#i mean my sketches lately have been atrocious

[xamaxenta]

Tragic how ive forgotten how to draw him already

#whats wrong lol why are you afraid of drawing your fave #impostor syndrome? you cant maintain a style so you feel guilty that he looks different every time ? #also like zero appeal #scribblings #my art currently has zero appeal #i dont have a cool thing yknow #augh i just keep looking at all my sketches since my last finished art #like disgusting all of these are absolute garbage lol #but ill document them online even if i hate them #sigh sorry Ace i want to draw you as beautiful as i can #but today isnt that day #i mean my sketches lately have been atrocious #bad form bad anatomy bad lotta things #no idea what to do except just push thru it ???? #or just not draw for the month idk

[dropsofletters]

runaway silhouette [jjh]

—summary: no one asks about that polaroid picture of a woman yoonoh keeps in the depths of his wallet.

lace, measurements, models—jung yoonoh has worked for the world of fashion for a little too long, but he’s as unknown as the person next door. with his inspiration dying down and his designs getting cheaper by the day, yoonoh has changed his ways. no longer is he the best lingerie designer in ‘silhouette’, the company he works for, neither is he the playboy he used to be and the dulcet-mouthed man that got his way through success.

bad luck has settled in his life, much like it has done on hers. the manager of a hotel that slipped his fingertips when one night she denied him all—the world, her hold, her smile, and just left him with a picture on his wallet.

only when he has to prepare one of the biggest fashion showcases of his life does he meet her again, and he realizes things could never be easy between them.

why is he, a man of fashion, infatuated with such a lovesick, monotone, blazer-sporting hotel manager? no one will ever know.

a runaway has captured him, and he’s not sure how to get his heart back.

maybe, he should start by forgetting that night.

—title: runaway silhouette  —pairing: jung yoonoh x reader  —genre: lingerie designer!au ; hotel manager!au ; strangers to lovers to enemies!au ; slowburn!au ; slice of life!au  —type: fluff ; angst ; humor ; drama ; suggestive —word count: 19,326 (i said slowburn and i meant it) —warnings: mentions of sex (the act is never on paper or narrative)

Jung Yoonoh is dressed to succeed.

With folded white sleeves and a black vest that becomes a second skin, he merges into the office like it belongs to him. It might, at some point in time; an associate after a few years and then, onto another business that was his own—vision, designs, everything. That’s the plan. His suitcase hangs, paces back and forth in the hook of his fist while all eyes cast on him while walking through the cubicles.

Today, Yoonoh is becoming the one in charge.

Silhouette is the lingerie line everyone wants to have cladding their skin. Expensive, intricate and elegant. It’s one of those things people put on when they need to feel their best while also being comfortable. Garments that enamor the buyer and the people who see them. His home for the past two years, Yoonoh has broken his ass to get to the manager position in the design department.

When settling his suitcase on his cubicle, he shares a smile with his neighbor. Johnny, part of the social media team, with his long-curled hair framing his rounded face. Fixing the collar of his shirt, Johnny interrupts him to say.

“Big day today, aye?”

Redemption, he likes to call this day. The payment for the parties he didn’t go to and the obnoxious nagging he stood from his boss, Mrs. Kang. This tall woman with atrocious so-last-season fluffed out coats in bright pink who screams at the mere sight of beige underwear. As she says, it’s tacky and simple, the kind of clothing you’d want to wear when un-turning someone on.

Yoonoh can’t wait until he can make decisions, organize collections, make bigger and better options for Silhouette to expand.

“You see, John, once I become your boss…I’m making you the leader of the PR and Social Media Team.” This place is a nest of snakes. One bite on his first day and he already became smarter. “Can’t be trusting anyone else with these babies.” With that, he opens his suitcase, sketchbook pressed to his chest just as Johnny claps his hands.

“Better position means better salary.” Johnny conquers, as casual as ever in his baby blue sweater

There are a few rules to Silhouette. To any workplace, really, and Yoonoh thinks about this just as he swings his long legs with Johnny following after him like a dog and his tail.

He had written them down in a portion of his brain that keeps his coffee order and his mom’s birthday. He’ll never forget them.

1)     Never trust nobody—never say where you come from in business, where you’re headed, what your dreams and aspirations are. Copycats exist everywhere, and they’ll do anything to follow your track if you’re doing good.

2)    Say goodbye to friendships but hello to hypocrisy. A smile is needed, but is it real? Not at all.

3)    Differentiate your works from others. Being special is the only way you’ll stand out.

One push of the door spreads a smile on his face, brown hair pushed back to showcase his plush, rosy lips and his gleaming eyes. What’s rule number four, you may ask?

Don’t let them see how tired you are.

Mrs. Kang sits at the very end of the meeting table. Always early, never late. Her face is dense with makeup, each wrinkle becoming more apparent as she applies a third layer of bright pink lipstick. Yoonoh knows Mrs. Kang has been the biggest dictator of all—giving him more work hours, destroying the designs she didn’t like from him, and making him get jittery fingers from how much he had to sew and unsew with the sewing machine to show her what his mind had captured. Now that she had found a way younger boyfriend that is eager to give a trip to the entirety of Asia, he’s over the moon.

Because that means old and grumpy Mrs. Kang will be gone for a while, and whoever becomes manager will be, then, the one in charge.

“Mrs. Kang!” Yoonoh greets in a tone that is much too faux, his dimple becoming apparent by the second. The woman looks up and away from her compact, stopping the conversation he is having with his biggest rival in the office. Not worth even thinking about. “Classic always goes best. You look beautiful today.”

She can barely even move her features in a smile. That’s how obstinate this woman is, but one of her wrinkly hands comes up to hold Yoonoh’s bicep when he leans down to press two kisses on each of her cheeks. The old European greeting. “I know, Yoonoh.” She adds, extending her hand towards him. “May you show me your designs? I got here earlier than expected and I have something to do right now so—”

That makes Yoonoh’s smile falter the slightest, just as he opens his sketchbook and splays it in front of Mrs. Kang. “Well, Mrs. Kang, if you let me have a few of your minutes, I prepared a PowerPoint presentation and a video for the collection I have in mind as my desire to become head of the designing team—”

“Silence, Yoonoh.” Mrs. Kang interrupts, going through his lingerie designs for both men and women. It’s not the kind of job people think about when designing, but there is something about seduction and comfort that just works well for him. “I’m in the midst of planning my engagement and I don’t have the time for whatever extra thing you have in mind.”

The room is silent, but if features could talk, the woman seated next to Mrs. Kang would have burst out in laughter. Siyeon is a 4’11 piece of shit that dared steal one of his designs when in his beginnings in Silhouette.  A fuchsia baby-doll that turned viral in the blink of an eye once it appeared in runways. Comfortable, sexy, with the right number of straps and the comfort of wearing it at any occasion, companion or not.

Yoonoh had left his sketch at his desk, only to find it gone the next morning. Mrs. Kang was over the moon, both from the money she got and about the audacity of the design. Siyeon had turned it in as hers.

No wonder her husband doesn’t stand her. She’s the devil reincarnate, and slips in Johnny’s DM’s every once in a while.

Yoonoh can’t say he doesn’t have some screenshots saved on his phone just in case he needs to blackmail her. This is the kind of man he has become.

“Done before.” Mrs. Kang flips onto another one of his designs. “Done before.” And then, she continues with the rest. “Vulgar. Boring. Ugly. Done before. Jesus, Yoonoh, did you even try to do anything?”

Yoonoh is used to praise. He has got it from women, throughout his time in college and even at his previous jobs. As an intern, he was refreshing and a nice sight in the designer area. Now, he is the floor Mrs. Kang steps on with her Louis Vuitton’s.

“I—” The meeting room is silent, everyone in the designer team trying to peek at his sketches. A short laugh leaves his lips, though awkward in tone. “We’ll compete against brands like Savage with designs like this. They’re brave and fitted and—”

“Boring.” Mrs. Kang completes, and Siyeon actually laughs at that moment, playing with one of her curled bright red strands of hair. “Yoonoh, I’m being serious. If the women you’re sleeping with are wearing lingerie like this…I’m worried about your sexual health.”

More laughter, and his jaw finally tightens. He tries to tell himself to smile, but he doesn’t, instead, snatching the sketchbook from her.

Mrs. Kang notices this, pushing her reading glasses down her nose before sighing. “Yoonoh, you need to learn how to take constructive criticism. You’re not perfect and I’m here to make you grow.” Says the woman that steps on him each time she can. At this point, he’s practically plastered on the floor. “I’m sure you’ll get to divert these boring ideas into something creative once Siyeon becomes the head of the department. You two have been so close since the beginning and I am sure she will work magic on you.”

“No.” Yoonoh shakes his head just as he plasters a faux smile on his features. “Ah, I—Well, I won’t—”

Siyeon stands up from her seat, fixing the sleeves of her white dress before clearing her throat. “I’m glad of getting the position and being the one, remotely, in charge of Silhouette as Mrs. Kang goes find true love.” This is not happening. Yoonoh rubs at his eyes in case he is dreaming. He has been preparing for this presentation for five months— “All I have to say is…I wouldn’t have been able to do this without the support of everyone here. My team. My heart. I have grown to have a family with you, not because we’re perfect, but because we’re together and…of course, it’s nice to continue down this path.” She hums. “A woman in charge and then, another woman. Isn’t that the whole point of Silhouette?”

His tongue scalds his palette when he takes a seat next to Mrs. Kang, closing his sketchbook with a harsh slap of his hand. Siyeon’s eyes connect to his own, fluttering her dense mascara-coated lashes before sighing.

“I had the pleasure of seeing Yoonoh in his first few days here and he has lost that spark, but I’m sure we’ll find it again.” Oh, everyone gets roses but he gets a few, too. For his social funeral, that is. He really wants to get out of there as soon as possible. “I’m thankful.”

There go the tears, and Siyeon covering her face with her hand, a smile hidden behind the action.

…Has he ever said he hates working in Silhouette?

“You’re going to make me cry, too.” One of the members of the manufacturing team says in between big sobs and Yoonoh can’t help but roll his eyes.

Fuck this place.

After an elongated meeting with tearful hugs and looks thrown his way, Yoonoh is ready to find somewhere else to work in. Keep to himself until he dares get his curriculum somewhere else and stab this company straight in the back. Not because he didn’t get the job…but…

Let’s be honest, it’s because he didn’t get the job and he lost it to Siyeon.

Johnny slips around a few hours later with some cheeseburgers in a plastic bag, dense in cheese and stinking the two conjoined cubicles before he says:

“She’s the devil.”

“An exorcism wouldn’t be enough for her.” Yoonoh replies, tongue itching to say something when he unleashes the cheeseburgers from their confines. He’s only five minutes away from lunchtime, after all. “I can’t believe they gave it to her. Her designs are…I don’t know, like lace over lace. That’s not elegant, that’s not what Silhouette stands for—”

“Here’s the thing,” Johnny says, smacking his lips as he speaks with a mouthful of burger in his mouth. “You never had a chance.”

A pang rests in the pit of his heart when he scoffs. “Yes, I did.”

“No, you don’t.” His friend replies. “Everyone in this office hates you but me. I believe it is a Freudian theory. The Jung Yoonoh Effect.” Voiced out like a movie trailer, Johnny extends one of his hands in the air.

“Sorry for not caring about anything but business. Everyone here are suck-asses and crybabies. Why should I care?”

“Because people feel disconnected to you. They don’t to Siyeon.” Johnny conquers. “The Jung Yoonoh Effect is simple.”

“Stop it. You don’t even know who Freud is.”

“That one psychologist that compared everything to sex. That’s who he is. Hence, why you’re there.”

Yoonoh quirks an eyebrow, playing with a slice of meat that had gotten out of his burger. “What are you even talking about?”

“Interns always thirst over you. At least, five out of every nine people in this office has had a wet dream about you, liked enough of your Instagram pics to look like a freak, or would have your dick in a second if the second step of your effect wouldn’t come around.”

“…I’m not that bad of a guy.”

“But you’re bland. Work. Work. Work.” Johnny moves his hand as if it’s talking. Now he’s playing marionettes. Great. “We’re selling lingerie, and you are always about competition and work. We need you to be passionate.”

“Passionately suck up to people?” Yoonoh shakes his head, huffing in the process. “No thanks, man. I’m not going to lower myself to Siyeon’s standards. Not sure I want to get pink eye from kissing so much ass.”

“Been there, done that.” Johnny sighs, a smile displayed on his features. “I’m just saying, bro. Maybe, change the game—”

Something Yoonoh is…stubborn. He’d die with that title, and it is only enhanced when he feels a long nail tapping on his shoulder, making him turn around. He expects to see one of those interns that try to stumble out words when asking him for his e-mail to send him the summaries or designs they have worked on, but this time around, he is met with Siyeon’s face.

“No eating until lunchtime.” She tuts, shaking her finger in the air.

This means war.

Yoonoh points at the clock on his wrist, showing it to her. Rolex, maybe, he’s spoiling himself with the benefit of showing her he has also earned some money, designs mediocre or not. “It’s already my lunchtime.”

“Not to me.” Siyeon answers, straightening her back. “Maybe, you’d like to listen to me before I kick you out of the team, don’t you, Yoonoh?”

With that, he pushes the burger onto his desk, covering it just as Siyeon smiles.

“Good boy.” She coos, laughing when she turns around and returns to giving a run-around the office.

“That’s it.” Yoonoh whispers, running his hands through his hair, not caring if he messes it up in the process. “I’m designing the best fucking collection one could ever find and showing everyone in this goddamned office that I have talent.”

“Ooh, and where do you think you’ll get inspiration from?” Johnny tries to gossip, and Siyeon’s soft touch for him is shown when she doesn’t even spare him a glance as he munches on his burger.

“I think I have someone in mind.”

###

She’d color-code her life if she could. Hence, it’s still a mess, and while she is as organized as she could be, her mind is still trying to process how to keep the hotel she works in safe and sound and quiet.

One would think that being the manager of a hotel would be easy. A three-star-hotel, no celebrities, no paparazzi’s, definitely not enough rich people who care about their environment. As long as she made it homely, clean, and nice to stay in, it wouldn’t be much of an issue.

The problem is…everything is a mess.

For one, her boss, Sachiko, has not appeared in the last two days into the hotel. None of her well-prepared summaries, in Times New Roman twelve, with enough punctuation to make it look like a contract, have been read. The maids keep talking amongst themselves, gossiping instead of cleaning. They got a bad review on their restaurant because the head of the cooking team had decided to shout to one of the clients about how ‘they didn’t have an ounce of taste’ because they disliked the taste of his Ratatouille and oh, how to forget? The fact that her duties as a manager transcend to something else.

She rushes through the kitchen, heat and smoke accompanied by the sizzling of veggies and meat. She doesn’t care that there are flames around her, or that she bumps into one of the cooks in the process.

Sachiko has a mini version of herself, gift of a getaway with her ex-husband to try to make her marriage work. Then, came the five-year-old that had slipped her hold as she was attending one of the residents in their hotel at the entrance, granting them information about the type of rooms they offered. Erika, in all her round-faced glory with grabby hands and too much energy, had slipped from her line of sight and her hold.

She has roamed the entire hotel and she can’t find her.

Oh, then, she should change her statement that she hasn’t seen Sachiko in two days. She has. Sachiko’s heels have clicked against the tiles of this hotel. Only to leave Erika with her, spitting out excuses about having to get on another meeting for the expansion of the hotel, before she’s off the hook of being a full-time mother.

She doesn’t even get more payment for this.

“Have you seen Erika?!” She asks out loud, voice strained from so much shouting, only to watch the head chef speak, his moustache moving with each word he says.

“Oh, little Erika?” Well, seems like he has a soft spot for someone. His eyes glimmer, just as he wraps his hand around his mouth, as if to utter a secret. “She’s in one of the tables. She asked for two milkshakes already. Oreo milkshakes. She’s starting to jitter.”

“Mr. Oh!” She whines, throwing her head back with a groan before splaying her hands on her hips. Navy blue uniform as a simple suit giving her the most boring yet comforting outfit she could come up with. “I am the one that has to get her to sleep, and if she has sugar before bed, she won’t even close an eye—”

Mr. Oh shrugs. “What am I supposed to say? She’s my boss’ daughter.”

“I am your boss as well.”

“You’re getting me fired?”

She can’t even answer to him, hearing the Baby Shark song spoken at the top of someone’s little lungs. Her feet are rushing out of the kitchen by the time she notices it, blazer opening up when she gets to the table Erika is in. Red walls and marble tables don’t scare her, playing with the straw of her drink and grabbing someone’s phone to listen to that fucking song again.

“Erika…” She tuts, voice stern, hands spread out on her knees. This cardio routine has been enough to make her burn all she has eaten this month. The little girl’s short hair caresses her cheeks when she turns towards her, a mischievous smile on her face.

“Yes?”

“Let’s go to your room and wait for mommy to get here.”

“Nope.”

“Yes, Erika. I am not playing.” Her voice levels itself, only to have Erika staring back at her. Big brown eyes blinking, playing with the edge of her pretty pink dress before sighing.

“But you won’t let me…let me watch my shows.” She takes in a breath, shuddering it out as a pout splays on her lips. “Y—You…mommy said you’d be with me, but you aren’t with me at all—”

Tears wield her eyes and she has to rush to cage her in her hold, hoisting her up before a big wail left her lips and she lost her job. “I’m sorry, Erika. I’ve been so busy, I hadn’t realized.” She mumbles out, pressing her cheek to the top of her head before sighing. “Do you want to give a walk around the hotel and go back to your room to watch as many shows as you want?”

She has to play good cards here. She’s not raising this child, after all, so if the long hours of TV-watching make her turn out bad when she’s a teen…that’s not her business.

Erika nods continuously, engulfing her arms around her shoulders. “Yes! Yes! Yes!”

At least, she has found Erika before Sachiko arrives the next morning, but her body practically glues itself to the floor in tiredness by the time she slips out of the restaurant.

The best part of being a manager is when she gets back home.

###

“So, you’re saying you practically lost your job?”

Yoonoh’s life revolves one thing. Those four walls of his cubicles, the connections he has gotten from his workplace and his elongated list of explanations that always go unheard. In any other occasion, he would have been delighted of being given the benefit of lying. Casual relationships are more of his thing and explaining his every insecurity, recollection of time or worry isn’t part of the plan. Carnalities? Sure thing.

A hook-up turned friend with benefits pushing him by the chest and practically gasping when he sighs? He didn’t think it’d end this way.

“Mia,” His voice rasps out, leaning back on his calves while hovering over her. Her bed is as pristine as always, the rosy satin sheets from last week turned into beige, deep fibers that do sound too elegant for them to do whatever they are thinking of in the bed. “I didn’t lose my job, I just didn’t become the head of my department, okay?”

He’s trying to spell it out, but the model is just as confused. Mia had modelled for Silhouette a bunch of times in the last two years, and that’s how he met her. Fitting one of his designs to her will had led him to be asked out on a date and then, the contract came about. Just sex, nothing more.

Mia scrambles away from underneath him, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand as if repulsed. As if she had kissed an ogre itself. “Yoonoh, you’re practically jobless—!”

