Oh thank god!"

His eyes had barely adjusted to the light when he saw the outlines of her silhouette before she'd lunged forward and hugged him tightly.

"I- I'm so glad you're home." She traced down the sides of his body as if to make sure all the pieces were in place. And once she'd made he wasn't looking like he'd been in mortal danger, her anger set in. "Where the fuck have you been??? It's late! Do you have any idea what time it is?"

"N-no, actually, cuz I-"

"I called your phone. Over and over! It kept going to voicemail!"

"Yes, well, see-"

"So, then, I called the DH, and you weren't there either! Talked to George, too. He said they hadn't seen you since you left for a smoke at 11 am! I was terrified that something'd happened to you."

Her high-pitched, endless admonishments were giving him a headache. His heart was racing. He felt claustrophobic. Like she'd trapped him into a box of her disappointment. She wasn't even letting him get a word in. To explain, to tell her about the day that he'd had. that he hadn't eaten anything since breakfast. That he'd been driving around without a GPS, trying to find someone who'd fix his phone in less than 24 hours. She hadn't even brought up his missing shirt yet. he just needs a fuckin minute to breathe.

He left her there, standing in the entryway, yelling at the place he was standing, and walked into the living room.

"Matty, I'm talking to you!"

He walked over to the TV station, turning on the screen and reaching for the playstation controllers.

"Are you fuckin kidding me right now???" she shook her head in disbelief. "Why are you half naked? Where's your shirt? where have you been all day and why is your phone off? why haven't the guys heard from you? They said they were waiting on you to show up at-"

"Shut the fuck up, darlin, would ya? Please. shut up for one fuckin second and leave me the fuck alone!"

She was stunned into silence. His words echoed through the room, bouncing off the walls and lingering in the air. "w-what did you just say to me?" she whispered.

"I said shut the fuck up, alright? I'm here, aren't I? I'm home, so, obviously, I'm fine."

She shook her head, a laugh of disbelief leaving her lips. "You might be here, but...you're obviously not fine..."

"Well, I just don't want to talk about it, okay? I don't want to talk. I just- don't!"

silently, she walked away from him, heading up the stairs and into the guest bedroom, slamming the door shut behind her.

Alone in the living room, Matty tossed the controller onto the couch and punched a throw pillow, tears running down his face.

***

She had no idea how long it'd been since she'd laid in the guest bed or how long she'd cried in the dark before eventually falling asleep. But she awoke to the sound of the door creaking open. From the lights in the hallway, she could see the outlines of Matty's curls and face, peering in.

"May I- umm" he was too embarrassed to look her in the eyes.

"Come in, Matty." she smiled, sitting up in the bed to make room for him.

As he walked in, she realized he'd brought something with him. She reached over to the nightstand and turned the lamp on. She could now see that he'd changed into a band tee and some joggers, and that he appeared to be holding the playstation in his hands.

He set the wires, controllers, and games on the bed and climbed on next to her.

"I'm so sorry, my love." Matty's hand reached for her face and caressed her cheek. "I'm so sorry. I'm a dickhead. A monster. I never should've- I- never should've raised my voice. Never should've been cruel and unkind. I- you don't deserve the way that I treated you."

"You're right." she simply said, placing her hand over his.

"Matty, what's going on?"

"N-nothin,' just- having a weird day. Which isn't an excuse to speak to you like I did. I'm awful. I know."

"Wanna talk about it?"

"No, not really. Not right now. My head feels fucked up still. But I know what I did was wrong, and I want to apologize."

"No, no. Not right now, Matty." Her tone was firm, but the gentle touch to his face made him melt. "When you're ready, later, once we've talked it through, you can apologize properly. We can talk it out. Right now...Let's just....sit here together, yeah?"

He nodded, feeling ashamed but grateful.

"what's all this?" she pointed to the playstation.

"Video games. Wanna play with me?"

She chuckled, he heart softening towards him already. "Sure, show me what our options are."

#matty healy fanfiction #matty healy fanfic #matty healy x reader #matty healy x y/n #matty healy x you #matty healy fluff #matty healy angst

[emberfrostlovesloki]

Moschino and Muddy Water [Emily x Reader]

 Prompt: You offer unsolicited fashion advice to a total stranger in the dressing room; aka when you meet Emily Prentiss in the Moschino dressing room and give her some much-needed confidence… and maybe something more. 

Category: Fluff/Comfort 

Word Count: 3.2K

A/N: This is yet another @imagining-in-the-margins prompt from her Meet Cute writing challenge. Thank you for all the inspiration! Please know that I don’t have Moschino money, so if my writing about the brand or experience of shopping there is off, that’s why. I’m just giving my best guess as to what it’s like to shop at a luxury store like that. Also, I don’t love the current Moschino collection, but they seem like clothes Emily would wear to me. This is the first time that I’ve written a story in the second person. Please let me know if you like this formatting more than the third-person formatting I’ve done in the past. I hope you enjoy this story, and if you do - comments, likes, and reblogs are appreciated! 

P.S. The reader uses she/her pronouns

List with all stories 

_s/s_ = shoe size 

_d/s_ = dress size 

_f/c_ = favorite color

_b/t_ = body type 

_f/j/c_ = favorite jewel color 

_f/m/s_ = favorite mall store

_y/n_ = your name 

_f/s_ = favorite senator 

_f/a_ = favorite artist 

You had spent the morning window shopping at the outdoor  Historic Downton Shopping Mall. She was currently standing outside the Moschino storefront with its crisp glass exterior and metrosexual, jewel-toned fall collection on the mannequins. _y/n_ would never stop at such a high-end shop, but a pair of boots had caught your eye and you really, really like them. _y/n_ thought, ‘Oh god, why do you have to torture yourself like this?’ As you walked into the store to take a closer look at those shoes. You justified the choice by thinking that she would take a closer look at the boots so you could try and find a convincing and far cheaper dupe online. As soon as you walked into the store a sharply dressed sales assistant approached her and said, “Good morning, Miss. Can I grab you a glass of champagne while you are looking around?” You smiled and said, “Yes, please.” The assistant nodded and moved into a back room for a moment. You heard the pop of a cork. While the woman was away, you looked over the dresses and jackets in the women’s section. You like this season’s collection and found a dress that you thought you had seen one of her coworkers wearing. The sales assistant came back and handed you a champagne flute and asked, “Is there anything particular you’re looking for today? Any style or event you’d like to help you with?” Now that you had committed to the bit by accepting the champagne you realized you were going to have to play that you were going to buy something, even though you knew you weren't. You turned to the assistant and said, “Well the black boots in the window caught my eye. I’m also looking for a new jacket; something that can transition from day to night.” The woman nodded and said, “Great. What’s your shoe and dress size?” You replied, “I’m a _s/s_ and a _d/s_.” The woman nodded and said, “I’ll go in the back to get those shoes. Feel free to look around the jacket sections -- it’s on the far wall.” 