“I am not.” He sighs out, trying his hardest to concentrate on anything around the room. The tall ceilings, the conversation at hand, anything but the obvious problem in his boxers right now. “I swear, I will just be working for Siyeon but it’s for a period of time. I’m sure I’ll get her position soon enough.”

“Oh my God,” Mia pushes her long brown hair away from her shoulders, widening those innocent eyes of hers, sharp cheekbones lifting in distaste—not even a smile of comprehension. “I can’t believe I almost slept with a good for nothing. You told me you’d get that job and now you didn’t?”

“A good for nothing?” Yoonoh stands up from that bed, hands on his hips when Mia nods, once and then twice.

“Your dick is good, but not that good.”

Is this the day Yoonoh’s ego gets bruised to shattered little pieces that poke at his feet like glass? Perhaps.

Is this the day Yoonoh lets that pang of pain in his chest become visible? Not at all.

“Were you just with me because I was probably going to be a manager?”

“Silhouette is—listen, they are established, but it’s not what I had in mind.” Mia puts on her robe, covering her Goddess-crafted body before picking up a glass of the wine they had been sharing. “If you became manager, I’d have more connections with other teams. I would probably be in better runways and—”

“I’m not your manager or your little linking buddy, Mia.” Yoonoh complains, chest flushed when he seethes, pushing the strands of his dark hair away from his face. “We’re just having fun. I wasn’t going to bring you as my plus one when we had already established—”

“I don’t know if you notice,” She starts, licking her lips in elegance. “But you’re…you’re going to end up alone, Yoonoh. All you do is work, you’re always tense and silent and…a little bit boring, if I’m being honest. I am definitely the closest thing you’ll ever have to a relationship.”

Oh, no. That’s the thing he hates the most. How the world has been divided in romanticists and hard-workers. You’re one of the other, can’t ever be both, and sometimes, he feeds into that stereotype. He knows he doesn’t have time to fully sit down and talk to someone about his interests, let his heart be wandered about like a museum, but somehow…hearing anyone tell him that he’s tense, silent, boring…doesn’t sit well with him.

He shrugs, eager to poke just like done to him. “Good thing I never wanted a relationship with you to start with.”

Mia gasps at that, plush lips parted before she’s opening the window of her one-floor home. Elegant, but still not the grandest thing out there. “Oh, is that so?”

“You happen to be presumptuous, superficial and now, a complete opportunist—” He says, walking behind her until she turns around, her robe falling off one shoulder when she points at the window, crisp air whisking the tension around.

“Then, leave.”

“Okay.” He’s about to turn around and grab his clothing, when he feels her tugging at his taut forearm.

“Not through the door. You don’t get the benefit to do that.” Once again, Mia is pointing at the window and that catches a chuckle out of Yoonoh, that rises and rises in tone.

“I won’t get out through there.”

“I didn’t ask you. I told you to.” With that, she’s pushing at his chest, trying to get him out as he scrambles to get a hold of her.

“Mia! Are you fucking insane?!”

“Tired of your bullshit, Yoonoh. That’s it.”

Mia is, perhaps, not stronger than him, but for someone who walks on runways…she’s mad strong. Maybe, it’s the necessity to get him out of her home or the flying atrocity of her train of thought that has him stumbling backwards in one of those moments. In just his boxers, the prickling of the grass and the flowers in Mia’s garden caress and poke at his skin, tickling in enormous amounts just as he falls into the most embarrassing position he has been in.

The moonlight seeps over his skin, a groan ripping from the depths of his soul at the ache on his back when he hears the window closing, not without a few words from Mia: “And don’t you dare call me again, asshole.” And maybe, he would have laughed at the stupidity of the statement, because throwing someone out of a window is definitely not a reason to call someone back, but now, he’s much too surprised and in pain.

### 

She wishes she was back to being a kid.

It’s a thought she has when the days are tough and uncertainty fills her, like a vase that is neither half full or half empty, but just stuck. In this town, with a job that she had wished for years ago, that takes away every ounce of will and thrive that she ever had. Days are tiring, nights even more so, and sometimes, she wishes the lake would stop being so calm. For it to be some movement, some waves, some dance of life that tells her: ‘this is something new and I give it to you because you deserve it’.

Instead, she’s walking alongside Erika, whose little feet in her elegant tiny boots are kicking a rock on the sidewalk. They had decided to walk for another block near the hotel, houses scattered in their glow in this enchanting night. It’s a moment of quiet, and she relishes on it, sending a look to the rock and to the little girl, just in case she’s not warm enough or she’s tired.

Oh, how she wishes she was tired.

Erika calls out her name, soft and through a pout, in a way that makes her sound like her age. Very much little a baby. “…Why do…why do girls your age never like boys?”

“What do you mean?” She questions, a smile on her face when sparing Erika a glance. A shrug is given. “I think boys are cool. Not all boys, but some are.”

“Mom doesn’t like my dad, and he’s a boy.” That must be the way she explains her parents’ divorce, but how she’s involved in that? She has no idea. “You…you don’t have a boy. I never hear you talk about boys.”

You see, she hasn’t dated in a while. A while as in…years. Comes to be, building trust into someone after having another person shatter it for you is not only difficult, but somehow near impossible. A plane ticket had said farewell to her in-person relationship and she had embarked in this immense long-distance relationship with too many tears and too much longing. He was distant after a while, and she blamed it on time differences…

Time differences that were proven to be someone else when she called him to tell him she had saved money for seven months just to visit him, only to hear him with another woman.

Another woman who claimed to be his girlfriend of four years.

Not one. Not two. Not three. Not even three and a half. Four.

“I don’t know.” She starts, trying to find the best way to say this. “We don’t always need a boy, Erika. Us girls, we don’t. The only people we need are our family, our friends and ourselves. Princesses can still be pretty and have a lot of people looking up to them without a prince.”

“Like Moana?”

“And Merida.” She completes, a smile on her face when she tugs the little girl up to scoop her in her hold. “Your mom has a hotel and she takes care of it very well without a boy. That doesn’t mean your daddy is not important, but they are happy even when he doesn’t have a girl and she doesn’t have a boy.”

“Then,” Erika plays with the collar of her white button-down. “We all have to be in pairs?” She stops.

“You mean couples?” Erika nods. “Oh no, honey, not all of us have to be in pairs or be part of a couple.” She chuckles at Erika’s innocence. She must be a bit insufferable, but still a kid. With the nightly air blowing at her face, she sighs. “We can all be with anybody, depending on who we like, girls…boys…your mom has told you that, right?”

Humming, Erika opens her mouth to speak up. “Yep.”

“Good girl.” She coos, smiling in the process. “Do you know what decision means?”

“Yes.” Erika conquers. “Carrots or potatoes, like that.”

“Exactly. What you choose is your decision.” She’s trying to make this easy for her. “Your mom doesn’t have to love a man, because that is her decision. As long as she loves herself and you, she’s already complete.”

“And you?” Erika questions.

She hadn’t thought about it in years. It didn’t feel right to be next to someone else, and she doesn’t know if that falls on her a little bit. Loneliness is inherent, this wandering thought that comes to her when she stops and wonders if there is someone out there. Not to complete her, because she’s already full by being on her own, but to support her.

“I am complete, too.” The answer is simple, tucking a strand of Erika’s hair behind her curved little ear. “So are you.”

“I am complete!”

“Yes, you are.”

Something interrupts them just as they pass by a cream-colored house. A groan comes from the flowers planted in the front-yard, and that has her stopping. Flowers don’t talk, obviously, but if someone is hurt—a dog or a human, she has to check.

More groaning and then, she sees a peak of milky skin under the moonlight, paired with tousled black hair. A man is standing in between the bushes, with his lower half thankfully covered by the plants, a short small nose, decently sized lips and a face that speaks anything but a good time.

And he’s half-naked. Only in boxers.

Her hand comes upwards to cover Erika’s eyes just as a loud gasp leaves her lips and she screeches: “Pervert!”

“No, no, no!” The man in question shushes her, lowering his body until even his taut chest and abdomen are covered. His eyes widen comically, and she has to shut her mouth to hear him speak. “I’m not a pervert, I promise! I know this looks wrong but—”

“You’re hiding in the bushes without clothes on, sir. This is definitely something illegal—”

“I was with a woman,” He sends a look towards Erika, levelling his words just because a kid is there, trying to snatch her hand away, but its grip is tight like iron. “And she threw me out because we had a break-up. Kind of. Not serious enough to call it a break up but…my clothes are inside and she won’t let me in. I’ve tried for such a long time. I was hiding until someone passed by but…no one did.”

Still far away from him, she quirks an eyebrow. This relatively, conventionally handsome man had been kicked out by a woman…almost ass-naked?

Talk about an attitude.

“Well, I’ll call someone over to help you out—” She’s about to move again, not completely trusting the man in the bushes when he calls her over with a hiss from his lips. A mix of ‘psst!’ and ‘hey!’ that obnoxiously makes her stop to turn around, still covering Erika’s eyes. “What?”

His eyes glisten when he says: “Help me.” He must be some kind of boss. The stranger says these two words like she has to do it, and she would have turned around again had it not been for those plush lips saying: “Please.”

“What do you want?” She questions, only to have him smiling.

Oh, there is a dimple there. A very profound and albeit, a bit attractive, dimple.

“Clothes.” The stranger adds. “Can you buy me some clothes? I promise I’ll pay you. I just need to get out of here. I think a cockroach bit me in the ass.”

“Language.” She spits out, just as Erika tries to wiggle away from her hold and repeats:

“Ass!”

“Erika!”

“Sorry.” He says again, bringing his hands together in a plea before sighing out: “I need them right now.”

She fixes Erika’s hold around her body, before rolling her eyes hard enough so she cans see the back of her head. “Fine. I’ll find you some clothes.”

###

Erika won’t take care of the family business. She’ll be a stylist, for sure. 

The only thing opened at this hour of the night that doesn’t cost her a big portion of her salary is the thrift store and after endlessly explaining the situation to a very eager Erika, she is watching the little girl moving around the store as if she owns it, grabbing clothes here and there in a hassle.

“Erika, be careful. We can only pick three pieces of clothing!” Not that the teenager by the counter cares, popping his bubblegum in between his thin lips, looking down at his phone and tapping on it with a speed that a piano player would envy.

“We have to make him look cute.” Erika tries to say in her most professional voice, and she has to sigh. She will definitely not become a mother anytime soon.

“Yes, but we also have to make it cheap. I don’t have much money in this suit.”

“Yes, yes.” Somehow, she feels like Erika is not listening, pulling at a t-shirt on a table nearby, only to unfold it and give it to her. Her body is so small that she couldn’t see the imprint on the front. As her babysitter of the night, she expands it over her chest, only to watch something within Erika lighting up. “I like it!”

“Good,” She checks the price after muffling a laugh at the words written at the front. “It’s cheap. We can get it.”

Small steps patter against the tiles of the grand store before she’s tugging at the leg of a pair of pants she found on a rack, too tall for her to grab.

“This, this, this, I want this!”

Those ones are a little bit pricier, but when she gets them out of the rack, a smile finally spreads through her features. She has to get it. “You have a gut for styling, little one.”

Erika straightens her back in pride, fisting her small hands before nodding. “Thank you. Want me to buy one for you?”

She chuckles at her words. Definitely not, but she masks it by saying. “We don’t have enough money tonight. Another time.”

### 

Props to the man whom now she knows is called Jung Yoonoh…he doesn’t look half as bad in those clothes as anyone else would.

The milky way spreads on Erika’s pupils when she leans on the table that she had taken up in the hotel’s restaurant a little bit over an hour ago. Her line of sight is filled with none other than Yoonoh, whom she had practically cried to just to invite him to have dinner with the two of them. Erika has practically eaten her weight in Oreo milkshakes, but she can’t quite say she is not starving by the time she slips into the leather seats and she smells the delicious cooking from the kitchen.

Compare that to the bland sandwich she has in her locker.

The little girl talks even out of her elbows. Yoonoh, however, patiently listens, trying to keep up with the grand story she has for the outfit she had picked for him. That explains why people take second-glances towards him. Not that he is not handsome enough; the lighting at that house his girl had kicked him out of did not do justice to his chiseled, quite carved face, but there is something about his clothing that captures most of the attention.

A pair of pink flip flops that Erika had picked up at last after they both forgot about shoes. Tight red leather pants that showcase the strength and curve of his thighs, quite lean, elongated legs that she had taken a second look at when seeing him out of the bushes with some clothes on. And, how to forget the old, quite used black tank top that reads: ‘With a body like this, who needs a personality?’.

She had laughed when she saw him.

Her fingers dip her fries on some ketchup by the time Yoonoh does so, sparing her a glance over Erika’s shoulder when the little girl says:

“My friend doesn’t need boys.” The girl adds, wrapping her hands around her mouth before saying. “But don’t feel offended, she still finds boys cool.”

“Some of them.” She corrects, connecting her gaze with Yoonoh’s just as the man leans back on his seat, crossing his arms across his chest.

“Oh, words from a broken heart. Who hurt you?” He questions, quirking one of his eyebrows before taking a bite of the fried chicken he had insisted on getting. Something about those brown eyes seem to capture her perfectly, as if reading her like a book…and she doesn’t like it.

“I’m just too busy to care.” Her voice wavers the slightest when letting out her excuse and then, she scoffs. “You know, that happens when you’re the manager of a hotel.”

“Understandable.” Yoonoh nods a few times before that dimple appears again. “Too busy to care or too busy to date?”

Her face burns by the time Yoonoh asks that question, pleased with the way she widens her eyes. “When did we decide to make me the subject of our conversation?”

“You saw me half-naked, I get to know something about you other than the pressed suits and the obvious distrust issues.” Yoonoh’s tone is playful, that smile never erased from his features, while her frown deepens. She can’t say he’s not correct, but he’s also poking at her nerves with his words.

“I don’t have trust issues.”

He hums. “Your first reaction is to say no to everything. You deny every word that is thrown your way.”

“Because I happen to think guys like you just feel like they know it all.” She comments, taking the same position as him while crossing one leg over the other. Erika just looks between the two, trying to understand this conversation to no avail. “You read and read people, but I can read you well, Yoonoh.”

He expands his arms, showing that ridiculous shirt. May be half true, his body is great, and his personality may be a little bit insufferable. “Read me.”

“Bachelor with a good job who has that ‘rise and grind’ mentality. Don’t take relationships seriously. Can’t look past what’s in front of him and oh, trust issues, too.” She relishes on leaning over the table, watching as his eyes concern the rest of her face, taking in her every feature before his gaze delves down to the fold of her shirt, no buttons opened, but he’s trying to see something there.

“You want me to look at what’s in front of me?” He questions. “It’s you. Didn’t know that was your way of flirting with me. Guess I really do have to thank you for the…outfit.”

“And me!” Erika raises her hand, waiving it in the air happily.

His tutting tone changes when smiling at her. “Thank you, Erika.”

“Who hurt you, Jung Yoonoh?” She questions, mocking the tone he had used on her and trying to stop a smile from appearing on her lips. So, playing around with him is fun, as it seems.

He stops for a moment, as if thinking. The curve of his mouth falls down the slightest and she hears a breath-in that she overthinks about, noticing that there is pain in even the brightest of people. Instead, he shrugs. “I haven’t gotten my heart broken.” Yoonoh says, playing with the strands of his hair, curves of his arms contorting. “Want to be the first to break it, sweetheart?”

“You wish.” She scoffs, only to have Yoonoh dipping more of his fries in ketchup.

“You wouldn’t even kill an ant.” Yoonoh swats without importance. “I doubt you’d break my heart.”

“I wouldn’t want to break your heart, and that’s what differentiates us.” She points between them. “Good cop, bad cop.”

“Excuse me.” A tender voice cuts through the air around us, a young-looking guy with innocent features and glasses too big for his face waves a Polaroid camera in his hold when nearing them. “May I take a picture of you? I have a photography project for a class I’m taking in college and I need to take pictures that bring nostalgia and warmth. I happened to think your little family could be the perfect subject.”

Before she could fully deny they are a family, Erika is wrapping both her little arms around their shoulders as she settles at the center of the table, smiling at the camera. “Cheese!”

Two pictures are taken before she could fully bring a smile to her face, her eyes connecting to Yoonoh’s over the table in a look that she can’t quite recognize. His smile has erased but still, he’s the one to take the picture when the college student says:

“One for you, one for me.” He says, bowing slightly. “Thank you.”

With that, he is gone, but the effect of his picture lingers when she realizes where she is. A complete stranger sits at the same table as her, trying to figure each other our while she should have put Erika to bed long ago, continue with her job and not even look to the sides to see whose lives are coexisting while she’s just working.

“Sorry.” She stands up, shaking her head at her own antics. Helped him, she had already done, and now she has no business to sit with him, grab a bite and just pretend that she doesn’t have things to do. Yoonoh looks up from the picture, eyebrows furrowed when she grabs Erika by the arms and hoists her up. “I—I have to work. I don’t…I shouldn’t…I shouldn’t be here with you.”

“Why?” Yoonoh questions, voice softened when she shakes her head.

“I just shouldn’t.” She finishes, not knowing quite well what this feels like. Casually flirting with a man like him means trouble. “Goodbye, Yoonoh.”

She says those words with the harshest weight of the world, turning around and rushing out of the restaurant while Erika screams out Yoonoh’s name in need for more fun in the night. Nonetheless, she feels someone’s eyes trailing after her, but she knows one look over her shoulder would only bring more questions to her head.

What was the universe trying to do when putting him on her road?

###

There is a picture in his wallet that doesn’t even begin to answer the questions roaming his head. As confused as in the beginning, Yoonoh remains.

He doesn’t know why he stares at it after finishing his meal during lunchtime, the office emptied out of people, flicking at the corner of the Polaroid he would not show anyone even if they paid him a billion won. He just wouldn’t. That ridiculous shirt and those obnoxiously tight pants that definitely gave him a carpet burn that he’s still feeling two days later, should have been enough of a reason not to wonder about the sudden change of mind the hotel manager had. 

Maybe, he had offended her. Though, she had kept on playing his game—and he half meant what he said. People like her are easy to read. Definitely an organization freak, perhaps a bit nerdy, with enough worries in her mind to fill an entire book. She wasn’t wrong about his trust issues either, but as he splays his fingertips on top of her placement in the picture, the only one who is not fully smiling, he ponders…

What’s about this girl that has his mind bringing her back all the time?

He closes his wallet just as he opens his sketchbook. A new one, because in his hassle, he had ripped the other that he had filled with all his dreams and hopes. He had crafted bodies, all in different sizes, to design something…and nothing had come to mind, not until he saw her again. That treasure hidden under baggy suits and clothes that he would have never looked at twice if only he hadn’t been captured by the naïve elegance in her face.

His eyes had tried to look, capture a glimpse of the curves around her body, and his imagination gave him more than what he could actually perceive. Yet, it had been enough. Flipping through his color scheme cards, he compares it to the vision he had inside his brain. Conservative, but still enough to feel powerful…

Violet. He doesn’t know why he picks it, but he does.

His fingers can’t stop sketching over the model he has on his sketchbook. He imagines lace and stain, draped thin pieces of clothing over the shoulders. Enough coverage for a one piece…and it comes to him in the form of a muse he would have never imagined. Someone who did not even show him anything, never gave him a chance to talk or fly, because that’s what he had never tried. What Silhouette had never stood for.