You did go look at the jackets, but not before looking at the price of the dress you had seen her co-worker in. The number on the label took your breath away and you wondered how your co-worker could possibly afford something so expensive? ‘Maybe she’s loaded?’ you thought. You stepped toward the jackets and pulled one from the rack. The quality of stitching and the material used was impeccable. You placed the piece back on the rack as a _f/c_ dress nearby caught your eye. It would be perfect for work. You looked at it longingly and hadn’t noticed the sales assistant had come back. You nearly jumped out of your skin when the woman said, “Ma’am.” You caught your breath and turned, trying to look composed. The assistant motioned for one of the plush chairs on the floor. As you sat, she took out the shoes. You tried them on; you were happy they weren’t that comfortable, because with how good they looked on you, you might be tempted to waste two months' salary and eat ramen for two weeks straight to get them. The sales assistant said, “Why don’t you walk around a bit and see if you like them. There’s a mirror on the other side of the wall so you can properly see them. I also saw you looking at that dress and jacket. I’ll grab them in your size and put them in a changing room for you.” You smiled and thanked her. As the woman moved to the racks, you did a few circuits of the store and looked at the shoes in the mirror. When you finished trying on the boots, you moved back to your old shoes and put them back on. You moved to the dressing room. It was lush and as a grandiose, over-the-top addition the hallway that was lined with changing rooms was essentially lit like a runway with two towering mirrors on either end of the hallway. Just before the changing rooms, there’s a seating area full of neutral-color plush sofas and chairs similar to those in the showroom. For a moment you thought they might be for the poor husbands who were dragged out shopping with their wives. However, after a second look, the space was far too feminine; you ascertained that this was for mothers and girlfriends to coo and make recommendations on the fit and look of the clothes to be soon bought and stuck in a closet somewhere potentially to be forgotten. A shot of jealousy shot up you for a moment before you took a breath and let it out. You may not have come from money, but you were happy. You had a job that fulfilled you and that’s all that mattered. 

Your thoughts were interrupted when the sales assistant called for you. You moved to the dressing room she had picked out for you. As you peered into the large space you noticed two things. The first was that the woman had brought your champagne glass into the changing room and topped it up. Secondly, she had brought more than the two pieces into the dressing room. From your count, there were at least ten items on the small personal rack in the ostentatious room. The saleswoman said, “I took the liberty to pull a few more pieces in your sizes that matched the description of day to night that you mentioned. I’m going to let you try these items on. If you need anything like a different size or a top-up for your champagne, just let me know. My name is Kirsten, so please let me know if you need anything.” Kirsten graciously moved out of the dressing room and closed the door behind her. There was a satisfying click as the door automatically locked behind her. You relaxed after letting out a breath that you hadn’t realized you were holding. The fact that Kristen hadn’t realized that you didn’t have any money to buy anything she had pulled for you was shocking, or maybe she was just taking pity on her and not making this a humiliating experience. Whatever the cause was, you took off your pants and shirt and tried on the first dress, the original one you had been eyeing. When you looked in the mirror it really wasn’t as pretty on you as you had anticipated. It looked great on the rack, but on your _b/t_ it wasn’t flattering. With that disappointment swept under the rug, you took off the dress and grabbed for the next garment because surely they couldn’t all look as bad as the first. 

As you slipped the second dress off the hanger you heard Kisten’s voice and a new voice a few feet from your dressing room. From what you could hear Kristen was talking to a regular. The jealousy swelled again, but you pushed it down again. The next two dresses were also flops and you started to try on the jackets Kirsten had picked for you, the new voice spoke. Whoever was in the changing room with you caught your interest. It was clear to you that whoever was speaking was on the phone. If you listened with concentration, you could hear some of the words being exchanged. Given this was such a stupid and surreal experience, why not listen to how ‘the other half lived?’ As you eavesdropped these were the snippets of conversation you heard: “Listen J.J. I’ve shopped here for years, but I don’t know about the Fall 23’ collection. If I buy these dresses and pants they will have to function for work and this date I’ve got coming up on Saturday… I can’t decide if this dress is tacky or chic” There was a long pause before the woman who was speaking said, “Okay, okay, fine, I’ll look in the big mirror if you insist.” You couldn’t help but leave your lush cubicle to see who this woman was and what someone who sounded like they had been a consistent customer for years looked like. You zipped up the hidden zipper of the _f/j/c/_ dress you were pretending to be trying on. After the zipper was up, you peeked out of the door to see the woman. She was still on the phone and hadn’t noticed you standing there yet. Your jaw almost dropped when you saw the woman. She was beautiful; the most attractive person she had seen in months. The maroon dress she wore hugged her body in the best possible way. Its plunging neckline showed her cleavage in a way that highlighted her form. Seeing her in that dress she realized who these clothes were made for. You could help yourself and you said aloud, “You look amazing.” At your comment the woman finally realized that she wasn’t alone and her eyes looked up to the mirror, locking onto yours. She turned and said, “Thank you. Do you really think so? I think the neckline might be a bit much” You smiled and nodded saying, “I think that dress was made for you. I couldn't help but overhear your comment on the phone and I don’t think it’s tacky at all. I would probably wear a cami under it at work, but other than that I don’t see any downsides.” The woman smiled and said, “Thank you. I needed to hear that. It’s been a rough week.” The woman took a moment to look you over, and you flushed as you felt her eyes quickly rake over you. She said, “You look great as well. That dress really suits you.” You beamed replying, “Thank you.” With slight hesitation and a bit of awkwardness, the conversation stopped and both women went back to their own stalls. 

You took off the dress and put it back on the hanger. As silly as it was, you didn’t want the woman she had complimented to see her walk out of the store empty-handed. You exited the dressing room and told the sales associate that none of the dresses or jackets had worked out, and she thanked her for her time and help. Outside the weather had turned cloudy and grey. It had been raining a lot that fall and it looked like the trend was going to continue today. You decided to go to a store you could afford. You looked around the racks of _f/m/s_ and picked out a suad purse. You moved to the front of the store and checked out. You spent some time just walking around appreciating the cool weather and people-watching. You remembered that you had a Starbucks gift card and decided to treat yourself. As you walked toward the coffee shop you heard a noise on the opposite side of the road in front of her. You looked over in that direction and found the woman from the dressing room. It seems that she had fallen for some reason. You became increasingly annoyed as a group of guys and a few women walked by and didn’t help her up. More infuriating was the fact that you could hear one of the men laugh, and you knew that if she could hear his nasal laugh the woman most certainly could. You quickly moved across the road, avoiding a slow-moving car, and knelt down near the woman offering her a hand. The woman took it with surprising strength and you leaned back to help her up. Not only had she fallen, but she had fallen in a puddle of muddy water, staining her crisp white shirt. As she helped the woman up, she said, “Thank you so much! You’re my savior.” You smiled and said, “I’m happy to help.” Once she was back on the sidewalk, you leaned down and got to her dropped shopping bag and purse from the puddle. You made sure the bag labeled Moschino didn’t have any water damage to the package. Thankfully whatever clothing the woman had bought was put in another box due to the quality of the product. You shook the bag slightly to remove any excess water. 

You noticed the reason for the woman’s fall was due to the fact that her right high heel had broken off. You couldn’t help but feel a bit of pity for this woman; she had said she had had a bad week, she had fallen and no one had helped her up, and now even her shoes were betraying her. Without even really thinking you said, “I was going to go grab a coffee and Starbucks, could I treat you to a drink? I’m_y/n_, by the way.” The woman looked at you and replied, “That sounds really nice actually. I’m Emily, Pretiss. It’s nice to meet you _y/n_.” You handed the Mischino bag back to Emily and you both moved down the street toward the Starbucks. As you were walking, Emily said, “You didn’t buy the dress from the dressing room? It looked so good on you?” You flushed but responded truthfully with, “I couldn’t afford the dress. I can barely afford Guess which is just a knock-off Prada.” Emily laughed at the last comment and you thought the sound of her laughing was the most beautiful thing you had heard all week. She replied, “Tell me about it. Why does shopping have to be so humiliating? First, you have to try on clothes and be disappointed when they don’t fit, and second, if they do fit, you can’t afford them! Certainly, men don’t have this type of problem while shopping.” You chuckled and said, “They most certainly don’t, but most men are wearing cargo shorts and Polo’s. A two-year-old could make the outfit.” You both burst into another fit of laughter. As you got to the Starbucks Emily opened the door for you. You both waited in line and as you got to the front you ordered your usual creme brulee latte with a shot of espresso and a pump of vanilla. You turned to Emily and asked, “What would you like?” She thought for a second before saying, “I’ll have a cold brew with sweet cream foam.” After you had paid you both found a quiet table in the corner of the store. 

As you sat across from each other you appreciated Emily’s face. You couldn’t stop thinking about how pretty she was. You were pulled from your thoughts when Emily said, “So, where do you work?” You replied I’m an intern for _f/s_ currently. How about you, Emily?” Emily replied, “I work for the F.B.I. actually. I’m a profiler?” At this, your eyes widened and you said, “Really? What’s that like; it must be dangerous I assume?” Emily nodded. She was looking at you and the way you were looking at her ignited a small warmth in the pit of her stomach. _y/n_ was looking at her with a kind and attentive gaze. Emily had been struggling with dating since she had joined the BAU and now, by fate or fortune, she was someone who seemed lovely. She was actually dreading her upcoming date, but didn’t want to cancel on the guy and have to explain that she wasn’t into him anymore. So she was going to savor this moment with _y/n_. She responded to the question saying, “It is. It is dangerous most of the time. But it has to be done you know. People deserve to live in a safe world. And that’s what I do.” There was a moment of silence after this before Emily continued, “So what’s an average weekend like for you apart from boosting my confidence by fifty percent?” As both Emily and you recognized how this feels like a first date this all felt. However, neither one minded, and you replied, “I like to sleep in if I can. Then get a workout in and answer some emails and after that, I’ll grab a coffee and do something fun if I have the energy. I have a penchant for used bookstores and vintage copies of Virginia Wolfe. In the evenings I like to listen to _f/a_ on vinyl while I unwind with a glass of wine. How about you?” Emily liked what had said and replied, “Oh my god, I love _f/a_! I was them in concert last year. I think I changed my life.” You smiled and said, “Lucky.” After finishing a sip of her cold brew, Emily said, “Well it depends if my team is on a case then I’m working, obviously, but if I’m free I like to get in a workout like Yoga or pilates. I cuddle my cat and spend time making a nice meal. I’m trying to see every art museum in the city, so if I can fit that in then I will. My job is pretty stressful, so relaxing stuff mostly.” You couldn’t help but think about Emily cuddling her cat, or maybe you were thinking of her cuddling you instead. Your face visibly reddened and you had to look away for a moment. You and Emily continued to chat as you finished your drinks and before you got up to go Emily went out on a limb and said, “Hey, _y/n_, would you like to do this for real sometime soon?” At hearing this the butterflies in your stomach fluttered up into your chest and you thought you might float up to the ceiling. You wanted to be sure you heard correctly and said, “This?” Now Emily flushed and she replied, “Would you go on a date with me? You seem really kind and I’d like to get to know you better.” You wanted to nod or scream with excitement, but something stopped you for a moment and asked, “What about your date on Thursday?” Emily shook her head and said, “I’ll cancel. He was rude in his messages with me and I was having doubts already.” You took in the information and nodded replying, “Then yes. I’d love to go on a date with you, Emily.” Emily’s face broke into a radiant smile and she said, “Great. What day works for you?”

As you planned the day and time for the date the chemistry was palpable between them. As they both walked to the door to go their separate ways, Emily held the door for you. Feel blossoming feelings Emily felt toward you surged as you turned away from her and she couldn’t stop herself from saying your name. You turned and there was a look of desire on Emily’s face. You stepped forward and whispered her name. Emily closed the gap between you. She took one of your hands and leaned down slowly. Slowly enough for you to say no if you wanted. But you didn’t want to say no. Instead, you raised up on your toes to meet her lips. They were as warm and soft as you had imagined. The scent of her light perfume overwhelmed you and you felt dizzy in an intoxicating sort of way. Emily was similarly reveling in your closeness. She lifted her hand and ran her thumb down your jawline. The kiss lingered, but it was polite and respectful and left room for more when the time was right for them both. As you parted for real this time as you walked toward the train you had never been so happy to have gone into that Moschino to look at shoes you couldn't buy in your life.

#criminal minds #criminal minds fanfiction #emily prentiss #Emily Prentiss x reader #emily x reader #Emily fluff #moschino #criminal minds x reader #reader one shot #reader insert #Reader x Emily #emily prentiss one shot #criminal minds fic #criminal minds fluff

[fresiants]

As much as I love Severus and Lily's friendship, I couldn't help but realise how toxic they were together. Their inability to understand each other in The Prince's Tale is honestly astonishing.

The fact that many Snaters are labeling Severus as "obsessive and controlling" for simply wanting Lily to stay away from the Marauders is baffling to me. As someone who has experienced bullying, I would be devastated if my best friend ever became close to, let alone defended, any of my bullies. Him wanting Lily to keep her distance from the Marauders and to stop defending them were not unreasonable requests, and he had every right to feel hurt by her actions.

The same can be said for Lily. She had every right to feel hurt when Severus chose to befriend Mulciber and co who believe in blood supremacy and openly looked down on Muggleborns. These two experienced discrimination and bullying yet still failed to see each others' point of view. Still failed to put themselves in each others' shoes.

I mean, take a look at this scene :

"We are, Sev, but I don't like some of the people you're hanging round with! I'm sorry, but I detest Avery and Mulciber! Mulciber! What do you see in him, Sev, he's creepy! D'you know what he tried to do to Mary MacDonald the other day?" Lily had reached a pillar and leaned against it, looking up into the thin, sallow face.

"That was nothing," said Snape. "It was a laugh, that's all —"

"It was Dark Magic, and if you think that's funny —"

And this :

“They don’t use Dark Magic, though.” She dropped her voice. “And you’re being really ungrateful. I heard what happened the other night. You went sneaking down that tunnel by the Whomping Willow, and James Potter saved you from whatever’s down there— ”

Snape’s whole face contorted and he spluttered, “Saved? Saved? You think he was playing the hero? He was saving his neck and his friends’ too! You’re not going to— I won’t let you— ”

Why was it necessary for these two to make excuses for these people? When they know goddamn well their best friend was effected by these people's actions.