The people who are too shy to wear something like what they design.

Attractiveness is a feeling most people should get used to. Being looked at in an adoring light or have a flower thrown their way in the form of a compliment is desired, but has been lost in the eye of lust. Every word of adoration these days has been related to something—the imminent stoppage of the moment for the promise of sex. Never had Yoonoh thought of his designs as something more than a form of self-seduction, with the portrayal of self-love as a higher force for lust, but now, he sees it again.

Lingerie shouldn’t be seducing. It should be a weapon of beauty; a piece of clothing to be taken into consideration, colors that merge well with one’s personality. Not everyone is ready to fully unveil themselves in the light of the sexualized society we live in. Sometimes, people just want to feel nice fabrics against their skin or a glimmer of gorgeousness without showing everything.

The magic of designing is in delicacy.

The ideas come to him then. What was once a two piece for Yoonoh, now is one. What was once see-through, now makes up for riskiness in designs and curves, fabrics added to give more structure, instead of more nudity. Lingerie doesn’t have to be a thin layer of clothing—it can be beautiful, crafted and built.

His e-mail dings with a new entrance, stopping him on his third design as he envisions what must be under that suit—what would fit her and other working people for needing a boost, without actually showing the clothing to anyone but themselves, but soon enough, his face falls at Siyeon’s e-mail.

Subject: The Boss Wants You to Work.

Greetings, my beloved Yoonoh,

Silhouette has been known for its strong stance in the fashion community, and I have been pleased to land a runway show for us in, specifically, twenty-nine (29) days. In light of this, I send you the list of things you have to do:

1)   Design a set for the main male model of the runway, Kim Jungwoo. It has to be a showstopper if you want to keep working with him. I need this to be sent in 6 days.

2)   Find a nice and not as expensive place for the publicity photoshoot to take part on. I don’t want simple. I need ravishing visuals.

3)   Talk to the newbie models and make sure that said day, the stylists don’t screw up.

Thank you.

Sincerely,

Jeon Siyeon.

Yoonoh rolls his eyes before starting to type a reply. The devil must be in front of her computer.

Subject: [RE]: The Boss Wants You to Work.

Hello,

I had already started working on a female set. I’m a female lingerie designer. I think I am not the one in charge of Jungwoo’s outfit.

Sincerely,

Jung Yoonoh.

The response comes just as he begins scrabbling his ideas into paper once again.

Subject: Who asked?

I want you to work on Jungwoo’s outfit. See if you get better while working on boxers instead of bras.

Not as sincerely,

Jeon Siyeon.

Spreading one hand on top of his sketchbook, he rubs the bridge of his nose before he breathes in deeply. Okay, now it seems like he has to craft something for a model that he doesn’t even know about, as well as finding the place for a photoshoot. An assistant, he seems to be now, and Siyeon’s, nonetheless.

But a place comes to mind, soon enough.

###

Devastation comes short to the wails that leave the kid’s lips. That speaks of pleas and pain.

Over a week of Sachiko coming up with different meetings had led up to an expected, yet somewhat uncalculated, road trip to where she hopes to build her second hotel. That said, she won’t stay for a day or two, but for the entirety of two weeks away from Erika. The daughter that now clings onto Sachiko like a koala, hiding her face in the crook of her neck, black hair matching her own as she cries uncontrollably.

Sachiko is at her apartment’s doorstep, luggage by the side of her elongated legs, as she shushes her daughter with a worried gaze. “You’re going to be okay, baby.” Then, she calls out her name, trying to wipe the tears in her eyes with just one hand. “You’ll be taken care of…and I will be back before you know it.”

“Why do you leave?!” Erika screeches, and Sachiko tries her best to reason with her, but her own whines are stopping her.

So, with her pajamas and tiredness lingering within her, she places a hand on top of Erika’s back. “Because your mom wants you to have a great life, Erika. She wants to buy you all you need and for you to have dreams as big as hers.” Maybe, she won’t get it now, but it’s the best she can do to explain the situation.

It manages to make Erika turn around, blinking her tears onto her cheeks. “I don’t want her to go.”

“We’ll mark the calendar…and she’ll come soon enough.” She whispers out, and it’s at this moment that she regrets saying yes to Sachiko when she asked her to take care of her daughter for a little while longer.

A little while longer shouldn’t mean two weeks.

Still, Erika doesn’t let go of her mom. She’s glued to her.

“I made you some hot chocolate, and I have some pudding that I prepared for me earlier.” Because sugary sweet meals seem to make her feel better in these days of uncertainty. This makes Erika widen her eyes, looking back at her mom before questioning her with a small smile.

“There you go, there’s my smiling baby.” Sachiko finishes, putting her daughter down before looking down at her watch. “My taxi is waiting for me. You can call me tomorrow, Erika, okay?”

“Yes, mommy!” But Erika is already moving towards the kitchen to grab a mug of that sweet, sweet hot chocolate.

She knows sweets are her weak point.

The only weak point she has.

“Make sure she sleeps early, okay?” Sachiko says, and all she can do is nod.

“Sure thing.” I can’t promise a thing, she thinks.

“And that she doesn’t eat too many sweets. I’ll let this one slide.”

“Only veggies.” She says as she grabs her doorframe in between her hold. Only to give her something sweet after she throws the veggies at my face, her mind replies.

“Thank you.” Sachiko adds over her shoulder, a smile to her face. “I know it’s difficult, but I really don’t have any family to take care of her and I really do trust you. I promise to pay you well after all this.”

That’s a nice start.

“Don’t worry. Me and Erika get along well.” That’s not a lie, but taking care of a kid is extremely tiring. “Just get in your taxi. We’ll be fine.”

With that, minutes pass by of complete silence, Erika’s eyes trained on her phone, blasting Peppa Pig, with one or two hiccups escaping here and there as she drinks her first mug of chocolate. She joins her, slicing another bit of cake and shrugging off whatever thought appears inside her brain.

The chocolate merges on the roof of her mouth, warming her to the tip of her toes, each aching muscle after hours of working relaxing, even a bit entranced by the show she’s not watching, but might be brain-washing her just like the rest of the kids.

“Another one, please.” Erika says after finishing her episode, extending her mug of chocolate towards her before she smiles sweetly.

She shakes her head. “Mom said no sweets.”

“Please?” The little girl drags with dulcetness in her tone, but she repeats the previous action.

“Nope.”

Erika places the mug down, head laying low before she repeats: “Chocolate, please!”

“I said nope.”

The kid stops for a moment, thinking as the sound of the dishwasher starting up as she cleans the mugs and the plates, and just then, her small voice is heard again:

“You don’t give me chocolates because you’re sad about Yoonoh?”

That makes her halter all steps. Yoonoh. The man that she had met days ago. Adonis without a shirt on, and then some weird 2011 wannabe that happened to have dinner with her and Erika. The lingering flirtations between the two had not been forgotten, those pair of eyes that somehow seemed to want to strip her of her utmost secrets, only for her to back away.

Yoonoh means trouble.

“I am not sad about Yoonoh.” She adds, turning around with her damp hands ending up over her waist. “Why do you think I’m sad about him?”

“Because he’s your boy!” Erika screeches as if it’s the most obvious thing, and she’s starting to get tired of the kid’s insane romanticism mixed with optimism. Sure, she’s a kid, but Disney should start making less princesses with a prince. “Mommy explained it to me.”

“What did she explain?” Not that she’s understanding a thing, but please, she does need to be enlightened.

“I asked mommy how people acted when they were in pairs.”

“When they are couples.”

“Yep!” The grin on her chubby cheeks is enchanting, but by what she’s saying, she’s about to ask Sachiko to pick her up again. The love talk is not her thing. “And she said boys smile a lot and they speak weirdly, like things I can’t understand.” That is a way to put it. “And the girl looks down a lot…and I don’t remember what else she said, but you did all those things with Yoonoh. He is your boy!”

“Boyfriend, not boy.” She corrects, turning around to continue to wash the dishes. Was he smiling at her? She had seen the dimple, but she hadn’t thought that he had beamed around like a madman. “And he’s not my boyfriend. I don’t have one.”

“But why?” Erika drags her voice.

“We already had the talk of Moana and Merida.”

“I get that. I’m like them. I don’t want to be with boys.” She utters innocently, standing up to tug at her sleeve. “But you are with Yoonoh.”

“Oh, no.” She shakes her head, laughter escaping her lips. “You hit your head, Erika.”

“I didn’t!” The little girl says, scratching her head just in case. “You’re a princess. He’s a prince—”

“Erika!” She stops her, interrupting her with ease before sighing. “I met Yoonoh the day we saw him, and I didn’t like him that way. We aren’t even friends.”

She juts out her lip. “I wasn’t friends with Mina either.” That’s Erika’s best friend from school. “But we became friends in a day. She put a worm in the teacher’s sandwich…” Her voice becomes soft, a blush appearing on her face. “It was awesome.”

“It’s different for adults.” That’s the best way to put it. She shakes the water away from her hands after closing the faucet before patting them dry on a towel. “What would you do if I said I disliked Yoonoh?”

“Nothing.” She adds. “You said you liked cool boys, and he’s a cool boy.”

He’s an overachieving asshole with a nice smile that could potentially enter her heart if she let him, but that should and would never happen. That’s who he is.

“Erika, I’ll tell your mom to ground you if we keep this conversation up.”

That seems to make her stop, grabbing her phone once again—and she knows the password, which is even worse, kids in this generation are geniuses—, before adding: “Does Peppa have a boy?”

“Oh my God, no!”

This will definitely be a long night.

###  

His mind is blank. Absolutely blank. Lingerie for men is even more difficult than lingerie for women. 

Jungwoo gives another walk on the stage, bleached blonde hair barely moving with each step he takes. He’s in the simple designs, the first launch of Silhouette, as bland as bland can get, and while his strut is fine, he can’t think of anything. Nothing that couldn’t be just a simple pair of boxer briefs thrown on a model. He could do that, but that’s so common, so plastered on paper. He wants to do something else, and yet, in the day of the photoshoot, he can’t think of anything.

“Why are you making me do this?” He met Jungwoo a few days ago, and he was actually quite surprised to recognize who he is. A runway model that has been around the world and all over fashion weeks. His dulcet personality and tall frame have gotten him somewhere, that’s for sure. “I should be already in my clothes and ready to take pictures.”

“I have nothing.” In the middle of the hotel’s ballroom, Jungwoo stops walking at the sound of Yoonoh’s voice. The designer looks down at his sketchbook, where he had made the drawing of a body similar to Jungwoo’s and still, nothing came to mind.

“…You have to have something.”

“A pair of black boxers.” He turns the sketchbook around just as Jungwoo slips a robe over his body and ties it securely. “Better than white boxer briefs, sexier, too. All the women I’ve been with likes them.”

“I won’t model that.” Jungwoo conquers, a lightweight laugh following after. “Those look like plain cotton boxers.”

“Well, I just don’t know what to design. Either I make you look tacky or I make you look bland. There is no in-between.”

“That bad?” Jungwoo questions, taking a seat next to him before grabbing a water bottle. “People are going to be here any minute. Everyone has decorated and I’m not sure my manager will be happy to hear that I came here just for nothing.”

A look is spared to the model, with Yoonoh shaking his head softly. He has to think of something. He can’t give Siyeon the benefit of seeing him tuck with a simple design.

His pencil taps against the drawing for a few seconds before he breathes out a few words: “You’re okay with being more covered?”

Conservative and elegant is more of what he has been aspiring for, with that peek of skin that makes the world go around. It’s what he has been drawing these days, but mostly with a muse in mind.

“Sure. I wasn’t over the moon thinking my ass was going to be out in the world.”

Yoonoh chuckles at that, turning the page around from the plain black boxers before sketching something else. “How about a crop top? With a fabric similar to a bralette, and you look better in red than you do in black.” He draws a diagonal line across the ribcage, making slitted long sleeves to showcase pieces of biceps, filling it up with the color red in a quick hassled manner that he will fix later. “Maybe some chains and garments around that wrap up to your waist.”

“I like that.” Jungwoo announces when looking over his shoulder.

“I’ll keep the black boxers. I still think they are classics, and I can talk to the management team to make them more than just cotton.” Yoonoh announces, soon after looking at the picture before clicking his tongue. “I think there’s something lacking.”

“Dunno. You’re the designer, but I’d wear this out of the runway.”

That’s something good, but Yoonoh is thinking of something else. People in real life transcending into their own confident version. That’s what he wants to portray. He draws a suit jacket draped over his shoulders, falling onto his long legs until it reaches midway through his calves, before sketching a pair of pants on the side. Loose, simple, highlighted in the waist.

“We could connect do something like…like suspenders. Office guy turns into midnight God.” Once again, he’s sketching. “You’d wear this, the crop top underneath but I have no idea how you’d show the boxers.”

“Make them low cut.” Jungwoo suggests, eyes trained on his phone momentarily when he crosses one leg over the other. “That way, the boxer’s band will be showing, and it will have Silhouette’s name there. I’d take off the jacket to show the statement piece.”

Yoonoh thinks about it, erasing the line at the waist before drawing the band, and his eyes glimmer at the image underneath him. Not as bad as he imagined it.

“Your ideas are good.”

“Thanks, I’m not just a pretty face.” Jungwoo jokes around, only standing up when the doors of the ballroom come open.

The theme of the photoshoot is simple. A party at the eighties, with beaming colors and disco balls. Darkened walls, confetti, everything has been added to highlight the idea Yoonoh had come up with. Nonetheless, his team is not the one barging in the room when the doors open, instead, he’s met with another darkened suit and a serious face that stares down at her agenda.

“Morning, people. I’m sorry I’m late. I was figuring out an issue at the penthouse, but I am here to help you with any form of decoration or with any question you may have.” The hotel manager stands there. Not that Yoonoh ever pondered they could not meet each other when he had specifically picked her hotel—he had walked through when entering the restaurant, and the three-stars help with the price, but the decorations are immaculate. Architecture its utmost beauty.

Now that he sees her, a smile spreads across his features. Maybe, a bit too soon—in a way that has him pushing it down because it is not possible to get that reaction out of him when it’s not faux. That woman had stood him up without even much of a reason, in the literal sense of the word, took those pretty legs away from the seat and walked away after they had been having fun.

He wore those leather pants. She owed him not leaving him in the middle of a restaurant with her meal and his to pay.

When she looks up at him, a few sentiments flash before her eyes, but he can’t guess any of them. He breathes out her name, capturing her off guard when she questions:

“You remember me?” Her voice is levelled as she moves forward, with a tinge of curiousness.

Yoonoh shrugs his shoulders in his fitted black sweater, paired with dark ripped jeans. “I wasn’t shitfaced. Just half-naked.”

That makes her frown deeply when she looks up at him again. “Don’t you dare say that out loud in front of anyone.” Soon after, she’s talking to Jungwoo. “I—Don’t listen to him. I’m the manager of this hotel and I have no business with this man.”

Jungwoo lifts his hands in the air. “None of my business, but please, do let me hear.”

He doesn’t know why it surprises him that Jungwoo likes gossip. “Why? You’re embarrassed of helping me out?”

“You’re saying it with double intentions.”

Yoonoh chuckles. “I wasn’t intending on anything the night we met.”

“Oh, come on.” She rolls her eyes, making him raise his eyebrows. That cynic voice in her is not something he expected. “We both know what kind of intentions you have with everyone. It seeps from you.”

“Seeps from me?”

“You had no issue going with some stranger after being kicked out of your…your hook up’s house and you were smiling and using those eyes on me and buddy,” She stops, a short laugh leaving her lips. Her index finger extends to point at him. “I’m not a charity case. I’m not in need of a man. I don’t need you to come around and cause me trouble, okay? If you’re here just to tease me instead of letting me do my job, then we’re off to a bad start.”

Offended is short for what he feels. Sure, he may not make a big deal out of hook ups, but it’s not like he’s the easiest man in the world. And if he was, why does she care?

“You’re the one talking about my eyes. I never made eyes at you.”

That makes her stop, holding her agenda to her chest before patting her ponytail in place. “Okay. Fine.”

“You just think you’re so much better than you, don’t you?” Yoonoh spites, crossing his arms across his chest, never once raising his voice.

“Excuse me?”

“Oh, yes, you take care of your boss’ child. You’re so sweet and kind. So in synch with yourself you need no one’s company…” He trails off, pointing them out with the sharpness of his words. “That’s fine, but it’s not fine when you point fingers at people for being with other people. The twenty-first century is calling, they are here to say you can show someone your ankles without losing all sense of rightfulness.”

Scoffing, she shakes her head, a sarcastic smile appearing on her features. “Yoonoh, I know men like you.” She starts. The typical stance people have of him. Men like him. “You’re a…around with a bunch of women, and you use your good looks to your advantage, never care about anybody but you, never take anyone out on a date—”

He gets closer at that moment, lowering his eyes onto her lips before connecting them with hers. “…You wanted me to take you out on a date and that’s why you’re mad about me being a thot?”

“No!”

His hand reaches for one of her ears, laughing when he feels the heat. “Your ears are hot. Have something to tell me?”

“Where’s the person in charge of this photoshoot?” She slaps his hand away, turning to Jungwoo who has the biggest grin on his features.

“Oh, it’s him. The asshole Jung Yoonoh.” Jungwoo conquers with a flick of his finger before he expands his hands in front of them. “But please do continue. I love a good drama.”

“You?!” She gasps that word out as if it’s venom, a sharp intake coming after.

“Me.” Yoonoh retorts, a smirk appearing on his face. “And I happen to have lots of questions about this ballroom.”

He doesn’t, but he enjoys his next thirty minutes, trying to get the offense out of his body by having her carrying boxes—not heavy, but definitely bothersome when ordered by him—and giving her his phone number wrongly three times as she finished up the contract and the bill for the rent of the ballroom. Exasperation is short for what she feels, but as she’s working on that bill, he realizes something.

The shirt underneath her suit is a sunshine yellow, and he may change violet from the position of his desired color on her, because yellow makes her beam like never before. It gives her a powerful stance, standing out even in between seas of models posing around.

Though what she thinks of him has been a repetition of what he has heard before, somehow, he cares a little bit more when it comes from the one woman that has inspired him to do better with his designs. Not that she even cares about his position as a designer.

For her, he’s only another asshole who uses people to his will, and that’s only half correct.

###  

“The sexual tension was so thick I had a hard time breathing. Seriously, it was like when I used to steal rated magazines when I was young!”

The maids cheer and giggle to themselves when Blue spits out another version of the story that she and Yoonoh supposedly wrote yesterday afternoon in the ballroom. She has to play with the lettuce of her sandwich, cheek squished against her palm as she watches Erika stare in between the seas of women, following after every reaction even when she doesn’t understand them.

“Blue, don’t say such words in front of Erika.” She tells them, biting on her densely sauce-coated sandwich, before breathing out softly. How could they think of Yoonoh as a dream when he’s obviously a womanizer dressed in sheep’s clothing?

Or the devil. He’s definitely the devil.

“Whatever.” Blue, in her eighties, moves the skirt of her gray uniform before picking up one of the maids. One of the youngest and the tallest, with a long black fringe and moon-bathed features. Chaewon, she thinks her name is. “He told her: ‘Need help with those boxes’?” She lowers her voice to be a faux deep vibrato. “And she said: ‘No, I can do it myself. Thank you.’” That time around, her voice lifts up.

“I don’t speak like that.”

“And then, he retorted by saying: ‘I know, but my arms are waiting to hold something. I think you’d rather it be boxes.’”

More screeches and giggles follow after that statement, and she rolls her eyes because he did say that.

Chaewon ends up being swooped over, rolled around in Blue’s hold before she’s cooing. “I was expecting him to lower her down and give her that kiss that she was definitely asking for with her gaze,” She imitates the actions by looking down at Chaewon. She’s an actress, even at such an old age. “She kept looking at his lips before she cut him off, and you had to say the way his eyes lingered on her…”

“Where was he looking?” One of the maids asks, organizing the towels in their little eating room when Blue lets of Chaewon to let her sit somewhere else.

“He wasn’t looking.” The manager defends, ears heated up…but because of the golden lights here, definitely.

“Everywhere! There was not a portion of her that he simply did not worship with his gaze alone. He wanted to ravish her like—”

More heat, and maybe, summer is coming around earlier than expected. “Blue, stop reading those romance books with naked men on the cover. They’re getting to you.”

Blue laughs at her antics, her curled gray hair jumping around when she takes a seat in front of her. She continues to bite on her sandwich. “Aw, come on, boss. You can’t expect us not to want to see you with that man.” She covers her mouth to lower her voice before whispering: “He’s sexy.”

“Jung Yoonoh is anything but that!” She defends, leaning back on her seat and trashing the last bit that was left of her sandwich. She opens her water bottle and gulps it quickly.

“Look at that heat!” One of the maids adds, and Chaewon nods in return. “How does he look like, Blue? He sounds like a dream.”

“Pecs over pecs over pecs. He had…” The oldest woman curves her hands in the air and the manager has to scoff.

“Stop thirsting over him.”

“His girlfriend over there will get jealous but you had to see that sweater on him. That man is lean and had the sweetest, prince-like face. But not the kind of prince that wants you for his kingdom, having you wearing proper dresses and greeting the crowd.” She stops for a second, thick silence lingering in the air before she adds. “But the kind of prince that sneaks you into the castle to show you ever room—”

“More sexualization, great.” Her knees buckle when she picks Erika up from her spot in between the maids. “I have a meeting with the valet team. You better stop talking about this if you don’t want me to talk with Sachiko about your disrespect towards our clients.”

She opens the door when Erika wraps her arms around her neck, turning around to wave to the maids. “Bye!”

“Bye-bye, honey!” Blue waves back, returning to the crowd to say: “And his hair—”

She has to close the door with a bang as a huff leaves her lips. Everything has been about Jung Yoonoh these days, but what is the sudden obsession to have her paired up with someone who will definitely shatter her to pieces?

Every thought about him shall be erased as soon as possible now that he has finished with his photoshoot. She won’t hear about Jung Yoonoh ever again.

###

“And then, she went on to call me a man-whore or something. Practically drawing me as the biggest scumbag to ever exist.”

It’s way over nine at night when he finally has the time to check over what the manufacturing team had done with the design that he had sketched for Jungwoo. He still needed to take his pictures for the event, asking the graphic design team to help him out with the deadline, but that’s the least of his worries. Johnny is by his side, lost in his phone as he listened to his story, being his support for another all-nighter.

He unfolds the blood red fabric of the crop top and smiles in delight. Fitted, with slits that could pierce well into the subject of edge, and some chains dangling in elegant curves towards the waist, with Swarovski diamonds in between. He continues to look through the pieces, pants and jacket as well, when he hears Johnny speaking up.

“She’s not wrong.” He says, still engraved on his phone. “You’re a bit of an ass and you haven’t been in a serious relationship ever since I met you. Even before that, you have been single and into hook-ups. Why are you bothered?”

“Because I am not like that. I don’t have the time to embark in a relationship, okay?” Yoonoh mutters out, placing the jacket down on the table to look at it more precisely. “She has this…this air of arrogance of thinking she’s better than me. I don’t know, like…she just thinks I am some kind of douchebag that gets to her nerves—”

“Yet, still you sketch her.” That is the moment he hears the pages of his sketchbook being flickered at. Yoonoh widens his eyes, turning around to close it just as he says:

“Let go of that!”

“They’re pretty. Don’t be a nerd about it.” Once again, Johnny has taken the sketchbook, turning around to keep it away from his hold. “Are you into BDSM or something? People talking down on you? Women hating you so badly that they are kinda into you?”

Hate. That word is enormous, and he wouldn’t like to use it when plotting what she feels for him. Strong dislike, let’s go with that. “I’m not.” He denies all allegations. “…You just have to see her.”

“Ass or tits?”

“Not that.” Yoonoh feels his own cheeks heating up as a smile takes over his features. Not that he had gotten to see a lot with how baggy her suits are, but attractive is short for how he would describe her. “It’s in the way she holds herself. She’s the quiet kind of powerful. With everyone, she is kind and understanding, and yet, her action speak louder than she does. She’s independent and doesn’t let anyone else help her, even if she’s over the top with assignments and—”

“And it kind of sounds like you’re paying a little too much attention to her.” Johnny closes the sketchbook at that moment, quirking an eyebrow at his friend. “What’s with you, Yoonoh?”

The man scoffs, shaking his head. “Nothing. Just saying. I’m so angry that she’s like that, I just—”

“No, you’re not angry. Real angry Yoonoh? It’s the kind of Yoonoh we see with Siyeon. Not this one, talking about how he loves someone’s kindness.” His eyes trail over to his sketchbook, then to the design for Jungwoo before he’s ripping one page out and jotting down a message for the manufacturing team. It’s alright, he just wants a few more diamonds. “Come on, man. Talk about it. Mama Seo used to say there are no secrets in this household.”

“What do you want me to say?” Annoyance seeps from his voice when he looks over his shoulder. “Yes, I was interested. Yes, I guess we kind of flirted. Yes, she still ran away and yes, she absolutely despises my guts?”

“…She blew you off.” Johnny says that as if it’s the biggest announcement in the world.

Yoonoh shrugs. “Yeah, so what? It’s not like I asked her or made it known—”

“For the first time in his life, Jung Yoonoh didn’t get blown, he got blown off!”

“Johnny, it’s not funny—”

“I have to see who this woman is.” Johnny gets his phone out of his pocket, opening his Instagram app before he’s lurking for her. “What’s her name?”

Maybe, curiousness got the best of him when he stands behind Johnny, looking over his shoulder when he rasps out her name.

“There we have her.” His friend announces just as he clicks on the first account. “Private. I can’t really see her face in the profile picture.” It’s the silhouette of a woman, most likely her, in a sunset. Her hands are fisted deep in her pockets and she must be looking at the sun. “Should I message her? Something like: ‘Hi, if you don’t want to date Yoonoh, I’m single and the second-best option’?”

He’s joking around, yet, Yoonoh stares longingly at that picture. Something about her is so lukewarm that he finds himself at peace. He has always liked everything scalding hot—his relationships, his hook-ups, his meals, even the days that he spends at the beach, but now, he is interested in silence and tranquilness. In that lukewarm nature that comes within her, never too cold, never too hot.

“No.” His voice sounds unused when he finally speaks up. “Leave her be.”

Johnny’s eyes inspect his features. “Dude…there is really something about her, isn’t it?”

“I’ll never know, I guess.” Yoonoh finalizes, shrugging his shoulders before moving towards the edge of the room and turning off the lights. “Let’s go, I’m starving.”

###

“I won’t take a bath! I don’t want to!”

Five days from Sachiko’s arrival and she already feels like breaking. Breaking down or breaking out of her home, one or the other. Erika screams at the top of her lungs while rushing out of the bathroom, still very much in her pajamas, to sit down in front of her TV and watch another cartoon.

She throws the towel over her shoulder, eyes half-closing from tiredness when she breathes out softly and approaches her again. “Erika, get in the bath. It’ll be quick.”

The little girl shakes her head, hugging her knees to her chest. “I don’t want to.”

“Sometimes, I don’t want to either, but you have to.” She announces, taking a seat next to her to run her fingers through her hair. “Come on, Eri, it’s just a bath.”

“Nope.” The little girl mumbles, growing more annoyed by the second.

“You’ll stink. You don’t want anyone to smell your scent if it’s bad.”

“It’s okay.”

“Someone will come visit us.” She doesn’t know why that’s the first excuse she comes up with. Truth be told, none of her friends live in this city, and her family are nowhere near either. Loneliness is something she is used to, and she doesn’t like being the house’s host all that much, either. “And you really like them, so we need to bathe you before they come.”

Erika raises her eyebrows, a big smile appearing on her face: “Peppa?”

“No, not Peppa.” From the back of her mind, she can’t think of anybody who will come here that Erika really likes. She’s not entirely obsessed with Blue, and the woman is too old to take a taxi here. She is not sure who Erika likes apart from her…and Sachiko is not here. “Ah…” Think, think, think. “Yoonoh, my…uh…my boyfriend. He’s coming over.” 

The title makes her cringe, but Erika stands up in her couch, hair wild and little fists connecting to her shirt when she says: “He’s coming! You didn’t tell me!”

“Oh, I was just waiting for you to take a bath first.” She tries to sound smart, but this is the worst idea she could have. Sure, she saved his number when she was making that bill for the rented ballroom, but that has been about it. Never texted him, never planned to, much less to tell him to come over and pretend to be her boyfriend just so Erika takes a goddamned shower.

“I will! Hurray!” Erika moves away from the couch, rushing over to take off her clothes.

“I’ll go fill up the bathtub in a sec, okay?”

“Yes!”

This is the worst idea she has ever had.

By the time she hears the door to the guest room closing, she sighs deeply, going over to the kitchen to unplug her phone and look down at her contact list. Her heart is racing, eyebrows frowned in worry when she sees it in glimmering lights:

Jung Yoonoh (Never Respond. Not Even If You’re Dying).

She’s not dying, but she definitely feels like it.

Whenever she got a cut as a kid and she put a band-aid on it, she took the band-aid off in one harsh tug. It’d rip some hairs apart, but it wouldn’t hurt—it wouldn’t make her hesitate as much as she did. This is one of those decisions that need to be done that way; as if she’s drunk and she needs to call her ex, or as if buying that dress that she’ll never wear sounds like a good idea today.

The phone rings a few times and she paces back and forth in the kitchen, giving a few puffs out and jumping in place before she hears it.

“Hello?”

His voice is to die for. One of those melodies that anyone wants to hear when they are waking up, mumbling sweet nothings, promising whatever the hell sounds great at the time, and it’s so dangerous that it has her closing her eyes, trying to fight a shiver and not exactly of anxiousness.

“Yoonoh, I need your help.”

A bead of silence follows soon after, and it comes as a surprise when he mumbles her name. She hums in return. “Why are you calling me? How do you have my phone?”

“Don’t ask.” She tells him, about to start her rant when Yoonoh cuts her off with a deep chuckle.

“You stole it from my bill.”

Caught, yet, she places a hand on her waist. “I wanted to save it just in case you decided to call me and make my day more difficult.”

“Oh, if I called you, it’d be to ease any kind of stress.” He purrs out, making her groan out loud when a lighter laugh from him comes about. “What can I help you with, ice princess?”

“Stop it with the names.”

“Boss?”

“I said—”

“Stop it with the names, I know. I will.”

When there is another pause, she knows she can speak, so she does. “…Erika believes we are in a relationship.” He doesn’t scream at the idea or laugh straight at her face, so she sighs. “And she’s also like madly connected to you. Seriously, she never stops talking about you and how you were so cool and whatnot. She only agreed to bathing now that I told her my…” She clears her throat. Shit, this is awkward. “My boyfriend is coming to visit, but you’re my supposed boyfriend and you’re nowhere around. I was wondering if you could come over, I don’t know, for like thirty minutes and then leave, just to fulfill that promise.”

Another elongated silence comes soon after, but it’s followed by a hum from Yoonoh.

“You didn’t say we were friends,” He teases, and she rolls her eyes at his antics. “You still went on with the boyfriend thing. Something you want to tell me?”

“Erika thinks we are together.”

“Erika meaning you.”

“I would personally sew my lips if we were to be in a relationship, Yoonoh.”

He chuckles, though she hears some moving. “Why? You’d want to make out with me so badly that you would want to stop yourself?”

“You wish.”

“Kinda.” Yoonoh confesses and it sounds like a pin falling to the floor. It makes her anxious, because the idea of being trapped in his arms, mouths molding into each other, breaths mixing, tongue intertwining is not so bad when in theory. “So, where do you live?”

“You’re coming?”

“Yeah, but in like forty-five.”

With that, she gives him the address, only to hear Yoonoh breathing into the microphone.

“So, my dear girlfriend, my beloved future wife,” Those dramatics that come with him make her want to slice him in half, but she keeps on just for Erika. “…How long have we been together, exactly?”

“…Since my headaches started coming daily.” She responds, hearing pattering in the hallway. “Call me when you’re here, okay?”

Once she hangs up, she sees Erika ready for a bath by the kitchen’s door, waving her hands in the air.

“Let’s go!”

Kids are nightmares.

###

Epoch hats don’t fit him well, Yoonoh realizes as he sits on a little stool that barely can hold his weight, knees practically touching his chest as he plays tea-house with Erika and her babysitter. Or well, her mom’s worker that happens not to know how to say no.

Erika had gone over the top to make this a grand event, the Peppa Pig plushie he had brought with him when entering the apartment seated in front of Erika, while he stares ahead at the woman that has his mind a complete mess. She is wearing a pair of wings on her shoulders, and her clothing is different, still not letting him see much, but the baggy t-shirt and sweatpants still fit her nicely.

The roles are simple. Erika is the princess, and they are their Aunt and Uncle. Peppa Pig is her sister, and that’s about as much as he knows as he sips on the two-point-five milliliters of water with lemon that Erika dares call tea.

“More tea, please.” Yoonoh says when placing the small cup down and looking at the woman ahead of him. She is the one serving the tea, yet, she quirks an eyebrow at him.

“That’s your fourth cup.” She explains, shaking her head when he tries to reach for the tea. “You’ve already had enough. You’re doing it just to see me serving you.”

“While the sight is adorable, beautiful, this cup is the size of my pinky. I can’t even feel it going down my throat.” He waves the little cup in his pinky before trying to reach for the tea again. “I’ll serve myself if it makes you feel better.”

“You’re too sweet-mouthed…” She looks over at Erika, inspecting them with interest. “Sugarplum.”

“Sugarplum?” Yoonoh questions the nickname, pouring himself a cup of tea when snatching it from her hands before leaning his weight forward, taking a sip that has him downing the entire drink. “I’m not sweet, don’t know if you’re noticed.”

“Quite clearly.”

“May change my ways for you if you stop judging me.” His eyes trail over her features, the culprit of his playfulness spreading across his face.

“Oh, I happen to be very judgmental.”

“Get to know me,” He waves his finger on top of the cup, tracing the outline only to see her gulp soon after. “…I promise the last thing you’ll end up doing is hating me.”

Erika stands up in between the two, her little hands spreading on their chests when she says: “Princes and princesses don’t fight.”

“We’re not fighting, Eri.” She tells her, though she sends a glare his way. “Right, sugarplum?”

“Of course, beautiful.” He uses that same nickname, relishing on the way she seems to be seething at the name. Truth be told, he knows that she’s, at least, a bit attracted to him…but whatever is stopping her must be strong enough to have her stopping on her tracks that first night. His lips wrap up in a kiss he sends flying in the air before adding: “We actually love each other. My kingdom is now better because I have found my truest love.”

“Yeah…” She trails, looking over to the side before she takes a sip of her own tea. “How’s the collection going?”

That question surprises him. She must have supposed he was a designer, much more after all he did in her hotel, but he didn’t think she was paying attention from up close.

“It’s not a collection.” Sweetly, he corrects, voice lowered when he puts the cup down. “I—I’m only working on this one fit. An outfit. We design lingerie, as you could see. I’m normally in the women design department, but my boss which is an absolute…” He stops, looking at Erika. “Witch, changed me to the men’s department just to freak up my head.”

A small chuckle trips out of her lips at the choices of his cusses. “So, you were designing Jungwoo’s fit?”

“Precisely.” Yoonoh takes his phone out of his pocket before displaying something only for her to see. “Erika, you can’t see this. It’s…it’s not something you should be seeing, okay?”

And actually, she listens. Yoonoh can’t understand why she says that Erika never listens to anybody. Her eyes trail over to Jungwoo, and the way they scan up and down have something within him tugging his phone away.

“That’s my design.”

“You’re talented.” Those words shouldn’t weight as much as they do, but he hasn’t heard them in a while. Perhaps, in two years. “If only you weren’t so much of a butt-face whenever we speak, I’m sure that part of you would show through.”

“What part of me?”

“The part that doesn’t try to hide that you care.”

That’s the moment Yoonoh backs away, because he shouldn’t care. It’s easier to go through life without caring about the people around you. The small stool falls behind him just as he stands up, clearing his throat after a harsh swallow.

“I have to go.”

Erika stands up as well, eyes widened. “Is it because she called you butt-face?”

Yoonoh chuckles, ruffling her hair with one hand. “No, I—I think I left my stove on at home.”

He hears the sound of her picking up her keys, nodding in the process. “I’ll walk you there. Don’t worry. Erika, stay here.”

The hallway that leads to her door is far too cramped for the two of them, his shoulders brushing with hers as they walk alongside each other. The part of you that doesn’t try to hide that you care; it’s not like he cares about her past the normalcy of two people who happen to be attracted towards each other buy deny it—

He turns around, his chest expanding with each breath that she takes, oxygens mingling when he looks down at her features, those lips that he would have kissed if granted the permission, but instead he asks:

“Is that why you hate me?”

She doesn’t listen, a deer caught in the headlights when she questions: “What?”

“Because you think I don’t care. Is that why you hate me?” He questions, only to have her shaking her head. His fingers hook a strand of her hair behind her ear, feeling the heat of her skin, much like that one time he had touched it.

“I don’t hate you.” She confesses, honest and yet surprising, before she breathes out in a shudder. “…Sometimes, it’s better to not wonder, Yoonoh. Not be curious about people like you. Not because you’re bad, but because you’re not right, either.” She shrugs her shoulders. “Stop looking at my lips, it distracts me.”

Yoonoh trails his eyes up before engulfing the words in his plush lips. “And what about you?” He questions. “If I’m all types of wrong, what are you?”

“All the different types of wrong that aren’t yours.” She says, just as his chest brushes with her own again, her stomach extending, back bending, body molding closer to his just because of electricity and gravity, she opens the door, releasing a breath that feels like a million pounds of weight. “Good night, Yoonoh, and thank you.”

He nods, and while he wants to return the words, he can’t.

###  

Four Years Ago.

She never came back.

Sometimes, Yoonoh felt stupid for believing that there was someone in the other side of the computer. That said chatroom that had once started as complete curiousness had now turned into something else, tangible, present in his every day. He was young, his eyes wandered, his mind stopped thinking about the importance of his future and he thought that Dami was it. The woman of his dreams, the picture that he couldn’t take out of his head when he laid still at night and looked at his ceiling.