Who the fuck cares if James Potter and Sirius Black had never use a single dark magic? They still use bunch of harmful spells to attack people. And given all the relentless bullying that Snape suffered from James and the others, he wasn't under any obligation to feel grateful to James for "saving" him that night.

It's also baffling that Severus found Mulciber's behavior amusing, given that he himself had experienced bullying firsthand. I feel like they need a third party to get involved and help them understand each others' point of view in order to keep their friendship from crumbling apart. Smh.

#severus snape #lily evans #pro severus snape #pro snape #pro severus #their friendship was honestly so toxic #and they were supposed to be BEST FRIEND #anti marauders #anti james potter #anti sirius black #harry potter #anti snaters #harry potter fandom #harry potter analysis

[temozarela]

-> oh, banana co.

GOJO SATORU X GETO SUGURU referenced self harm, suicide, heavy angst, established relationship, hurt no comfort, unhappy ending

geto is misdiagnosed with paranoid schizophrenia and everything goes downhill from there

WORD COUNT: 5k

ao3 version

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Drip, drip, drip.

Satoru treaded into the bathroom hesitantly, knowing it was the one place he hadn’t looked. As the yellow, artificial ceiling lights flickered on, he paused.

Drip, drip, drip.

Satoru scanned the row of empty cubicles until his watery gaze settled on the last one. 

He swallowed, his six eyes immediately picking up on the residuals smeared all over the cubicle walls. Satoru walked towards it slowly, trepidation weighing his feet down like bricks of ice. 

Drip, drip, drip.

Step, step, squelch. 

At the sound of his shoe landing in liquid, Satoru startled. He hesitated, praying that was just water, or fuck, even Suguru’s piss or diarrhoea would be a best-case scenario. Instead, when his icy stare assessed the puddle beneath him, tears pricked at his eyes like needles. His throat began to burn as if he had swallowed the sun, its core stuck in his oesophagus as he tried to repress the pain which wanted to be puked. 

Drip, drip, drip.

The crimson liquid screamed at him from the white tiles, showing the reflection of the man who had failed as a friend, lover, and shaman. The blood on the lower ledge of the cubical had dried, yet it still dripped as more of the metallic liquid leaked onto the other side. Blood. Satoru was filled with dread. 

Drip, drip, drip.

Satoru knocked on the door. 

“Suguru?” He murmured, his voice cracking despite himself. 

No answer.

He pushed at the door, only to find it locked and Satoru cursed. 

No, Satoru screamed, his head pressing against the door with a harsh thud. His anguish shattered the quiet buzzing of the bathroom like glass being savaged by a sledgehammer, his blunt fingernails scraping at the off-white, plastic door. Both weakened and fuelled by his anxiety, he pulled the door of the cubical off its hinges, completely unprepared for what lay beyond it. 

Drip, drip, drip.

He froze. 

His mouth opened. 

Then closed.

His hands fell by his sides as if his arms were lifeless. 

He was too late.

How could he have let this happen?

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  2001

The last time Suguru cried, he was 15. 

His parents stood outside their home, waving him off as he left for Jujutsu Tech. Suguru hated how he didn’t want to leave them, as if they hadn’t been convincing him that he was insane since he was able to speak. 

When Suguru started crying as a child, his parents would get angry. It was then the monsters emerged, crawling out from his mother’s mouth. Their inky fingers would latch onto her sloped nose and push at her olive skin. Another would already be leaking out his father’s eye sockets like hot tar, dripping onto the kitchen tiles to create a snarling mound of toxicity and regret, their empty eyes fixed on the child before them. The room would fill with the stench of vomit, later accompanied by the smell of urine as Suguru could no longer contain his fear.

They tried to fill him with antipsychotics, ‘paranoid schizophrenia’ is the label they pushed onto Suguru, but of course that didn’t work. At night, he would hear his mother cry, mourning the fact she was cursed with an inconsolable child. As the drugs didn’t work, the dosages became higher and higher. It was for this reason, his memories of his childhood felt like a nightmare, the small bubbles of what he could recall felt like he was underwater, drowning in nausea.

At 12, Suguru begged his mother to save herself. The woman, only standing at 5’1”, had curses gnawing at every inch of skin, sucking and twisting the wrinkling flesh. As always, he was dismissed and chastised for being so childish, so difficult, such a burden to her. He only watched in horror as her fingers would drip in black sweat, the all-familiar hue of vomit encompassing his senses. 

At 14, a strange man turned up on their doorstep. He had heard rumours of the child who could see monsters, and assured his mother that Suguru was sane. 

At 15, he was finally whisked off with the promise of a better life. Suguru let fate drag him from home, tears filling his vision despite himself. It was then that he quit taking antipsychotics, causing a rare side-effect called akathisia to consume him. It forced Suguru to keep moving, his legs and fingers shaking in order to scratch a non-existent itch. An itch which made him want to vomit and cry, an itch which made him scratch and tear at his skin as it colonised every lobe and cortex of his brain. An itch which made Suguru question if life was even worth the pain it caused him.

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  2006

  “Dude, get up! Our lesson starts in one minute.” Satoru’s fists impatiently rapped on Suguru’s door, with a disturbing lack of rhythm. 

“Tell Yaga that I’m sick.” Suguru called from where he was hunched over, perched on the edge of his bed. His fingernails tapped against the metal frame, his legs exchanging different amounts of pressure where they pushed against the creaky springs of the mattress as he restlessly shifted his weight.  

“Huh? Like hell I’m doing that!” Satoru’s muffled protest came from the other side of his door. 

“You should go, it’s not good to skip lessons.” Ensued Suguru’s always-moral reply, his voice silky despite the gritting of his teeth. He needed to throw up, or cry, but Suguru never cried. Vomit, it is. 

“Says you!” 

“Fine.” Suguru sighed, standing up to unlock his door. As soon as the door opened a crack, Satoru came bursting in. 

“Finally!” He groaned, dramatically throwing himself into Suguru’s unmade bed. “Shoko’s gonna kill us.”

Suguru yawned, grabbing his sports gear. “You shouldn’t bother yourself with my timing, Satoru,” He said as he stripped, chucking his sweat-drenched pyjamas atop his heap of dirty clothes which grew like a tumour behind the door. Appearances had always mattered to him, first impressions and self-preservation were two priorities he lived by in first year. Before second year, the only mess in Suguru’s room would be Satoru’s belongings- hastily thrown to the side during spontaneous visits or sleepovers, or his book collection, which had quickly outgrown the modest shelf by the bed. “Who’s going to fill me in if you’re not there?” 

Satoru pouted in response, cocking his head to watch the digits of the digital clock on the bedside table change, signalling the lesson’s start. As Suguru dressed himself, he shifted from side-to-side, desperately trying to repress the discomfort scratching at his skin without causing concern for Satoru. 