His friends made fun of him, because this is not the Jung Yoonoh that had gotten secret notes during Valentine’s Day in high school with love confessions and promises of marriage. This was a young man, seated in front of a computer, waiting for an answer. Waiting for the day she returned, after she said that she’d come back. It was only supposed to be a lunch break, but with no contact other than this chatroom, than what they had in social media, how was he supposed to get in touch with her?

JJH1997: Hey, did I do something wrong? (Three weeks ago.)

JJH1997: Hello! How are you doing? Are you okay? (Three weeks ago.)

JJH1997: I bought that one record you told me about. (One day and a half ago.)

JJH1997: [Picture Attached]. (One day and a half ago.)

JJH1997: Are you mad? (Thirteen hours ago.)

JJH1997: I’m sorry if I offended you. (One hour ago.)

The reply he got soon after, as he was studying for one of his finals, had him widening his eyes. She had not answered in weeks, this was the best news he could hear—

DAMISONG96: This is her husband. Who are you? (Just Now).

His hands shook, trying to find the words to say. Husband. All this time, he had been talking about a future with someone with a husband…

DAMISONG96: I’ve just read your messages. Stop talking to my wife, you fucking kid.

[This contact has blocked you].

The worst part was that he could never know if it was a catfish, if the person he talked about was real…or, actually, that he could never apologize, perhaps for ruining a marriage that he never knew of.

Love doesn’t come easy when you don’t know how to trust. 

### 

The reason why he became a lingerie designer instead of any other kind of designer is because of the subtlety. His friends think that it is because of the obvious love Yoonoh has for the human body, but as he sits on the front row of his own show, staring at the Silhouette designs his team had worked on, with harsh white lights matching the upbeat and bass-boosted songs that have models swinging their hips from side to side, he feels proud and more.

Jungwoo is the next one to come, and all signs of his beam is long forgotten as he struts down that runway. At first, he does it simply, how he’s taught, the buttons of his jacket are done, undoing them as he walks to showcase the crop top underneath, only pulling it down and turning around to throw the jacket aside and show the top and the chains, along with Silhouette’s name on the band of his boxers. It’s perhaps something not seen in the streets, but he can imagine celebrities falling in love with the design.

He’s concentrated on the faces of the people ahead of him, cheers resounding around the air as Jungwoo finishes off his catwalk. The invitees seem to be overjoyed, and just when a smile creeps up his features, fixing his stance in his tailored black suit, he feels a hand spreading on his thigh, a chuckle being breath out in his ear.

“You’ve done a great job, Yoonoh.” Siyeon speaks with certainty, and to anyone, they are just two friends congratulating each other. He does great work in feigning a smile when turning to her, but what he says is not so kind.

“Thank you. I’m known for that.”

“I know…if we don’t compare that to your organization problems and your endless witty mouth.” Siyeon starts clapping when another model comes around before a beam appears on her features.

Something doesn’t feel right.

“…And what about it?”

Siyeon’s long silver earrings move when she turns to him, quirking an eyebrow in the process. “Well, you see, Yoonoh, the reason why I wanted you to craft a showstopper and to leave with a bang is because…” The acids in his stomach go up, nervousness creeping up on him, trying to keep the dimples there to no avail. “You’re no longer going to be part of our team. Out of all the designs you’ve done, this is your best, but you proved yourself right a little too late. Sorry.”

She’s not sorry, and he knows this. The smile that he has fought so hard to keep there is no longer of his interest as he stands up, pointing at her while scowling.

“You can’t do that.”

“Yoonoh, you’re making a scene.” She tries to chuckle through her words.

“I’ve been working for this fucking company for two years and I haven’t slacked once.”

“Says you,” Siyeon shrugs. “I’m in charge, Yoonoh, and I saw you’re slacking.”

“Fuck you.”

“Have heard that before.”

The air around him engulfs him in a way that almost makes him feel like he’s trapped. He’s out of the expensive hotel Siyeon had found in seconds, but yet, he feels like he has run a marathon. His eyes concentrate anywhere, hand coming up to his chest, his dream shattered when trying to give this company another chance—

The night whisks him in the face as he runs, not caring to grab a taxi, not minding that he feels like his life is falling down…because this is stupid. Life is so fucking ironic that he hates it. He trusts people? He ends up losing. He doesn’t trust them? They never believe him.

What’s the realest way to get a happy ending? He’ll never know.

### 

Eight hours of sleep feel marvelous once she gets them back.

Not only has she gotten to return her calls, but it doesn’t smell like baby food in her apartment and she gets to take a break from Peppa Pig. Erika had been sad when letting go of her, pressing her face to her stomach in a hug before she was off to holding onto her mother for dear life. Her paycheck came around, life was good, and this night was excellent with the bag of savory chips she had just opened.

The crunch is the only thing that can be heard, mingling with the noise of the romantic movie she is watching, tears wielding her vision and yet, she pushes them away. Tragedies are the best form of romance—when both characters have gone through so much that finding happiness in each other feels a thousand times more personal. Perfect, even. It’s a nice chance for her romantic comedy binge from earlier.

The air is interrupted when she hears someone ringing her doorbell, and that brings a frown to her features. First, she’s not waiting for anybody. Secondly, she had been crying just now. Grabbing a napkin, she taps it against her ears and waltzes over to the door to see who is standing by the door through the peephole.

And if there was a sight that could capture her breath away just as much as it could make her be excited about something, it’s this.

Yoonoh stands outside her door, with the buttons of his shirt half-opened, a peak of his shirt showing, his jacket thrown haphazardly over one forearm, and if only this peephole let her see lower, she would relish on the strength of his thighs. Confusing or not, as well as a bit annoying, one can’t deny that Yoonoh is extremely handsome. Taken out of a magazine, even.

She opens the door softly, unaware of why he is there. Today, the runway for Silhouette should be happening and yet, he’s here, at 10:45 at night, with his hair made a mess and his eyes trailing on her.

“Yoonoh,” He doesn’t stop looking at her eyes, a frown in his features. “Hi…uh…may I help you with something?”

“You’re right.” He starts, entering her house just as she moves to the side. He must be in a rush. The door closes behind her. “I try not to care about things. I don’t take relationships seriously. I’m an asshole at most times. I’m fake and boring and quite clearly, all kinds of wrong.” Well, that is a statement. She knows there is some good for Yoonoh. He’s always one call away, he’s organized, he’s given. He’s strong and rampant and fiery, in that way that have people shuddering in their spots.

“So?”

“So, yes, I’m fucking tired of being that because it doesn’t work.” He stands in front of her now, in that same hallway that had trapped them weeks ago and had managed to make her even more confused. “I just lost my job and I don’t know what the hell I am going to do with my life. I was used and—fuck!”

Her heart weights down when he admits that. “Why would you lose your job? That outfit you designed for Jungwoo is amazing…”

“Because my new boss hates me, just like you do.”

“I said I didn’t hate you.”

“Then why?” Yoonoh questions. “Why did you run away that night? What about me is so repulsive that you can’t even look my way without frowning when all I have been thinking about since that moment I saw you in the restaurant, in nice light, after getting me some clothes, is that you’re the kindest and most humble woman I have ever met and I would do my fucking best to kiss away every fucking insecurity you have about me?”

Silence comes to be awkward around them. Or, well, filled with tension. But this silence is of understanding. Yoonoh’s eyes that night, that had scanned her with such intricacy, had thought about the same things that she did. And yet, she had let it slide—because it’s easier to fear than to try, to run away than to stay.

“Because…you’re difficult, Yoonoh.” She states. “And I don’t mean it in a bad way. I just know…I know I would like you.” That makes her ego blot down the slightest. “And then, when you realize that kissing me is not enough, that waking up to me is not enough, that I won’t give you whatever interesting shit you were doing when I found you outside that house, you’ll leave…and I’m not at an age or time in my life where I want to see you leave without an explanation. I don’t.”

He finally reconnects his gaze with her eyes. “The explanation here is simple,” He conquers. “You’re beautiful. Each part of you I get to see and each part I don’t. Every bit of my imagination can only think about you, so much that everything I design is everything my mind gushes about and can only perceive on you. It’s stupid enough that…” He chuckles at his own antics, leaning his head back on the wall. “That I think about what color fits you best and I am certain it’s not the navy blue you like to use. It’s yellow, because you’re so bright it practically burns my fucking eyes. You’re so smart and given and you don’t even let me tell you that, because you’re always…pushing me away.”

“Yoonoh—” Her heart flutters at his words, but he doesn’t stop talking.

“And you’re your own kind of goddess and it drives me insane, because I was the type of dumbass that didn’t like the chase, but each and every time I hear you speak, I just want to tease you more and…” He stops for a second, finally fixing his position to look at her. “I just wanted you to know, because if I’ll never get a chance, at least I want to say I—”

Silences are what made them. It’s what she likes the most about him, when he’s silent and concentrated, when all his might goes to one thing and one thing only. She doesn’t know what overtakes her at that moment, when her lips clash against his in a dance that it’s much too passionate. She can’t keep up with whatever she wants to do, her hands hooked around his waist to mold him against the wall, his abdomen carved against hers when a groan traps itself on the back of his throat and he grabs the back of her head, taking more of her in, granting himself entrance, rubbing his lips in a tempting touch before he’s diving in for air…and she’s his oxygen.

Yoonoh’s hold is not strong, overly passionate, tumbling. In his own way, Yoonoh is delicate. It’s just when she kisses him that she realizes there is a beautiful thing to Jung Yoonoh. The delicacy he portrays in lingerie, that translate into his utter fears. The pristine glass he is when she caresses his neck with a touch of her mouth and he shudders while grasping the back of her shirt, asking to see her—to be seen.

When heartbreak happens, there is always a dot. That one finalization of a chapter in your heart that aches insufferably. Her dots connected to him, in one way or another, in the moles in his face or the way he begs to connect to her lips again when she pulls away. He’s gravity when she asks to be taken to her room in one simplistic glance and he’s smiling by the time he puts her down on the sheets.

Over all, Yoonoh is a lover of beauty, and maybe, for once in her life, she feels like art, just when he throws her shirt over her head, staring down at small portions of her body being shown before showing that dimple that she had trained herself to hate.

But who is she kidding? She didn’t hate it at all.

“…You were forbidding me of this.” He points at her body, earning laughter from her, ears heated up under his gaze. “And for that, I’ll never forgive you.”

That night, it’s not a promise of love—it’s lust mixed with something else, that fluttering feeling of having a crush, maybe, or the start of something…how he calls it…beautiful.

###

Normally, Yoonoh doesn’t text. He hooks up with someone, leaves it in the air, then moves on to working. Awakening in his lover’s bed, having breakfast with her, arguing in that way that only they know how to do—playfully, of course—and then having to see him himself off just so she can go to work, however, is completely different.

Just as he lays on his bed midway through the day, he looks at her contact. Missing her would be a statement, and it would be absolutely correct. His gut twists, not knowing exactly what to say—new and yet old in this dating thing.

Uh, can he call it that? They haven’t even gotten out on a date.

Yoonoh: We haven’t gotten out on a date.

Yoonoh: Do you want to?

She must be near the phone, because she replies quickly.

Beautiful: If I slept with you, I obviously want to go on a date with you.

Beautiful: Duh.

There is the bite that he likes, enough to bring a smile to his face before he’s biting down on his lip.

Yoonoh: You didn’t sleep with me when I was employed, wearing suits, confident and flirty. Your standards? Very low.

Beautiful: You’re complaining? Because I could not do it again.

Yoonoh: Who said I was complaining? I was trying the whole time and just when I’m a huge loser, I get the girl.

His life seems to be twisted in circles, cycles that he don’t know how to stop, but a text from her gives him hope that he’ll figure it out.

Beautiful: You’re not a loser. I don’t date losers.

Beautiful: Dinner tonight? I brought a sandwich, but that’s bland.

Yoonoh: It’s a date.

A few seconds pass by before he’s typing again.

Yoonoh: Wait, how do you have me saved in your phone?

A screenshot comes soon after, and he doubles over in laughter when he sees ‘Sugarplum (DNI)’.

###

She has forgotten how to say it, and it’s not like it’s another language, but nervousness clads her every pore just as she sits down by a table at Erika’s seventh birthday party.

Five months into this dating thing, and she doesn’t understand most of it. What she knows is that it feels great. Waking up next to Yoonoh—her place or his—, being kissed on the cheeks, on her forehead, only to be ravished by one of those kisses that he only knows how to give. To watch him grow away from his fears and create his own lingerie line, obviously with the support of his model friends that were eager to take pictures with his pieces and make do with what they have.

It’s difficult, but just as Yoonoh lowers Erika after hoisting her up in the air, always charming with her and with anyone, she doesn’t know how to say it. You know, those three words that have captured her ever since Yoonoh smiled at all her baby pictures, or when he spends some extra time in the kitchen making her favorite meal just because he feels like pampering her.

Three words that she has said before, even jokingly, and yet, she’s petrified.

The trees are tall in the backyard of Sachiko’s home, yellows and reds contrasting the feeling in her heart. It’s pure pink, just like the glow on Yoonoh’s cheeks or that set he had once sewed himself just for her, the one that he never gets enough of and still groans at. Childish music and cake should be enough to calm her down, but just as Yoonoh plops himself alongside her, resting his head on his forearm on the picnic table she’s by, all words she had practiced are lost.

How does he have that effect after five months?

“Erika loved the gift.” Even their gifts had been united. From Uncle Prince and Aunt Princess, they had written on the note. A doll that she had been screaming about months ago when they had visited her.

That word, even he is saying it. If Jung Yoonoh is capable of spitting it out, why couldn’t she—?

“You look like you’re sick.”

That makes her sigh. “Thanks. I don’t see you complaining.”

Yoonoh’s smile grows wider at that, rolling a piece of her hair in between his index finger. “I like the sick look.” He replies. “Something about the sight of a girl who wants to throw up on me. So sexy I could take you to a bathroom right now and just—”

“Yoonoh!”

“There it is, not so sick anymore. Now you’re angry.” He has his ways, she has to admit, and even when finds herself laughing when he changes that glimmer of his eyes that always gets him what he wants. “What’s with you?”

She opens her mouth, placing a piece of cake inside of it—just a little bit too big—when she says: “I love you.”

Or whatever can be understood in between a mouthful of cake.

Yoonoh quirks a perfectly styled brow. “You what?”

“I love you.” She utters out, swallowing soon after before giving him a smile. “Okay, alright, I’m done here—”

His hands gravitate to her hips before she could stand up, sitting her down on his thigh and bringing her face to his by her chin before asking, much too close and too softly for her to ever resist him. “You what?” He repeats, much more delicately, and finally, she finds the reason to stop being nervous.

Those brown eyes look from her eyes to her lips, never getting enough of her, never knowing how to battle the thoughts that show on his features. That kind of adoration she has never gotten before, and that is worth trying for.

She hides her face in his neck, breathing in his scent before spitting out: “I love you.”

It brushes against his skin, tickles him in a way that has him tightening his hold before he replies: “Sounds so good when someone means it.” And that confession is only meant for her to be understood, before he’s pressing a kiss to the crown of her head. “I love you, too.”

#jaehyun scenarios #jaehyun #nct scenarios #nct #kpop scenarios #writing #jaehyun fluff #jaehyun angst #jaehyun au #nct fluff #nct angst #nct au

[chocolate1721]

Gala

Ok, soooooooo since my first fic was well received, I decided to write another one. Hope you like it.

It was the end of the Gotham trip. The class was getting ready for the Gala that they were invited to. Marinette was standing by the hotel door in a black satin Chinese evening gown with red embroidery, black strappy heels and a black over the shoulder purse. She was wearing minimal make up and her hair was in a bun with a few loose tendrils of hair framing her face. She stood away from the others, not wanting to be anywhere near people who she thought were her friends. She wants no part of anything Lila said. “Oh yes, my Damiboo convinced his father to hold this gala for us because he won’t be here to meet you all. He is off in Achu right now. Both he and Prince Ali are in love with me so Damiboo went to challenge him for the honor to date me, or so he said.” Lila was boasting to her loyal flock. Lil was decked out in want can only be considered a prom dress. An orange bodice covered in gaudy rhinestones and glitter, with an orange skirt with scattered rhinestones on it. Her hair in her signature sausage style. It was obnoxious, and insulting as a designer. To think that, that fox is trying to gain attention by wearing a dress that is obviously not meant for this event.

“That’s amazing gurl! If anyone deserves to have to wealthy and famous guys fighting over you then it’s so you” Alya exclaimed. She was sporting an atrocious yellow-orange, floor length, sleeveless dress, with a white rhinestone sash around her waist. The fashion choices of her classmates nauseate her.

“Oh Alya, I just don’t want them fighting over me. I simply hate violence.”

“You are the sweetest person ever, gurl. Maybe I can get an interview about how the fight turns out and who can date you.”

‘Uhg they make me sick’ Marinette thought.

The chattering was interrupted by a slick, black sports car pulling up to the curb. A tall dark-haired youth stepped out of the car, walking towards Marinette with a pep in his step “hey there Angel. Ready to go?” Damian inquired.

“Wait! Marinette can’t leave the group!” Lila jumped in before Marinette could answer.

“Yeah, besides why would you want to hang out with her. She bullies Lila!” Alya interjected. Ms. Bustier hearing the commotion came over.

“Marinette, you should set a better exa-“

“I’m going to stop you there ma’am” Damian interrupted. “We got permission from both her parents, my father, and the principle who said that you would be told. Also how is she supposed to ‘set an example’ in this situation?” Leaving a flabbergasted class, Damian escorted his lovely angel to the car and took off.

They sat in comfortable silence for the entire ride there.

Once they arrive Marinette was in awe of the building. She whipped out a mini sketch book and let her ideas flow. Damian flagged down Jason to stay with her while he was greeting the guests with Dick, Tim, and his father. Hours later found him back with his angel and dancing the night away, while also keeping those classmates of hers far far away from her. It was close to midnight when his father took to the stage. He hid a smile not wanting to let Marinette know that he knew what was going on.

“I would like to get everyone’s attention. Tonight, we of the Wayne foundation, have a special surprise. We are giving an award to a person who we believe has done the most to help their community.” As Bruce was saying this Damian noticed that lying fox from his angel’s class walk up onto the stage; waving to the press.

‘Oh this will be good’ he thought.

“I just want to thank the Wayne Foundation for recognizing all of my accomplishments. My friends who have supported me through all of the tough times this past few years, and-“

“Miss please get off the stage. This award is **NOT** for you. We did our reach by personally going to Paris and finding out who they believed deserved this award. They unanimously declared Marinette Dupain-Cheng as deserving of this award.” The crowd clapped and cheered as Marinette walked up on stage to receive the medal. Lila would not have it

“Waaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhh Marinette how could you! You pushed me! Why are you so mean to me! I have done nothing but try to be your friend and you just bully me!” Lila wailed

“MARINETTE! WHY ARE YOU SUCH A BITCH! LILA HAS BEEN NOTHING BUT KIND AND THOUGHTFUL AND YOU ARE JUST TOO JEALOUS OF LILA BEING BETTER THAN YOU TO SEE THAT NO ONE LIKES YOU!” Alya shouted.

“Ms. Cesaire why do you Marinette is undeserving of this medal, and why should Ms. Rossi receive it?”

“Marinette has been bullying Lila due to jealousy since they met. She is jealous because Lila knows so many famous people and has helped a ton of charities around the world!” Alya defended.

“Can you show me proof?”

“Proof?”

“Proof of Ms. Rossi’s amazing deeds.”

“Of course, I can!” Alya said with confidence. Lila paled looking around trying to find a way out of this mess, but it was too late Alya’s face screamed confusion. Alya’s confusion quickly turned to frustration before finally becoming anger. Whipping her head towards Lila she demanded answers, “were you lying to us?”

“Of course, not Alya! How could you question me like that!”

“Because there is no PROOF of anything you said!”

Ms. Bustier not wanting to cause an even bigger scene pulled Alya and the class aside while Bruce continued with the award ceremony. “Class, Lila has a rare condition that makes her exaggerate. The school didn’t want her to have trouble making friends so it was kept quiet.” The class noticed that Marinette was walking back towards them. “Marinette you should set an example for the class and give Lila the award.” She froze.

“Excuse me? I should give MY award to Lila?”

“Yes, show the class what it means to accept Lila and not make it hard for her to have friends.”

“Ms. Bustier, I am sorry to interrupt you but that is a horrible thing to make your student do.” She turned around to face Bruce Wayne, who looked both disgusted and disappointed. “Marinette worked hard and deserves to have her work acknowledged and to have this award. Making her give another student that award is showing favoritism and flat out cruel. Another thing there is NO disease that forces people to lie. The symptoms closest point to a pathological liar. You are encouraging toxic behavior in your students.” Leaving the teacher trying to protest, he turned and walked away.

“YOU WERE LYING TO US ALL THIS TIME!!!!!!!” Alya shouted. The rest of the class ganged up on Lila yelling about promises to met famous people and lost opportunities.

“Guys, guys, yelling at Lila won’t make the situation better. You are just humiliating her and she won’t learn. Besides, it’s not like those lies hurt anyone.” Adrien defended.

Marinette shook her head and went to find Damian. “You knew about this didn’t you?” She asked once finding him near the punch bowl.

“Of course, I did angel.” Setting down his drink Damian offered her his hand. “Care to dance?”

“I would love to.” Taking his hand she danced the night away with her Robin.

#maribat #damianette #damian wayne #bruce wayne #lila rossi #lila is exposed #lila lies #hehehe #mari is acknowledged as the angel she is

[whereyoursoulresides]

Without Words II - Our Orbiting Paths, Chapter 1

Summary: In their third life, Kunzite has finally won the heart of Zoisite’s civilian reincarnation, Kozakura Izou. However, as their lives become progressively more intertwined, certain challenges begin to crop up… Between the stresses of work, adjusting to modern expectations, and old familiar faces flashing from the shadows, can Kunzite maintain a meaningful relationship with his partner successfully?

Rating: T+

Characters Featured in Fic: Kunzite, Zoisite, Nephrite, Jadeite, Naru, Umino

Chapter Summary: It's been a few months of dating now, and Kunzite thinks they're ready to take it to the next step.

AO3 Link Here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27826732/chapters/68145631#workskin

“Oh, you should’ve seen it, Kunihiro-sama,” the voice was saying over the phone. “Absolutely atrocious, I had never seen anything like it!”

“Hmn,” was all Kunzite said, albeit with a bit of a smile. He didn’t usually have much opinion on the matters of Izou’s latest gossip, but he was happy to hear Izou talk about anything at all. He took another bite of his dinner - plain white rice and grilled salmon. “And then?”

“Oh, I took myself right out of that business,” Izou continued, and Kunzite could just imagine his curls frazzedly waving in exasperation.

“It sounds like you might be out-growing that coffee shop,” was Kunzite’s observation.

Izou huffed over the phone. “Entirely possible. The staff is completely different now. Honestly, Kunihiro-sama, these new girls, sometimes their attitude is just appal- ow! ”

Kunzite quickly pushed some loose grains of rice past his lips. “Mn. Izou? Are you alright?”

There was a little hiss, and then a whine.

“Yes, I’m fine,” Izou answered. “Just a prick, that’s all.” The words came out mumbly as Kunzite could hear him suck on his finger. “Shoot, that smarts!”

Kunzite shook his head fondly. “Be careful,” he chided as he began to clean up the remnants of his dinner. He had about another five minutes of his break left. “Perhaps we shouldn’t chat if you need to concentrate...”

“Mn, oh no!” Izou insisted. The sound of the phone being adjusted to his ear cackled over the receiver. “At any rate, what time are you finishing tonight, Kunihiro-sama?”

“Late,” Kunzite answered. He glanced at the clock. “About midnight, I think.”

“Oh.” Izou sounded disappointed. “It’s been so long…”

It had perhaps only been a week since they'd last seen each other in person, but to both it had felt like an eternity. Between Kunzite’s long and odd working hours at the precinct and Izou’s equally erratic shifts at the coffee shop, it was difficult to set a real date time consistently, and every window of opportunity was never wasted. Although they chatted every night (and occasionally stumbled to work from either other’s homes), it seemed that their craving for the other’s physical presence was only growing exponentially by the day.

“I know,” Kunzite said kindly. He missed Izou too.

Izou seemed to gather up some strength. “Were you able to eat? You’ve mentioned before it’s tricky to get a meal in sometimes…”

Kunzite threw the plastic container out into the garbage under the sink.

“I managed to grab something. Although I must be hanging up soon, Izou…”

“Oh, okay,” Izou said in a rush. “Well, um, maybe I could drop by tomorrow, before my shift? I start late in the afternoon…”

Kunzite smiled. “That’d be lovely. Whatever works for you.”

“Okay.” Izou paused as though to say something pressing, but Kunzite chalked it up to their usual anxieties of never wanting to hang up. “Take care,” he finally said.

Kunzite tilted his head warmly.

“You as well. Chat soon.”

After hanging up the phone, Kunzite finished tidying up the break room and returned to his desk. In one corner stood the small rosebush that Izou had managed to resurrect. It was Kunzite’s pride and joy in the office, a perfect reminder in lieu of their photo from the Dark Kingdom. As he settled himself amongst his papers and computers, he thought briefly of how lucky he was. It was so surreal to think that this was where they - he and Izou -  were now.

In the past few months, Izou’s memories of his third life had rapidly solidified, and it had been fascinating to Kunzite to learn everything about Kozakura Izou. His parents - a concept that Kunzite was still struggling to come to terms with - lived in the countryside, on a small, modest farm. His mother was an artist, and his father was a photographer. Izou himself had moved to Tokyo at age fourteen to better his schooling and career opportunities. In between part time work and school, Izou loved to read, thrift, garden, and shop. His creativity energy would burst into little endeavours - sketches, doodles, collages - and was increasingly weaving into his sense of style and fashion. It wasn’t uncommon for Kunzite to hear a little yelp or hiss over the phone as he had earlier- followed by the endearing dismayed whine - from sewing accidents wherein Izou had stabbed himself at his fingertips. As Kunzite flipped through his briefing updates in his hands, he wondered which project Izou had been working on today, and if he would be seeing it soon.

“Saitou-san.”

Kunzite glanced up to see a younger officer leaning over the corner of his cubicle. He was holding two folders in one hand, while the other was scratching his head under his cap. Behind him, Kunzite caught a glimpse of the civilian as she left the precinct, her dark auburn hair swinging behind her.

“Yes, Kobayashi-san?”

“I just got another statement about the nondescript white van. That makes five so far.”

“No attacks?”

“None, just trailing.” Kobayashi scrunched up his nose. “It’s hard to get an idea though on where to begin. No identifiable markings, and none of the license plates line up. Still seems worth investigating.”

Kunzite’s eyes drifted to the other folder. “And the other case?”

“Mn? Oh. Just another sighting of the cargo truck with the black star. No attacks yet this week, but it’s definitely suspicious.” He looked at Kunzite sheepishly. “I guess you’ll probably want the more exciting one, huh?”

If it was one thing Kunzite knew very well, it was patterns. And he knew what would follow the cargo truck with the black star all too well.

“I’ll take the van,” he said curtly, taking the folder.

The younger officer grinned in excitement, holding the remaining case to his chest.

“Maybe this means I’ll get to meet a Sailor Senshi…!”

“I think you have much more pressing concerns than that,” Kunzite said crossly. He gestured to some of the boxes stacked up at the farthest wall of the precinct. “Why don’t you start setting those up instead.”

Flushing embarrassedly, Kobayashi straightened immediately.

“Yes sir!”

As the younger officer hurried off to set up the precinct’s newest surveillance testing program, Kunzite shook his head. Although he was the senior officer, occasionally Kunzite felt more like an unofficial mother hen than a leader. Quickly, he brushed the thought aside and returned to his paperwork with a sigh.

And when else had he felt like that before…?

---

It had been a long night. While his precinct also technically dealt with thefts, burglaries, and other emergencies, Kunzite found the public-facing aspect of his job far more draining. Although he usually could leave it to the younger officers, the fact remained that most of them still needed guidance and training, which Kunzite had to deliver. By the time he climbed his way up to the top floor of his low-rise apartment, Kunzite’s stomach was rumbling, and he was ready to hit the hay.

However, upon arriving at his door, Kunzite was greeted by a little surprise that woke him right up.

“Izou?”

The young man had been sitting by the door, shrouded in a thick winter jacket with a backpack to his side. Seeing Kunzite, he jumped to his feet. “Kunihiro-sama, welcome home!” It was the biggest grin Kunzite had seen all day.

Despite himself, Kunzite couldn’t help but reflect a slightly confused smile back. He gently laid a hand on the small of Izou’s back. “What are you doing here?” he asked. “Is everything alright?”

“Oh, yes,” Izou assured, lifting what looked like a large stack of lunch boxes wrapped in a spring green cloth. “I thought you could use something heartier so late after dinner time,” he said cheerfully. “It’s just some takeout, but…”  His cheeks glowed faintly. “But...I couldn’t wait until tomorrow.”

As Kunzite inserted his key, he had to do his best to keep from growing into a ridiculous grin. Izou was just so sweet and thoughtful.

“You really shouldn’t have,” Kunzite finally said, as the bolt unlocked. Izou glanced up uncertainty.

“Was it too forward of me?” he asked.

Kunzite finally let the fondness of his smile show, and gently nudged Izou into the door.

“Not at all.” I’ve missed you too. “Please. Come in.”

Splitting into a grin, Izou slipped off his shoes and leapt inside. As he got settled and began to unpack the food, Kunzite’s smile faded when he realized how late it truly was. One in the morning, and while his area was safer than Izou’s neighbourhood, the city could still be a very dangerous beast at this hour.

“How long were you waiting for?” he asked as he slid out of his own shoes, watching Izou for any indication of polite refrain.

“Oh, not long,” Izou answered merrily, now plating the food into bowls. He gathered up the paper and plastic and swirled around to throw them into the garbage, not noticing Kunzite’s knitting brows.

“Izou.”

The boy paused for a moment to look up at Kunzite hesitantly. “About an hour,” he answered quickly. “But I knew you might be late so I brought a book, so it’s okay, really.” He then returned to cleaning up and setting the kettle for some tea.

Kunzite glanced down at the key that was still in his hand, and made up his mind. As Izou began undoing the tea tin, Kunzite gently but protectively began to wrap his arms around the younger man’s waist, bringing him close to his chest. Izou was clearly delighted by the closeness and looked over his shoulder to shyly smile at Kunzite.

“The city can be dangerous this late at night,” Kunzite murmured quietly into Izou’s soft hair. “You should be more careful…”

Izou was obviously touched by Kunzite’s concern, and brushed it off. “I’m fine, I can take care of myself,” he insisted. He placed one of his own hands on Kunzite’s forearm. “Don’t worry.”

Of course Kunzite couldn’t help but worry, he’d been worrying about Izou even before he had met him in this life.  

“Maybe you should consider a different place to live,” Kunzite suggested. “Somewhere safer.”

Izou shrugged and began to swirl the tea leaves budding in the hot water. “Maybe once I have a little more money,” he agreed.

It took Kunzite a few moments to consider what his next words were going to be. Eventually, he pulled one arm away from Izou and placed the key, with purpose, onto the counter in Izou’s line of sight.

“I was thinking…” Kunzite mumbled softly, “that maybe you’d like to live with me.”

At first, Izou blinked at the piece of metal on the counter, not entirely sure if he was understanding, or had correctly caught what Kunzite had said. Unawares, Kunzite tightened his hug marginally, hoping that his suggestion wasn’t a step too far.

Slowly Izou turned his head around to look up at him. When Kunzite saw those big, bright and breathless eyes, he knew his fears were unfounded.

“Really?” Izou whispered, almost shyly. “You...think we’re ready for that?”

It was clear by Izou’s exhilarated whisper that he clearly was delighted to think they were, and Kunzite was definitely certain they were. Well, he was also certain because of how well he and Zoisite had lived together in the past… So, surely they were more than ready to move in together by now.

“Absolutely.”

It was clear Izou could hardly believe this turn of events, trying his best to hide the big grin Kunzite could tell was growing on his face. Finally, after rolling his bottom lip between his teeth, Izou beamed and nodded.

“Sure.”

It took nearly all of Kunzite’s willpower to not pick up Izou and swirl him around in his new home. Instead Kunzite simply broke into a smile again, followed by a short, relieved chuckle...Very quickly, the two of them were grinning and flushing together with excitement. Was this it? Were they really ready for this? It was as if both men were suppressing an armory of feeling that they were not yet ready to give words to, and giggling and laughing was the closest way they had to release the tension of mounting exhiliation that they were both trying to restrain.

“I’ll help you move in, the next time you’re free,” Kunzite said earnestly, seeing that he wasn’t alone in wanting to live together as soon as possible.

“I don’t have much stuff,” Izou replied, who couldn’t stop grinning behind his hands. “Although...I don’t have much money for my share of rent...”

“You don’t have to worry about any of that,” Kunzite reassured immediately. “I’ll take care of everything.”

Izou’s eyebrows stitched up together. “But...what about food?” He glanced around. “Utilities…”

“I’ll take care of everything,” Kunzite repeated again, firmly but gently. “I want to share my home with you. I want it to be our home. I’ll get everything ready.”

It was clear Izou couldn’t believe his luck. He was practically dancing into Kunzite’s arms when suddenly realization flickered across his face. Kunzite caught it instantly and his smile disappeared. “What is it?”

Izou didn’t say anything, but green eyes darted over to the bathroom. There was a moment of silence as both of them realized what Izou had just remembered... and Kunzite suddenly felt a bit awkward and unprepared.

“It’s okay,” he insisted, although he knew the memory of it wasn’t exactly pleasant. “Everything’s  been removed, I promise.”

Hesitantly Izou glanced up at Kunzite, and it was clear how conflicted he felt about the situation.

“It’s empty,” Kunzite insisted again. “You can fill it with your things when you move in. Izou’s things.”

This seemed to make Izou feel a bit better, and the smile slowly resurfaced back up a bit. “Well it’s...not like I didn’t like the stuff ,” he mumbled a bit. “I mean, I did like that stuff and I still do like it but...it was just a bit weird seeing it all there ready for you, you know?”

“I understand.” Kunzite gently gave Izou a bit of squeeze.

“Did you really throw it all out though?” Izou asked. “It would’ve been a waste...I suppose I wouldn’t mind using it if you still have it.”

At that, Kunzite paused. He had gotten rid of it from the bathroom, but hadn’t actually thrown the items out…

Izou looked up curiously. “Kunihiro-sama?”

“Truthfully?” Kunzite asked.

“Truthfully,” Izou answered, but the smile on his face gave away that he was going to be okay with whatever Kunzite answered.

“Don’t look in the closet.”

Despite himself, Izou couldn’t help but giggle, and Kunzite’s shoulders released with relief. As Izou tried to hide his laughter behind his hand, Kunzite glanced up at the clock and saw how even later it was getting.

“Let’s eat.” He slowly undid his arms around Izou and lightly grazed Izou’s cheek as he pulled away. “I’ll undress and we’ll have supper.”

“Wait.” Izou took a step forward and placed his hand on Kunztie’s chest to stop him. There was a moment, and Izou’s eyes slowly trailed up from the bottom of Kunzite’s uniform, from its hem to his belt, to finally his eyes. “...Keep them on?”

Kunzite could tell that look anywhere and, hiding a smirk, he obliged. Gathering the food from the counter, the two of them made their way over to the couch to settle in for some cozy dinner. As Izou made himself comfortable nestling in Kunzite’s arms as they flicked the television on, Kunzite couldn't help but relish this humble but incredible moment between them.

Zoisite was finally home.

#anyo writes #without words 2 #our orbiting paths #chapter 2 #kunzoi #kunzite x zoisite #fanfiction #Civilian Life #Third Life

[thunder-the-ranger-wolf]

On (Not) Wooing Steve Rogers

@aurumacadicus

Happy birthday, Owl! Hope you like the fic!

Summary: Stony No Powers College AU where Steve is definitely pining over his best friend who is a genius. They go to MIT for different reasons and Rhodey is sick of their shenanigans so he sets them up on a dinner date and he and Carol laugh from across the restaurant as they watch the boys stutter their way through a good time. Turns out, Tony thinks he's hot as hell and "was going to ask him out anyway, thanks, Rhodey! I guess."

Steve

Steve couldn’t stop looking at him. He moved fast and he talked faster. Every other word out of his mouth sounded like a foreign language that everyone in this class could understand except for Steve. He belonged on this track. He deserved to be in this class. But… maybe he’d bit off more than he could chew, coming into a two-hundred-level class and expecting it to make sense. It was on his track sheet, and no one said anything about prerequisites. In fact, when he’d talked to his advisor the older man had waved him off and allowed him into the class. On the request that they meet twice a week to make sure Steve was keeping up with the class. He was lucky that Erskine was so hands-on, but that probably had something to do with the program he was in. An Architecture student who put the art in the architecture, this stuff was going right over his head.

But his classmates were just fine with it, apparently. And so was the boy a few seats in front of him who broke into the teacher’s lecture every five minutes to correct him. Some people were a bit annoyed with the guy, who looked to be around Steve’s age, but he definitely knew what he was doing. He managed to shut them up with each question they asked until they could no longer catch him off-guard and stopped trying after a bit.

Steve was lost by his conversation with the professor and just as lost in the boy’s eyes, one chocolate brown and the other crystal blue. He didn’t even know that type of heterochromia was possible in nature, but it looked right at home on this boy. Steve spent the rest of the lecture sketching the boy’s face and writing down every other word he said. He’d look some of it up later. He needed something to bring to Erskine.

Rhodey

Four classes.

The poor kid beside him was in over his head, a freshman to his junior and Tony’s sophomore. Granted, the only reason Tony was allowed to be a sophomore is that he was a bonafide genius. Well, enough of one to skip most of the early-level classwork required of his degree track.

This kid, on the other hand, needed every single one of them.

And maybe a few others, like how to stop staring hopelessly at the genius boy who is so hopelessly out of your league.

At least this one was Tony’s age. Fucking leeches tried to get the boy for all he had, but this kid was one of the art-types that were attracted to the prestige of the school without really knowing what went into it.

Poor kid.

But four classes of this kid practically drooling over his little shit of a brother would not stand. The kid should ship up and ask a question or just plain ship out because he wouldn’t get anywhere doing this.