Suguru and Satoru started dating during their first year, though it was all preceded by countless fights and petty arguments. When Suguru saved Satoru’s life, from an accident entirely caused by Satoru’s ego, he was indulged in a kiss. After that, they moved quickly- kisses rushing into making out, then blurring into sex. It was nice at first, the intimacy and raging hormones. Summer was dream-like, everyday spent with each other, not a moment apart. However, when Autumn rolled over, Suguru pulled away. He blamed it on seasonal depression, but he and Satoru hadn’t kissed in days. Shit, Suguru couldn’t even remember when they last had sex. Satoru- loveable, daft, nonchalant, strong, so strong- Satoru had probably passed it off as Suguru being ‘moody’ again. Suguru couldn’t really blame him for it, he never let Satoru in on any more than that. He knew that as long as he was present, Satoru wouldn’t complain.  

“I’m going on a run.” 

Satoru frowned, “Again?” He whined, “What am I supposed to do?”

“Go to your lesson, I’ll be back soon.” Suguru told him, tying his hair up, repeating a mantra of  ‘I am fine, I do not feel sick, I’ll feel better after a run’ in his head. 

Leaving Satoru to sulk in his room, Suguru left the school grounds. With the physical demand of being a shaman and his constant need to move, running had always appealed to him. Sometimes he would run for hours until every muscle ached, despite the itch in his limbs still screaming at the back of his mind, begging him to keep moving. As always, his run started at the steps, leading him to the mountainside. The fresh air whipped against his tanned skin, leaving a faint, and not unwelcome sting as he moved. Despite a quick break to hurl the contents of his empty stomach into a bush, the run was somewhat tranquil. Suguru’s mind felt calm, his thoughts only consisting of observations such as ‘tree’, ‘rock’, ‘flower’, ‘tree’, ‘another tree’, and ‘ bush’  as he moved through the scenery. It was nicer than the alternative.

When Suguru finally returned, three hours had passed and he was due to miss his next lesson. 

Does it really matter anymore? 

Suguru crept to the dorms to pick up a change of clothes, noting with slight disappointment and pure disbelief  that Satoru might have actually listened to him. He made his way to the bathroom, unable to ignore the stench of sweat on his skin. Admittedly, it was the first time he had showered in a while. Carefully, Suguru took off his clothes, leaving them on the bench. Picking up soap and a towel, he walked into a stall, stepping under the spray of the shower. He hissed as the cold water splashed over the sores and scratches littering his skin. Suguru’s fists clenched as he started to wash his hair, the soap dripping into his eyes and onto his sensitive skin. The pain wasn’t unpleasant, and Suguru knew that was the problem. When crimson blood dripped down his arm, the internal demand for constant fidgeting was drowned out, replaced by the hot burning of the nerves in his forearms and thighs. 

After showering, he dried off, changed into his uniform and made his way to the training rooms, his legs moving as if on autopilot. 

Not long after enrolling at Jujutsu Tech, he had familiarised himself with the training rooms, which soon became his safe haven. The large, sealed-off rooms allowed privacy for Suguru to pace under the excuse of combat practice. Often, he would lose track of time as his feet never ceased their restless rhythm against the tatami floor. 

Despite his calm nature, frustration perpetually brimmed Suguru’s brain. He envied those his age who worried about homework and relationships, the insignificant woes of life which cowered under the curse of his akathisia. He hated that he was raised by non-sorcerers who gave him this burden, unlike Satoru who was treated like a blessing instead of a curse. 

His pacing continued furiously as he sunk into deep thought. Suguru wanted to crawl out of his skin. He couldn’t keep up with his body. It was as if he was in a constant battle with his biology. 

Develop a condition because of the mistakes made by your parents.

Check.

Fall in love with the most emotionally unintelligent man alive. 

Check.

Keep moving. 

Check. 

Keep moving.

Check.

Keep moving.

I’m exhausted.

Keep moving.

Keep moving.

Keep moving.

Keep mov- 

It must have looked like Suguru was in a trance. It reminded him of a case he had read about, of which took place in 1500s France. Suguru had read of people dancing until their feet bled, and inevitably until they passed out and died. It had all been part of some religious-rage-encouraged mass mania which caused people to dance perpetually until it killed them. And its cure? Prayer. It was laughable, but then again, there he was. 

When things got bad, Satoru would always offer to run with him or train with him, but recently things had been getting worse. With the impact of Toji Fushiguro’s attack buried beneath missions and lessons, Satoru had been growing distant. Suguru tried his best not to blame him for it, but resentment bubbled deep inside of him, despite reason. 

Things were changing rapidly, and Suguru had no idea how to handle it.

When Satoru entered an hour later, Suguru finally stopped. 

“Yo!” Satoru grinned, his glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose to reveal his wide eyes, his irises resembling glaciers thawing in spring. He perched on a box of training equipment, stretching his long legs out  in front of him. 

Suguru smiled wryly, “How was class?”

“Class…?” Satoru furrowed his eyebrows, bringing a hand to pinch his cheeks in thought, “Oh, right! I didn’t go.” He shrugged, “No use in going if you’re not there.” 

Suguru sighed, guilt gripping his heart with sharp talons. Sitting on the ground slowly, he winced slightly at the ache in his legs. “Where did you go, then?” he asked, starting to rock in place as restlessness caught up to him once more. 

“I went to see Toji’s brat.” Satoru said, letting his arms dangle by his side, “They look so similar, it's creepy as fuck!” He emphasised with an exaggerated grimace, slouching where he was sat. 

Suguru’s eyes widened as a harsh realisation set in, “Seriously?” 

“Yup.” Satoru replied, popping the ‘p’ , “I  guess he’s my responsibility now, huh?”

Suguru hummed, his gaze dark and cold, “Sure, I guess so.”

Bitterness, worse than the taste of a curse, burned on Suguru’s tastebuds. Satoru was like a weight that only grew heavier, no matter how much Suguru trained himself to lift. Satoru was a dock leaf to relieve his sting, forever dangled in front of him, impossible to reach. There was always another responsibility, another brick in the wall between them. Clan, missions, higher-ups, infinity, being The Strongest™, and now a child. 

Infinity, as a value, cannot technically grow or shrink. Yet, the infinite space between them suddenly became more daunting, and Suguru felt further away from him than ever. 

“When will I see you again?” Suguru asked, his voice low and upset.

Satoru took a sharp inhale as he furrowed his eyebrows, his hand reaching to push back his albino hair. “I dunno… maybe a week?” He mumbled, “It’s hard to say, they barely give me twenty-four hours notice before a mission anymore.” Satoru lowered his gaze to meet Suguru’s eye, a lopsided grin stretching on his face. “Why? You gonna miss me?”

Fall in love with a man you can never keep up with.

Check.

Suguru groaned, acting as if Satoru hadn’t just read his mind. “Whatever…”

Oblivious, Satoru barked out a laugh, “Don’t cry while I’m gone, yeah?” He taunted, though his voice was affectionate, “I won’t come back empty-handed, I promise.” Satoru’s voice softened as he leaned over to squeeze Suguru’s shoulder. 

With a dramatic kiss to Suguru’s forehead, Satoru waltzed out, leaving him with dread bubbling in his stomach.

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  “Satoru’s gone again.” 

Suguru sat in one of the metal chairs in the morgue, hunched over, as Shoko tended to a victim of a recent curse attack. She hummed sympathetically. “How are your symptoms?” 

“Worse than ever.”

“1-10?”

“Last week I said 10, Shoko.” Suguru’s voice shook.

Shoko turned to look at him, a cigarette dangling from her lips, “So now?”

“Shoko,” His voice started climbing with desperation, “I want to kill myself.” 

Suguru had never admitted it, not even to himself. And just like that, the civil war in his brain turned into World War 3; muskets becoming atomic bombs. 

Shoko’s neutral expression fell as she paused, the cigarette falling from her mouth almost comically. “You shouldn’t joke about that.” She stared at him, her expression the most appropriate it had ever been for someone standing in a morgue. 

“Shoko…” Suguru‘s voice was pleading. 

“I don’t want to dissect you, Geto.” 

“Shoko-“

“I don’t want to cremate you.”

Suguru fell silent, his hands beginning to tremble. 

“I don’t want to ask Gojo where we should spread your ashes-“

“Okinawa-” Suguru interrupted quietly, his voice brittle. 

“Geto.” 

Suguru froze.

Shoko turned away, bracing herself against the table and hanging her head.  Suguru wrapped his arms around his torso, his eyes stinging as he tried to swallow the lump in his throat. His legs began shaking. The air was tense as Shoko stood up straight as she attempted to compose herself before turning around. “What can I do to help you?” She said slowly, watching him carefully. 

Suguru shook his head, not trusting himself to speak. 

If he spoke, he would throw up.

Or worse, cry.

“Geto.” Her voice dropped to a murmur as she walked towards him. “Talk to me.” 

Suguru stood up abruptly, the screech of the metal chair against the floor making Shoko flinch. 

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that.” Suguru pulled a face, praying it was a convincing smile before he left, hurriedly. The door violently swung behind him, leaving Shoko to stare after him. He felt like he was in a daze, the lights blurred and his rushed footsteps became muffled. Suguru prayed that he would wake up, he prayed that his mind was taunting him in his sleep like usual.

As he strode out, his limbs felt like they could collapse in on themselves at any moment. Every part of him felt weak, his eyelids felt heavy, his nervous system was clawing at him, his mind was drained. 

Once he dragged himself  into his dorm, Suguru fell into a dreamless sleep as soon as his head hit his pillow.

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  Ring. Ring. Ri-

  “Hm?”

“Suguru! Guess what?” Satoru’s cheery voice answered. 

“…Huh?”

“…Suguru?”

“Sorry…” He winced as he sat up, his head spinning. “What was it?”

“I’m coming back for a while… Apparently Yaga argued with the higher- ups over it.” 

“How come?” Suguru muttered absentmindedly, climbing out of bed, shakily. It was all real. He felt sick. 

“Something that Shoko said-“

“What?” Suguru froze, his voice harsher than he had intended. He knew. He knew he shouldn’t have said anything. Now he was going to face the consequences.

What would they do? Would they even care?

It was conflicting, how his best-case scenario was also his worst. 

“Um… yeah. I dunno what it was, but I guess it’s important.” Satoru hummed. 

Suguru stood up quickly, “What did they tell you?” He asked, panic beginning to seep into his voice as he willed the acid in his stomach to stay on the right end of his oesophagus.

“Just that it was important enough for my missions to be deprioritised… why? Suguru, are you ok?” Satoru murmured, his voice sounding unsure over the muffled phone speaker. 

“Fucking peachy, Satoru.” He snapped, running his hand through his hair. “Look, I gotta go, ok?” 

“Sure, but-”

“See you.” 

  Beep. 

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  “Shoko!” Suguru hissed as he approached the woman, hunched over some paperwork. She froze. 

“What did you tell-“ 

Shoko stood up, glaring at him, clearly expecting this reaction. “Nothing.” She scowled, “I should’ve, but I didn’t.”

Suguru paused, his shoulders slumping. Short-lived relief washing over him like icy water. “Satoru said…” 

“I told Yaga that it was vital, and he believed me.” She said, “That’s it.” 

“But who will-”

“Me.”

“Oh.” 

Shoko looked at him pitifully, “Can you last two days until he gets here?”

Suguru nodded numbly. He hated it. He hated how Shoko looked at him like he was a child acting out, like he was some sort of temperamental stray dog.

“Atta boy.” She replied, brushing past him to collect various files, deliberately avoiding making eye contact. 

He sighed slowly, composing himself. “I’m sorry.” He said, his voice cracking as if he were some prepubescent child. 

“For what?”

“I shouldn’t have said anything.” Suguru replied sombrely, shifting on his feet. Shoko turned around slowly, her hands clenched by her sides.   

“Geto,” She whispered, “is that why you think I’m upset?” Shoko’s voice shook as she moved to pull Suguru into a hug. “You idiot.” 

Suguru froze as Shoko’s arms tightened around his torso, the warmth of another body so unfamiliar since Satoru had made himself more distant. He swallowed, his unsteady hands resting on Shoko’s back, pushing her small frame closer to him. “I’m losing both of you.” Her voice shook, each jolt of her trembling body sending a needle-sharp pain into Suguru’s heart. Guilt flooded through him, shrivelling and curling unpleasantly inside of him like a dead spider. Suguru leaned down, pressing his nose into Shoko’s chestnut hair. The smell of coconut shampoo invaded his senses and he reminded himself to store away the smell, right next to the vanilla-sandalwood-tainted sweat of Satoru’s inner thigh. Suguru rubbed Shoko’s back slowly, soothing her through her reluctant tears, which slowly started to soak through his shirt. “Don’t you dare go… Not you… Not you too…” She bit in-between gasps, her hands clawing the front of his shirt. 

“Hey...” Suguru managed, swallowing down his emotions with difficulty. “You don’t need us. You have Utahime, right?” He smiled painfully, hoping to reassure her. 

“Fucking bullshit!” Shoko spat, her voice muffled as she buried her face in his chest. “Stop trying to find people to fill your place.” 

“I’m n…” Oh. 

“I’m not going anywhere.” He corrected himself, cradling the back of her head as she furiously sniffled. 

Shoko snorted tearily, “You better not.”

Suguru nodded with a soft smile. It was nice to know that he would be missed.

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  “Satoru gets back tomorrow.” 

Yaga stared at Suguru sternly, who was sat in his office. Suguru hummed, the floorboard beneath his foot creaking with every bounce of his leg.

“Shoko told me it was more important than a hundred civilian lives.” He continued, raising an eyebrow at the teenager before him, pupils blindly glancing over Suguru’s dark circles and cuts. “Explain why I risked my position to bring Satoru back.” 

Suguru shrugged, eyes tiredly assessing the man in front of him. “It was Shoko’s idea.” He muttered, “Doctor’s orders, right?” 

“Suguru.” Yaga scolds, “Explain.” 

Silence filled the room, bottom to ceiling, and Suguru was sinking like the Titanic. He studied his fingernails carefully, noting each and every speck of dirt underneath, and every peeling cuticle on either side of his outgrown nails. His eyes then flickered to the blank walls, counting every chip in the paint. Yaga coughed and Suguru inwardly cursed as he lost count. Shit. He started again, probably going cross-eyed as he examined the ugly beige paint. 57, 58, 59… The tempo of the clock ticking was starting to remind him of the beginning of a song, the one that went-

  “Suguru.”