Eight classes and the kid… wasn’t hopeless, at least.

“You’ve actually managed to learn something.” Rhodes snorted when the teacher called for a twenty-minute break. This thing was three hours long, as a once-a-week class, but damn if they didn’t deserve every second of that break.

“Excuse me?”

“You’re not.” Rhodey snorted, amused. “But at least you’re getting something out of this class, even if it is a little eye-candy.”

“Eye-can-? No!” The boy yelped. “No, it’s not like that at all.”

“So the notebook full of sketches surrounded by random words are supposed to be invisible, got it.”

“Well it’s my stuff, so yeah!” The guy snapped defensively.

“Fair point. What’s your name, kid?”

“We’re all adults here, aren’t we?” The kid asked coldly.

Fair enough.

“Barely.” Rhodey snorts. “Seriously though, you’re what, nineteen?”

The stunned look on the boy’s face told him he was right.

“So’s Tony.” Rhodes offered.

Another look, confused this time.

“Tony Stark is the kid who keeps interrupting the professor to half-way teach the class. The one whose likeness is plastered all over your notebook. You’re in luck, kid.”

“What?”

“He’d probably be willing to tutor you on this stuff. Hell, he’s tutor half the class, if they let him. He’s a total pushover if you know how to ask.”

“How do you ask?”

“Ah, for you… just sit there and look stunned like you usually do, only make sure he can see it. And maybe show him that notebook. He’d stick around for the whole year if you did that.” Rhodes snickered.

The kid shot him a look that, if he was reading this right, bordered on protective.

Oh, this would be way too easy.

“Just because he’s a good person-.”

“Doesn’t mean he’ll help you? Sure it does, he’s a sucker for lost causes. He keeps making them every other day.”

“What?”

“Ah, I guess you’d have to see it to know what I’m talking about. Not that you’ll be getting that far. He builds robots with newborn AIs that he keeps trying to teach. It’s the funniest thing in the world because they’re so cute but so helpless at the same time.”

The kid was interested now, but the break was over.

“Ask him a question or two about the homework late on. If you can understand any of the words on the page, Tony’s got you the rest of the way. Just prove that you’re not a lost cause.”

“I’m not a lost cause.” The kid muttered. “I’m not.”

“Good luck, painter-boy. These engineers will eat you alive.”

Later on

“Don’t you think that show of yours was a little much?” Carol asked as they walked to Boca Grande. Rhodey wasn’t really in the mood for Mexican but he wasn’t sure he was in the mood for much of anything. Art Kid’s dilemma was weighing on him now.

“Well, if I want anything to get through that thick head of his-.”

“Okay, now you’re projecting. James, look at me.” Carol stopped him and Rhodes turned to face the girlfriend he’d pined so hard for just for her to turn around and act like they’d been going out the entire time. “They will be fine. People can get their own dates without their annoying older brothers interfering. You’ve known that kid since he was, like, ten, so I’ll let you off easy here, but he’s finally got someone his age interested in him. Why not let him have a little fun?”

“Because he’s completely oblivious to genuine affection,” Rhodey informed her as if it was something he’d practiced every day in front of the mirror. “Just trust me on this one, if Art Kid doesn’t make the first move then nothing will ever come of this.”

“Fifty bucks says you’re wrong.” Carol insisted. “Give it a month. Don’t interfere. If Art Kid doesn’t make a move then Tony will.”

“God, not another four classes.” Rhodes groaned. “Fine. Whatever. I guess I can stand to lose fifty bucks if the kid shapes up.”

 Steve

Steve did not shape up. He couldn’t help himself. There was no way in hell that guy was talking sense, especially since the guy was right and he didn’t really belong here. What was he doing, anyway? There’s still three-fourths of the semester left, he should go to Erskine and quit while he’s ahead.

The genius boy, Tony, has a mole under his left eye, the blue one. Not the only blemish on his tanned skin, but the most prominent. This guy’s acne stage really did nothing to him, if he even had one.

“Hey, do you know the answer to number three from the homework?” A blonde girl with mischievous green eyes leaned across the aisle and whispered to him. Steve shook his head. It was a multiple-choice question and he’d likely gotten it wrong. God forbid they write a paper anytime soon. He really is in over his head.

“C’mon, we’re almost halfway through the semester, you had to have gotten something right.”

“Fat chance.” Steve groaned.

Besides, even if he did know the answer, he didn’t like where this talk was heading. She might have taken a few tips from the guy next to him on how to look down on helpless fuckers like Steve.

The blond artist shook his head.

“I know it’s at least supposed to resemble an arch, but not how wide, so there’s that.” He groused.

“See? You’re not totally hopeless. You should see what Tony has to say about your homework.”

Steve groaned and buried his head in his arms. So she was in league with the guy who sat next to him.

“I’d rather not.” He informed her acidly.

“What? He’s a good tutor. You see how he gets up there and basically hogs the conversation, the kid knows what he’s talking about.”

“If he’s my age then he’s not a kid!” Steve snapped.

“Sure, sure.” The green-eyed blonde snorted, amused. “My name’s Carol, in case you’re trying to figure out what the hell is going on here. I had money on your actually doing something about your crush over these past eight weeks, but Rhodey was right. Ah, well, goodbye fifty bucks.” She sighed. Her friend, Rhodey, he guessed, snorted.

“Told you the kid wouldn’t know a crush if it hit him in the face.” Rhodey yawned. “Look, kid, Steve. Look, Steve, just ask him a question about the homework, talk a bit about it, play it off like you don’t understand, and slide into ‘talk about it over dinner?’”

“I really don’t understand, though.”

“All’s the better for it, Tony hates posers. Which you’re not. You’re an architecture student, and that takes a lot of engineering, but it also takes a lot of art and angles and knowing what looks good where. There’s a reason you’re here, after all.”

Right.

Steve didn’t know what to do with this, but the least he could do was try.

 “So, the word around class is you’re hopeless.”

He knew that voice. It was the same one he heard every day trying to figure out what the hell the teacher thought he was doing, teaching like this?!

And it shouldn’t be walking him to one of his art classes.

“What’s it to you?” Steve grumbled. Apparently, Rhodey spread tales of his imminent demise at the hands of failure.

“I just so happen to be a tutor, and your grades are projected to be atrocious. Lucky you, everything is technically due at the end of the year, so if you want, I could help you get up to snuff.”

“Uh, sure?” Steve choked out. “Yes, absolutely! I need to pass this class.”

You’re damn right, you do.” Tony chirped. “Which is why I’ve humbly offered my services. See you, next class, we’ll work out a schedule after that.”

The shorter boy breezed off and Steve found himself doing a very good job of watching him go.

“You gonna get to class anytime soon?” Another familiar voice snarked.

“Hello, Carol. What’re you doing in the art building?”

“I have a few classes here, Stevie-boy. And man, am I glass I do. Looks like Tony decided to take things into his own hands.”

“Looks like he did.” Steve snorted. “He called me hopeless.”

“Oh, that’s a great sign! He loves hopeless. Means he can impress you with bullshit. He’s not going to, of course.” She snorted when she noticed to look on his face. “He needs you to pass that class. This is good! You might get a date out of him yet.”

Steve scoffed at that one. Now she was just yanking his chain.

“Yeah, I just might.”

Rhodes

“We’re going on a date.” Carol announced.

“I thought I was choosing the next three dates.” Rhodes objected. “That was the deal we made for the bet.”

“You are, which will work out in everyone’s favor because you know Tony best. Where does he like to eat?”

“Oh, this. You’re lucky I’ve already thought this out because Steve is-.”

“Not as hopeless as we thought. And neither is Tony. We just have to drop hints that their first study session should be somewhere with food, somewhere Tony likes and will want to keep going because your boy rocked up to his crush in the hallway and offered to be his tutor.”

“Yes!” Rhodey threw his hands in the air. “Thank God, we are one step closer. They might get together before the end of the year!”

“So, Tony, what’d you have in mind for tutoring Steve?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know, flyboy.”

“Yeah yeah, I don’t know why you think that’s still funny. Anyway, I’m asking because he likes your rambling but he hasn’t gotten anything done since the start of class so you might have to take it slow, y’know, ease him into all this, maybe get some food every few sessions, the usual.”

“I know how to handle dummies, Rhodey, and contrary to popular belief, Steve Rogers is no dummy.”

“Really?” Rhodes crowed, interested. “And just how do you know that, Shrimp?”

“Fuck off, Rhodey, have you seen the curves that boy draws? No way he’s as hopeless as you and Carol think, he’s got to have something between the ears.”

“An artists’ mind, sure.”

“Well, artists have to use the same tools we do, for some projects, just on a smaller scale. If anyone can get Steve Rogers to pass this mind-numbing class, it’s me.”

“Atta boy, Tony. Go get your guy. He looks like he’s lost on campus as well.”

Tony coughed a laugh at that and stuck his tongue out at his friend.

“Next time I see that tongue, it better be down Rogers’ throat!”

“It will be, fuck you very much!”

Steve

Steve had no idea where he was going to find Tony, but at least this looked like a place he would want to be.

“You made it!” Tony crowed. “This is my favorite spot, y’know. They have the best burritos. Chipotle-sized but a million times better. You want to order something and then we can get started?”

“Sure, yeah.”

Steve stuttered through his order, a chicken-pineapple enchilada with green chile sauce and a Sprite. Tony made him look smooth by comparison because he couldn’t decide if he wanted an enchilada, a tamale, or a burrito. The waitress grinned and said, “I’ll put you down for your usual.” before going back to the kitchen.

“Yeah, that was probably a good idea,” Tony grumbled. “Now, show me some vocab skills, what’s up with your notebook?”

 Tony kept taking him to random places to eat every Thursday. This time, he asked if they could go to a bar. Irish pub, technically. He knew it wouldn’t be anything like the stuff his mother called dinner but it’d be close enough. Indeed, the Black Rose did not disappoint. Or at least it was about what he expected. They got carded but as long as they stayed away from the bar, the bouncer wouldn’t say anything. Steve wasn’t in the mood for alcohol anyway. Steve got bangers and mash and Tony asked for a chicken pot pie. Steve wondered if they were made fresh. His mother loved chicken pot pie but he couldn’t get past the slimy feeling.

The fast-paced atmosphere fir the mood for the night because Tony was quizzing Steve for the upcoming test. Some of it would be multiple choice but this time there would be diagrams, so Steve would actually have to know what he’s doing. He does, surprisingly enough. Tony’s study sessions have really helped, and Steve’s even been able to get through the lectures with more coherent notes.

This was proved when he saw his grades online.

“I got a C on the test!” He exclaimed.

“That’s great, Steve, it’s two in the morning. Go the fuck to sleep.”

“Sam, Sam, you don’t get it, this one engineering class has been driving me batshit and I finally proved I belong in the class!”

“I’ll probably freak out tomorrow but I just came back from a long shift so if you could-.”

“Oh, yeah. Definitely. Gnight, Sam.”

His roommate yawned and nodded off pretty quickly.

Six hours later, he heard “wait a minute, that one class with the boy you’ve been drooling over who tutored you? That class?!”

“Yep.” Steve yawned. He never understood how Sam Wilson could be such a morning person on maybe six hours of sleep.

“Hey, that’s amazing! Everyone says that class is stupid hard to follow if you don’t already know what the kid up front is talking about and half the time people have to stay behind and ask him to break stuff down.”

“Wait, what?”

“Well yeah, it’s a junior-level class, Steve, what were you expecting?”

“I… not that. I thought it was just me.”

“Aw, Steve… look, find the guy who was tutoring you. He’ll know what I’m talking about. You should be extra proud of that C, too. Means you can get all your homework done before the year is out.”

“Yeah, yeah…” Steve muttered. He should probably have asked Erskine more questions before he went along with this class.

 “You got a C? On that last test? Steve, that’s brilliant!”

Even Rhodes was congratulating him. This felt… strange.

“No, seriously, that last test was not easy. And you actually got some of the questions that everyone missed, even Carol and I. Those study dates are paying off.”

“Yeah, I guess they are.” Steve mumbled.

If this was how Rhodes was reacting, he wondered how hyper Tony would be.

 “I have succeeded!” Tony crowed for damn near the entire building to hear. “And clearly so have you. Lemme at that test of yours, I need to see every-. Fuck yeah, it’s a High C, too! You passed, Steve! This is the second major test of the class and you passed enough to make up for the first one! That, plus all the homework you turned in. You should come out relatively unscathed. And if you play your cards right, with a B.”

“That might be pushing it.”

“Oh no, trust me on this one. You’ve been trusting me on everything else. So, where do you want to go?”

“Go? What for?”

“To celebrate! This is an accomplishment, Steve, this class is hard enough for the best Architecture students. They just dumped you in here, no prerequisites or anything, and expect you to pass with flying colors? But you have, and that’s great!”

“You seem to have no trouble with any of the coursework.”

“Well, that’s because I’m a literal genius, Stevie. Joined Mensa and everything.”

“Huh.” Several things clicked into place and he nodded. “Okay. Well, we keep going out for study sessions so why not stay in this time? Watch a movie or something? We could order pizza or something.”

“You mean you’re not sick of pizza?” Tony cackled. “But yeah, let’s do that. Want anyone else to be there?”

“I mean, we both have roommates, so whoever’s place we go back to, someone’ll be there. Did you not want them to be?”

“Wow, you’re dense. I thought Rhodey was joking, but nope, you’re dense.”

“Hey, you can’t take back your-!”

Tony rolled his eyes and yanked Steve down to his eye-level. Before Steve could say anything else, their lips met.

The kiss was brief and Steve had to lick his lips twice after that.

“You need chapstick.” He blurted out.

“Yeah, yeah,” Tony grumbled. “Totally not the point, but whatever. We’ve been going out for literal weeks, Steve.”

“Oh. Shit.”

“Yep.”

“Cool.”

“So we’re good?”

“We’re great!”

“Do you still want our roommates to be there for movie night?”

“Nah, Sam’ll be annoying if I get you to kiss me again. But we’re still ordering pizza.”

“All the cheese your heart desires.” Tony drawled. “And I still wanna see what’s in that notebook of yours.”

#marvel #steve rogers #tony stark #james rhodes #carol danvers #sam wilson #marvel no powers college au #on not wooing steve rogers #thunder attempts to write #thunder's comic books and movies collection #thunder's original post collection

[ionica01]

This is out of blue but... “You’re my roommate who’s super cute and it’s the middle of the night and you’re cramming for your exams in your flannel pajamas and disheveled hair and it’s becoming increasingly hard for me not to kiss you” AU. Izuocha\Karmanami please?

Hey Adi! It’s been so long:) This was my IzuOcha week contribution for day 4: Domestic! You always give me the best prompts and ideas, hehe~!! I hope you enjoy!

People have vastly different ways of dealing with crushes. Most of them have some sort of crisis, phone their best friends and drive them insane with increasingly absurd poetic descriptions of how cute the object of their affection is, finding new metaphors for love as if, unless put into words, the feeling isn’t real. Others bottle it all up, stealing glances at the person they hold special feelings for, as if that will provide a model for them to paint over, a sketch on the otherwise blank canvas of their life, the start of an enriching work of art. For some, it’s just instinct, as if they’re touch-starved and they need to fulfill some animalistic urge.

Izuku, of course, knows all of this, because he has extensively studied how people deal with crushes ever since he realized he didn’t miraculously catch a cold every time he thought his roommate was cute. It’s also by overanalyzing all this data that he realized his way of coping with crushes is overanalyzing all the data.

This is the thought process that Midoriya Izuku has followed to reach the predicament he is in, and why, he discovers, studying with Uraraka is highly distracting. Because, if there is one thing all crushes have in common, is that the presence of said crush is the holiest blessing and cruelest curse at the same time, mocking all paradoxes known to mankind.

He tries - he really does - to be neither in the stealing glances category, nor in the poetic descriptions one. Unlike everything else Izuku has succeeded in, hard work fails him miserably this time around.

It’s not his fault that he’s already done with his assignment for All Might and that the light in the living room falls just so, the soft glow teasing Uraraka’s tousled hair and the loose threads of her flannel pajama, at least one size too big and definitely unironed. Her focused face is shaped as a pout, her teeth gingerly grazing the ends of her pencil as she taps her fingers to the desk and furrows her brow. It’s not his fault, but he isn’t innocent either, because it’s all Izuku can do not to lean over and poke the imperfect crease that makes her perfect.

Her sigh stirs him out of his contemplative state as she bangs her forehead against the table, raising her hands in defeat. Izuku allows a laughter to bubble out of him, even though it attracts a heavy “Ughhh” from his friend.

“Stop laughing!” she sulks, weakly throwing a pencil in his direction. Izuku dodges, eliciting another groan from Uraraka, who repeatedly slams her forehead against her notebook, as if urging the physics formulas to enter her brain and stay there.

“I have never been defeated by physical laws in real life, so why must theory take its revenge on me?” she groans, her lower lip jutting into an illegally adorable pout, one that Izuku tries his hardest to pretend he hasn’t seen, because it’s doing atrocious things to his heart. Treacherous thing, these feelings blooming inside him faster than weeds that bleed into perfectly planned gardens.

In an attempt to shift his focus from the thrumming beats of his heart, echoing loudly and clearly in his ears, he leans over her notebook and asks, “Magnetism?”

“Electrons are small, so why are they such a big headache?” she dramatically sighs, flapping her arms around her before eventually slumping on the carpet.

If theoretical physics is toying with Uraraka, then real life physics is poking fun at Izuku, because her oversized shirt isn’t supposed to ride over the edge of her pants and reveal a strip of her smooth skin, nor is her exhausting face presumed to be so endearing, the eyebags bringing out the sparks in her eyes and her pale face looking like porcelain in the light of her desk lamp.

Izuku gulps and tries to focus on the words formed by her lips instead of the way they move, trying to process the meaning of what she’s saying instead of wondering what it would feel like to press his mouth to hers, to taste the oily fries they had for dinner, because they live up to the broke student legend and have midnight McDonald’s happy meals to keep them going during the exams.

To refrain himself, Izuku discovers that reciting all of the hormones that cause him to feel such physical attraction does the trick, and he offers her a hand to pull her up. “Tell you what,” he says as she bats his arm away dramatically. “You make it through this theory paragraph and I’ll pay for lunch tomorrow.”

She bolts back to a sitting position, eyes glimmering with the promise of an actual meal - for free. “You mean that?”

Izuku nods, biting the inside of his cheek to keep himself from smiling at the delighted look on her face, the look that makes his heart thump faster than it should. “Deal!” she says, picking up the pen with newfound determination.

Uraraka has no idea what her puffed out cheeks and sudden “aha” moments that light up her face and made her hair bob along with her nods do to Izuku, no clue how his eyes drift from the page of his English assignment to her nimble fingers tapping the spine of her book, no hint that his mind is running through scenarios of how this evening could unfold, scenarios he has to shut down before they get too far.

He’s always been focused on the goal in front of him, but lately, he’s been wondering what it would feel like to make Uraraka part of that goal. She’s been his best friend since high school, yet somewhere along the line, his attachment to her morphed into something that scares Izuku, a feeling so strong it’s choking him and threatening to push him over the line painted by an invisible hand between them.