Oh.

  “I don’t know.” Suguru offered, trying to keep his voice even. 

If Suguru acted coquettish and nonchalant, he found that most people dismissed his antisocial behaviour as him being ‘an asshole’ or ‘being insufferable.’ It was no longer concern and pity he received from Yaga and Shoko, but scoldings and blunt retorts. This way it was easier. It would be easier for everyone, he told himself.

Yaga scowled, which seemed to be a common reaction to him nowadays, “That’s not good enough.” 

“I’m sorry I couldn’t supply a better explanation for Shoko’s actions.” He smiled with fake politeness, his jaw aching. 

“Don’t play coy with me.” 

Suguru’s smile didn’t falter as he faced Yaga. With absolutely no plan for what he’d say next, he opened his mouth. 

Ring.

Ring, Ring.

Infuriated, Yaga shot him a final glare before he turned to answer the call. 

Suguru slithered out of his office.

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  The countryside blurred into a green smudge as the bullet train sped through the outskirts of Tokyo. Satoru sighed, his head resting against the window, upbeat music humming through his earphones. 

“Excuse me, sir.” 

He pulled one of his earphones out, turning his attention to a young woman in uniform. 

“May I see your ticket?” 

Satoru handed it over absentmindedly, his vision beginning to blur as his tired eyes threatened to close. 

“Thank you!”

He felt the lady press his ticket into his open palm, and he pulled his fist into his lap as her footsteps faded away. 

The hours of the train journey had started to bleed together, his under-eyes aching more with every passing tree. Satoru sighed, his eyelids fluttering shut behind his glasses. Life had become suffocating. He envied when he had time to pick fights with Suguru and pull all-nighters playing Digimon. Now he spent endless days exorcising curses, rescuing civilians, arguing with high-ups. Life was a broken record: exorcise, rescue, argue, exorcise, rescue, argue, exorcise… Satoru hadn’t slept for weeks, and that was ok. Well, Satoru didn’t need to sleep, right? 

Admittedly, he had no idea why he was suddenly whisked onto a train. A lot of authoritative decisions about his schedule passed through Shoko since she was the only one who rooted for his psychological and mental health. She had never demanded he return half way through a mission, though. Sure, missions were prioritised and deprioritised all the time, but this was different. Satoru felt dread crawling up his spine and eating at him like termites, despite him having no logical reason for feeling so. 

  Something was wrong.

  He tried not to think about the other reason he was so busy now. Besides Toji’s kids and clan politics, another burden had been eating away at him. It was unheard of in their first year for Satoru to take over Suguru’s missions. They were competitive, and they fought to do the most missions by the end of the month. The first time Suguru asked Satoru to take one of his missions, Satoru was ecstatic, taunting him for days. The second time, Satoru accepted smugly. The fifth time, Satoru was concerned. 

And now? 

Suguru hardly went on missions anymore. Maybe a few grade 1 or 2 curses per month. Shoko said something about medical issues. 

Satoru noticed, of course he had, the constant shaking and fidgeting. He also knew that Suguru was depressed. Satoru saw the containers of Prozac on his bedside table and he recognised Suguru’s unexplained disappearances from 15:00 to 17:00 every Thursday. 

Oh, he knew. Satoru just never knew how to address it. 

The automated feminine voice over the speakers announced the train’s arrival at Shibuya, and Satoru shifted in his seat, stretching his arms above his head. 

It would be fine. Suguru could handle himself. 

If not, Satoru could handle whatever Suguru couldn’t. They worked well like that. It was fine, they always pulled through in the end.

As the train rolled to a stop, Satoru picked up his small bag of belongings. He only brought hygiene products and sleep-wear, clubbing and exploring had lost its appeal to him a while ago. 

Satoru stepped off the train and took a deep breath, walking over to the assistant waiting for him. 

“Yo.” He greeted her with a wave. 

It would be fine.

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  It was not fine. 

  “You’re telling me this now?” Satoru spat, the cogs in his brain sparking and groaning as they twisted and collided, his brain catastrophically rewiring itself as he attempted to process Yaga’s words. 

Yaga’s jaw clenched, “We didn’t think it would get… like this.” He said, sombrely. Satoru’s eye twitched. 

“And now what?” Satoru’s voice was harsh, unbothered by how Yaga looked away and Shoko walked out, hand shielding her mouth. 

Yaga looked helpless. “His therapist contacted us saying he didn’t turn up to his session today,” He muttered, “we thought you could talk to him.”

Satoru scoffed, turning away. He walked out the room. Just like that, every gap was filled. Every run, every day spent in the training rooms, every scratch and bandage… He wanted to vomit. 

  “Gojo!” 

  Shoko caught him by the hand. 

“If it helps, Yaga didn’t know until recently…” She murmured, “Well, he didn’t know the severity of it, anyway.” He turned to look at her slowly. 

“When did you find out?” Satoru asked, his voice quiet. Almost fragile. 

Shoko grimaced. “The day you were called back.” Satoru nodded, beginning to walk away from her. 

She swallowed. “No, that’s not right.” Satoru stopped. “He told me a week before that. He’d been telling me for weeks that it was getting worse.” Shoko admitted, her expression stoney. “I didn’t know what to do.” Her voice grew hoarse. “I’m sorry, Gojo.” 

Satoru swore under his breath. “It’s fine.” He said, dismissively. His head hurt, and if he took his hands out of his pockets, they would probably start shaking. “I’ll go find him.”

Shoko nodded, watching him warily. “Ok.”

Wordlessly, Satoru started walking again, his legs moving on autopilot as he numbly stared off into the end of the corridor. 

  What the fuck.

  Satoru’s feet led him to the dorms, he could picture Suguru curled up in his bed, nose buried in some stupid philosophy book.

  What the fuck.

  Everyone knew except for him. Suguru had been saying for weeks that things were getting worse, and Satoru didn’t know a thing.

  “What the fuck.” 

  Satoru swung his door open.

His room was empty. 

  He paused. 

  Maybe he was in Satoru’s room.

Empty.

  Satoru’s feet moved manically, causing him to trip over himself as he stumbled to the training rooms.

Empty. 

  Empty, empty… 

He checked the showers. 

Empty. 

  Door after door was thrown open, handles slamming into walls and scratching off paint, some coming off their hinges. 

Empty. 

Empty, fucking empty. 

  Satoru wanted to scream. 

  At last, he turned to the boys’ bathroom, slamming the door open. Anxiety pumped through every vein in his body, overflowing his arteries and beginning to bubble over. 

Drip, drip, drip.

Satoru treaded into the bathroom hesitantly, knowing it was the one place he hadn’t looked. As the yellow, artificial ceiling lights flickered on, he paused.

Drip, drip, drip.

Satoru scanned the row of empty cubicles until his watery gaze settled on the last one. 

He swallowed, his six eyes immediately picking up on the residuals smeared all over the cubicle walls. Satoru walked towards it slowly, trepidation weighing his feet down like bricks of ice. 

Drip, drip, drip.

Step, step, squelch. 

At the sound of his shoe landing in liquid, Satoru startled. He hesitated, praying that was just water, or fuck, even Suguru’s piss or diarrhoea would be a best-case scenario. Instead, when his icy stare assessed the puddle beneath him, tears pricked at his eyes like needles. His throat began to burn as if he had swallowed the sun, its core stuck in his oesophagus as he tried to repress the pain which wanted to be puked. 

Drip, drip, drip.

The crimson liquid screamed at him from the white tiles, showing the reflection of the man who had failed as a friend, lover, and shaman. The blood on the lower ledge of the cubical had dried, yet it still dripped as more of the metallic liquid leaked onto the other side. Blood. Satoru was filled with dread. 

Drip, drip, drip.

Satoru knocked on the door. 

“Suguru?” He murmured, his voice cracking despite himself. 

No answer.

He pushed at the door, only to find it locked and Satoru cursed. 

No, Satoru screamed, his head pressing against the door with a harsh thud. His anguish shattered the quiet buzzing of the bathroom like glass being savaged by a sledgehammer, his blunt fingernails scraping at the off-white, plastic door. Both weakened and fuelled by his anxiety, he pulled the door of the cubical off its hinges, completely unprepared for what lay beyond it. 

Drip, drip, drip.

He froze. 

His mouth opened. 

Then closed.

His hands fell by his sides as if his arms were lifeless. 

Drip, drip, drip.

Satoru could have tried to convince himself that the mutilated body before him wasn’t Suguru, but his six eyes spelled it out in capital letters. He silently cursed himself for acting without thinking.

Suguru’s skin was grey. He died staring up at the ceiling, his pupils now blown, leaving only a sliver of evidence of the bronze irises which Satoru once adored, now barely visible in his empty eyes. The raven hair which fell to Suguru’s shoulders was now matted with blood, each strand glued to the contours of his hollow face. Various shreds of his intestines slid down his hair and blood-splattered cheeks, landing with a plop in the rancid puddle of his fleshless lap or on the floor where most of Suguru’s innards appeared to have been dumped. His body had seemingly been turned inside-out, only bones and muscle remained within the body. Suguru’s disfigured ribs poked out of his skin like the branches of a tree, withered by winter. His legs had been twisted unnaturally, his feet, or what was left of them, pointing in erratic direction. His grimacing lips were parted, vomit and blood dripping from his chin like a leaking faucet, the acidity burning Satoru’s nose. 

The stench of blood, shit and puke should have made Satoru back away and gag, but he didn’t. He stood and stared. 

He stared for so long, the gruesome scene burned into his retinas. 

He was too late.

How could he have let this happen?

#satosugu #gojo satoru #jujutsu kaisen #geto suguru #jjk gojo #jjk geto #angst #triggering content #schizophrenia #shoko ieiri #jjk shoko #unhappy ending #i have a problem #have fun #i hope you like it

[shifting---patterns]

Elena Dawson: The Art of Artisanal Fashion

Today's blog post marks a special moment for me. Not only because it's my first on Shifting Patterns, but also because I deeply admire and enjoy the work of this designer. So much so that my wife and I even got married in her garments. Today, I want to introduce you to Elena Dawson.

Elena Dawson, a London-born fashion designer for menswear and womenswear, keeps much of her personal life under wraps.There's no existing website anymore, and her former blog is no longer accessible. Only a Instagram account with a couple of posts and a contact email serves as a point of contact. It all somewhat reminds of the enigmatic Paul Harnden, doesn't it? But we'll get to that later. She studied Art and Fashion Design at the University of Brighton and worked as a seamstress after completing her degree. At that time, she said, "I draw on the knowledge I learned at the tailors still now in the way I make clothing."

In 2000, she co-founded the clothing line "Paul Harnden Clothiers" with her ex-partner Paul Harnden. She was an integral part of the design, concept, and business until 2009 with Paul Harnden, who was primarily known under the name "Paul Harnden Shoemakers" until then, when she decided to establish her own clothing and shoe label in East Sussex. Her studio is located there as well. Despite Dawson's departure, Paul Harnden's ready-to-wear collections continue to this day. Since 2009, the brand has naturally grown, but Dawson still produces her clothes and shoes herself, supported by a small team. Everything is produced in-house in multiple studio spaces, but all is handmade.

The aesthetic of Dawson's work at Paul Harnden and her own brand has definitely evolved over the years. Paul Harnden, who is now known not only for his shoes but also for his blazers/jackets, coats, trousers, and shirts, has a rather clean cut and neatly sewn edges. On the other hand, Elena Dawson has a rather rough look and is known for her unfinished seams with dangling fabric scraps. It's sometimes hard to describe, but she has a very romantic, poetic, Victorian look that partly reminds me of Tim Burton movies.

When I put on one of her beloved blazers, I often feel like a part of Bertolt Brecht's Threepenny Opera, almost like a wardrobe from the 19th century. I own 2 blazers (linen and wool), 1 linen shirt, 2 pants (linen and cotton), and silk accessories from Dawson. My wife has a mix of a coat and dress. All her clothes are labelled with the classic "Elena Dawson - Made In England" label and the washing/material information written in her really unreadable handwriting with a Sharpie.

The coats and blazers (mostly) feature beige/white cotton lining, and the classic look, often seen online, is achieved by rolling the sleeves backward, exposing the lining through the open seams. She works with a dress form, sculpturing everything, and only uses natural materials. Her favorites are English wool, Indian cotton, Irish linen, and Chinese silk. She describes her work as follows: "When you work on alterations you are really tearing the guts out of the garment, performing a sort of autopsy—you really get to see a garment at its most vulnerable point. Observing this state of semi-deconstruction in the making of a garment or shoe is what I like to retain in my finished work."

You'll rarely get the chance to buy her pieces online, as there are hardly any retailers offering her items online. She mentioned: "We don't do much press or social media work and we don't sell online at all. I'm not against that. It's just not the brand's main job." Elena Dawson limits the maximum order quantity and carefully chooses her retailers. She prefers to keep the brand small, and even on classic online platforms like Grailed, Vestiaire Collective, or eBay, you won't find many of her items used.

I highly recommend visiting a retailer near you for the experience alone and trying on the clothes in-store. In my case, it's Harvey's in Berlin. However, the most well-known point of sale is probably Dover Street Market in London, with whom she has a strong relationship, as Dover Street Market has actively supported her brand from the beginning, granting her a significant presence there. In Tokyo, I was also able to find her pieces at DSM and at the Comme des Garcons Pocket Store.

The result is garments full of personality that evolve over time alongside one's own personality, incomparable to any other looks consumed and worn nowadays. Each piece, crafted by her hands, is unique, and I'll tell you, the first time I wore an Elena Dawson blazer at Harvey's in Berlin, it resonated with me. The look, the weight, the fit… it felt like a second skin, and over the course of 2 years, seeing how it aged with me, it became more like an extension of myself each day.

Here's to Elena — may your artistic journey continue to inspire and captivate for years to come!

Davis Jahn

#fashion #art #elena dawson #paul harnden #avant garde #avant garde fashion #artisanal #artisanal fashion