When she looks up from her notebook with uncontained glee an hour later and gives him an uninhibited grin, however, caution is thrown to hell. Izuku can’t bring himself to recite all the hormones again, neither does he seem to see the line he’s crossing at 100 kmph. All he sees is his hand, raising to her face to tuck the unruly hair behind her ear, but it doesn’t feel like it’s attached to his body.

The word, “DONE~” dies on her lips as her lips as her eyes widen, and a blanket of crimson coats her childish features. Maybe Izuku should have asked her, but it’s too late now, and he closes his eyes before pushing the accelerator pedal and crashing his lips into hers.

It’s really clumsy, and he finds himself wishing he had read more extensively on what do do with a crush instead of crushes themselves. He has twenty seconds before the adrenaline will leave his system, and he uses his time to run his hand through the knots in Uraraka’s hair, to breathe in the mango scented soap she uses and the strawberry chapstick that engulfs the faint oily aftertaste of fries, and to faintly hear her dropping her pen.

Her hands clutch around his shirt before he can pull back sheepishly, and her lips suddenly move against his with urgency. She’s even clumsier than him, bumping their noses and foreheads more than once, and drawing away with crimson stained cheeks and short of breath, but her earnest chocolate eyes stare into his with a sense of awe and wonder.

“Uhm,” he tries, suddenly unsure what one is to say after having kissed one’s best friend without any warning. Words weren’t created for the predicament Izuku is in, and he finds himself retracting his hand from her hair to scratch the side of his cheek, and feel it burning. He lacks data on this pivotal moment, and realized how poorly constructed his attack plan was.

“Waw,” Uraraka manages, more eloquent than him. “I-”

“I’m sorry!” Izuku suddenly blurts. She blinks at him blankly, and he elaborates, “I don’t know what came over me, and I shouldn’t have-” he cuts himself off, because that’s not what he actually means. “I should have asked you before.”

Uraraka seems mildly amused with his rambles and asks in her teasing voice, “And if I had said no?”

Izuku holds her gaze evenly, finding a challenge to be honest in her eyes. “I don’t really know. I would be heartbroken, but I would have respected your decision. Is it a no, though?”

“No, it’s not,” she admits with a shake of her head.

“Is it a yes?” he asks with a small smile.

Uraraka’s face breaks into a lopsided smile and she closes in the distance between them, humming in approval as she presses her lips onto his, this time slower, silencing the ticking of the clock on the wall as they explore the vastness of this new form of them together.

It’s new, and it opens an endless trail of questions in Izuku’s mind, new territory to analyze and map, but mostly, it makes him realize this is more than a crush, because with Uraraka running her hands through his hair, just as messy as his, and with his hands on her waist, Izuku find himself falling.

And it’s the best feeling in the world.

#izuochaweek #izuochaweek2018 #izuocha #izuku midoriya #ochako uraraka #loveable dorks being dorks #day 4 #domestic #kind of

[theliterateape]

Call Thru The Metal

By Dana Jerman

The following fiction was written as a stylistic response to the novel Nightwood penned by Djuna Barnes in 1935.

THE LONELY LANDLORD LIVED ON A LUCIOUS AVENUE, but in his queer heart he was prone to jealousies. It was why his marriage had not worked. It was a struggle-and-compromise formation.

And the perfect tree-lined way glittered on day after elysium-colored day. These grasping feelings came from the notion that time was constantly playing gentle tricks on his then-benign intensities and dispositions. Perhaps too some issue came in the form of no frugality in the information he chose to gather, which leads one to feel embarrassingly overwhelmed and nearly completely impenetrable to jokes and jocularities. His wife was prone to effete witticisms. They were, the pair, hopelessly incompatible.

So there was the existence of an early love letter she had written about the scenes and trials of their courtship. It lay open on a side table in the library. It was not a thing that had been opened in a long while, and the Landlord did not know how it got there, but there it was all the same.

“And I have the memory of you coming over in a taxi. So late, to make love to me while a storm raged outside. And some of my favorite music played, which became your favorite. But then you had to go—so you went. Back into another taxi to a bed without me in it. Me to a bed without you, or your hard and yearning kiss.”

Events of this sort had been reoccurring in a harmlessly slight and insidious fashion for longer than he could remember. In the life of the Landlord, there were many a “Darling, I simply don’t know” and they had to be enough. They formed a sheen around his anger, but not an impermeable one. He could rise to meet the occasion of this emotional challenge with his perceptive attentions. But his body had other more nervous and mischievous ideas for the analysis and relief of the aforementioned psychic blocks.

✶

“I PICK THE HILLS,” She had said before leaving. And to think for even a moment she had been happy in a way he could not try or did not wish to steal away. She simply could not seem to wear anything humorous.

“My taste is displeased.” He had uttered thoughtlessly one day as she was dressing. He wanted to take the statement back almost immediately. When the flash of her eyes grew dark and brave he then lost all chance at redemption.

And how closely one factor predicts another in a side-shot look. This is the endless-father correlation. The thin-sliced experiment of his smile he counts as service. Daddy is a title that means all-judgement-no-forgiveness. The one chance at intimacy ruined by absence: Away on natural life for the stabbing death of his wife. Not the landlord’s mother however, that woman is also dead. But no one ever found her body…

Oh wives and their legends, Papa would say. Here was the astounding paradoxical implicit association test of a man who went to Yale then on well-directly to replace beerkeg compression units. Meanwhile collecting remote controls and antiquated batteries and used to run a street sweeper between jobs.

Somehow the glistening ignorant city left him as impotent as a bug.

He employed murder to match the white cross-dresser’s work in the dancehall. Completing the gaudy poem of their oozing hips. Caustic gains in worths of the ill-described are thus: A moaning laugh. Cough. Someone loses a shoe in the park. No one drowns but a few get wet. One pukes when he finds the homicide.

And the tendril is the spark is the stem creeping a creep ominous and slow from the poisonous spotted orchid named malice. The tendril of disease sprawled to clutch at the softest tissue of the closest one.

Ah—it is how the small learn from those whose blood fates bloom large in their own.

✶

THE LANDLORD’S WIFE. Now Ex-wife. She had two sisters.

She was one of a set of identical triplets. They were prized for the very product of their existence. Their mother was an heiress. Their father was a writer of much loved novels. The first time the Landlord saw his Ex-wife’s sisters was in a family portrait. He came very suddenly down with an atrocious case of basorexia. He swelled with guile from a sinister prospect.

If you had inquired of the Ex-wife to describe her landlord, she might see fit to call him a filthy Pan. Evil-grinning satyr who cares for no one. Immune to certain sensational transferences in the name of a push-button sex drive and the will to kill.

She would say something cryptic like “his best sketches were done in the hospital.” And it would mean bits. Any creative impulse he grasped or even momentarily exercised were masturbatory self-portraits in cum. Or they were the exorcism of insulting passes as the female staff on days when he was most warmed over with pain and injections. (The Landlord was pre-diabetic and had dirty kidneys as well as a predisposition to gout.)

The Ex-wife would say this only after she was slain at his hand, however, because she had deemed him previously to be too soft. Too much infused of a guilty-staring complex to be capable of such a thing.

But those nights alone while the landlord sucked treatments from fluid bags into his veins, they became projections to live over and over. She was like an already dead soul, keen and trenchant in the quiet under an authentic moon. She entreated the afterlife for its embrace. Summum bonum by the Bete Noire. She held the hands of her neverborn children and heard their whispers reveal projections of the adaptive unconscious. “You are very brave to be here,” They said. Confirming all stratospheric transferences with the long, direct looks from their dark levels of brow and eyes. She knew her sisters were in danger then, but not how or why.

Alas, defamation carried in the mind does no great good to anyone beyond. Verbalized estimations, however inane, to one and from one who consider themselves to be in possession of their better faculties ought to be shared.

✶

THE EX-WIFE WAS NOT BURIED IN THE LOAMY SWAMP at the back of the local zoo for a full day when the landlord, kept out in the park to think, ran into the second sister and her husband.

They inquired eagerly after his person and their own blood kin whom he claimed was home with pneumonia and recovering with a lot of sleeping. Assuaging them tho’ he could barely keep the glee from his voice. A glee saturated with new reason. For now, the life worth living the most for the Landlord was not without murder.

And seeing his Ex-wife’s twin strolling with her beau, he could picture her sweet face in its revelatory convulsions brought on my masturbating with her favorite ivory handled letter opener. Bone-shaped handle down as the business end, of course. Here another Ex-wife shape who probably championed very similarly in the morbid throes of enacted lust. And here she was accompanied by a man whose shirt matched her dress. Seriously.

“His shirt matched her dress,” he said aloud to himself as he passed, taken up suddenly with the true and profound absurdity of life as if he was in a whole-lie-wood film. No gunspinner of the wild west here. Just the primed experiment of an officious wheedling coward. Passing poorly along his doomed life like a preened rat who cannot find its way beyond the wine cellar.

And so it was under the guise of a brief and barely meditated gathering of the remaining two sisters at the Landlords behest and exquisite dwelling place. Alerted to the notion that his wife had gone missing from within a sick delirium.

The sisters had made the mistake of coming alone. As soon as they had gathered near to the fireside and taken up the miniature snifters of cognac from the hands of their host, it was then in a few abrupt slightly ridiculous curving motions their throats were slashed and eyes punctured by two separate antique steak knives that were pretty much lying around the back of a kitchen drawer not being used at all.

Not much later, he had no trouble surrendering to the man whose shirt had so perfectly matched the dress.

#comment #antique literature #wartime fashion #murder #unchecked rage #triple homicide #syntax and style #dark expression #hopeless killer #bombastic romance

[jenniferstolzer]

Buffy season 1 disk 2

ep 5 Never Kill a Boy on the First Date

this is the second vampire in the show that looks like Trakis

Wait you came here for Buffy not B5 references? So sorry they aren’t stopping.

Buffy’s hot for mysterious poetry boy in the library. It’s a cute scene of her showing some vulnerability. Then she ends by asking Giles if her dress makes her look fat. Fat girls are gross you guys. Girls should always be worried about if they’re fat. Boys don’t like chunks man, especially when they’ve got 0 body fat. No Im not going to stop, it pisses me off. Get back to the vampires. 

Holy shit Xander “for kissing you and telling the school how easy you are.” Buzz off bro. I’m staggered. 

Willow was worried about Giles, which she had reason to be b/c now he’s locked in a bathroom. 

Angel is pretty much Tuxedo Mask. He arrives as sexy as possible, says little, helps not at all, leaves mysteriously.

omg take Owen to the funeral home. He’s so excited. You can leave him by the coffin displays and he’ll be occupied for hours trying them all on for size.

I like action Giles even if he’s really bad at it. And.... knocked unconscious! He’s def gonna be my fave. 

Oh come on, buff vampire, you jumped right into that incinerator, that was so easily avoided. 

Owen is an adrenaline junkie and only wants to date Buffy b/c nearly got him killed. And he reads Emily Dickenson. Maybe he should see the councilor from the last episode. 

I’m glad Watcher is not a gender specific job like Slayer. Also Giles wanted to be a fighter pilot. And he’s such a good dad. and Buffy is worried about getting him hurt. Omg I’ve found my platonic duo. The show has officially nabbed me. 

6 The Pack

There are were-hyenas in this. I’m in. 

“You haven’t had a crush lately?” “No, not lately.” Buffy... it was last episode. Also Angel is way too old for Buffy, even not being a vampire. 

I’m not going to point out every time a fat joke gets made. Just assume there’s at least one per episode.

I love Herbert. And the principle. I like them both :) 

Xander’s moodier than usual. They have to work really hard to show that b/c he’s moody all the time. Lol that pig is totally not making those noises. 

I hope Xander gets eaten. I won’t miss him. DONT YOU DARE EAT THAT PIG HE IS THE LIGHT OF GOOD!

Lol Buffy complains to Giles that Xander’s being a jackass. Giles is like “Xander’s just like that.” I knew you were my favorite, G. NO HERBERT OH NO YOU MONSTERS! The principle is upset b/c you ate his pet and he SHOULD BE BECAUSE HE LOVED THAT PIG!

HOLY SHIT THEY ATE THE PRINCIPAL, TOO! This ep is brutal! That poor animal loving man. 

DO NOT EAT THE LADY WITH THE INFANT

Hyenas will track the missing member of their pack until they find them. Well how terribly convenient. Established in this ep that Hyenas call your name. Maybe they should have been possessed by a parrot. 

Giles do not go in the hyena house alone. That zookeeper is sketch as hell. He’s standing in there and he’s like “Oh damn I stumbled into it again.” It’s great watching him realize he’s messed up. Then he gets beaten up again. I’m glad (most) the characters are not dumb.  

RIP Herbert and Herbert’s dad

7 Angel

The Three are like Blade in Triplicate. Also a Fumigation Party is hilarious. 

Everyone learn from Buffy. If you’re in a pissy mood, you probably need to go to bed. Say goodnight, it’s the responsible thing to do. 

She shouted “Get in, come on!” but it sounded an awful lot like an ADR line. I think they did that when they realized Angel just came in uninvited then told her vampires can’t come in uninvited. In universe, though? Very very lucky Buffy shouted “Get in!” when she did or he’d be torn apart by evil Blades. 

“Angel?” “Yeah?” “Do you snore?” I thought that was really cute ^^

“We’re not going to be fighting Friar Tuck.” Shut up Buffy, you don’t know that. 

Angel admits to being a cradle robber. 

I like the way vampires work in this universe. They’re demons that take over peoples bodies. They steal your identity, but once you turn you’re dead b/c you lose your soul. I like that a lot. I predict it gets ret-conned. 

That tattoo was 200 years old? Heck no, unless he was in for a really recent touch-up. 

The Master or whoever is reminding me so hard of G’Kar right now, lol. It’s b/c he’s posturing like a diva and shaking his head around a lot. The way his makeup wrinkles doesn’t help the likeness although G’Kar is far handsomer. 

Misunderstanding. Come back from commercial and Angel’s tossed out a window. That was an excellent transition. 

I love Giles sitting with Buffy’s mom talking about parenting concerns since they’re pretty much her parents. Does Buffy’s mom have a name? 

So Angel was cursed to have his soul back by gypsies. Somehow both a trope and a subversion of a trope? And speaking of tropes, blonde chick saunters in wearing another school girl uniform like its a fetish. 

The Master then has a room-trashing temper tantrum shouting. “She was my favorite for four hundred years!” and he officially sheds his G’Kar and becomes the new Radu.

There is no way I can be threatened by him or his Damien. 

8 I Robot... you Jane.

I’m excited for this one b/c it promises to have a robot in it. 

SHIT THERE’S A DRAKH IN THIS!!! KILL IT WITH FIRE!

Recall from the whole Na’Far thing back in episode 4 that the same makeup/special effects shop worked on both Buffy and Babylon 5 so it may just be a Drakh, I mean who the hell knows? They’re definitely using the same design language for the vampires they did for like every alien in Crusade. 

OMG Giles’ name is Rupert. And hearing all this 1997 technology scare is just HILARIOUS. What would Rupert say if he knew I had a computer in my butt pocket that could run the space shuttle? Also Miss Calendar is flirting so hard with Giles it’s like the little boy pulling his crush’s pigtails on the playground. 

Dangit! There’s no robot! It’s Tom Riddle. 

OMG Miss Calendar’s crimped hair is atrocious. 

lol and if Buffy knew about the future and how online dating is like the #1 way to meet people in the 2010s she’d be saying much different things. Buffy is right about the chemistry thing though. Having a relationship based on personality is great but when you meet in person and there’s no chemistry that’s a thing that needs to be dealt with and OH MY GOSH THAT LAPTOP OH MY LORD

Tonight on this very special episode of Buffy the Vampire Slayer, cat-fishing, gaslighting, and you. 

Good thing this late-90s computer has a speak and spell function so Willow and Malcolm can speak all their lines. 

Miss Calendar just pulled the race card for some reason? “You think knowledge should be kept in depositories were only white guys can get them.” Like... in the 90s were poc not allowed in libraries? I mean women obviously are b/c Miss Calendar’s there. She came in there specifically to fight with her boyfriend Giles over whether or not books suck -- which they don’t. And neither does the internet. If she is a computer and Giles is a book their kids are going to be well educated. 

Buffy was saved by her rubber soled shoes. 

lol the one computer guy is named Dave. “I’m sorry Dave” says the computer. Then he pens Dave’s suicide note. That was done on purpose and I love it. PS the Internet is scary! SCARY OOOH DANGER! DANGER! FEAR!

We get to see Willow’s room! Also I love 90s fantasy tech.

Miss Calendar is a self-proclaimed techno-pagan. “There are more of us out there than you thin.”

OMG THERE IS FINALLY A ROBOT IN THIS EPISODE AND ITS A FREAKIN ROBO DRAKH! I gotta find a way to put this guy in Babylon 6. He’s a riot. 

“I don’t dangle a corkscrew from my ear.”

“That’s not where I dangle it.” 

Giles: 

Okay disk 2 is over. I’m liking the show even more as the edges continue to wear off. The datedness is hilarious and doesn’t spoil a thing about it. It adds a richness and layer of entertainment not even intended by the original team.

#buffy the vampire slayer #jen watches #liveblogging

[artificialqueens]

pygmalion (katlaska) -- svetlana

summary: Justin had a habit of drowning in people with beautiful dreams and strange chins. Slow-burn in non-chronological order.

a/n: thank you so much for the response to astronaut! i was very nervous submitting a fic for the first time, but you guys have encouraged me so much. i tried to give back to the community – i wanted to answer the prompt i saw earlier for katlaska slow-burn on the topic of addiction. but somehow it ended up becoming something a little different (or a lot different from anything ive ever written – ft. the least graphic sex scenes ive ever attempted). hopefully, its good! 

The first time they fuck is just that: two men with mascara still clinging to their lashes, the last vestiges of Alaska and Katya hanging thin between them. They mark it by putting another stain on Alaska’s couch and knocking over that shitty bottle of cinnamon vodka they shouldn’t have tried. 

It goes like this.

“Oh,” Katya says, gesturing at the general region of Alaska’s crotch. “You know, I could take care of that for you.”

Somehow, that makes it worse. Suddenly, she can hear where this night will veer. Maybe it’ll be one bawdy joke and maybe it will be two, then they’ll go at it until Katya sucks something out of her dick, and then they’ll watch Golden Girls and she’ll stare at Katya’s toes curling in time with her laughs. It is a circle, Alaska decides, a bit that reruns even after it’s dead. It’s a sketch that she decidedly never wanted to be a part of. The entire thing seems exhausting.

This is the part where you remind yourself that you can never say no to her, Alaska’s mind supplies, but it isn’t technically true. It’s more like Katya makes it easy to say no; there are fifty million things that Katya wants at any given moment, and as much as she likes sucking dick, she’d be fine if they spent the rest of the night exploring conspiracy theories. But Alaska doesn’t want to say no. 

“This is a bad porno,” Alaska decides. “Go for it. Shoot for the fucking moon.”

At least Katya seems to know the script. At some point during the night, she’d started switching in and out of that disgusting Maureen voice and hasn’t stopped since. “Spread your legs for me, baby.”

“Okay, okay. Stop.”

“I’m like a dementor,” Katya says conversationally, “I haven’t actually left anyone a lifeless husk or anything, but –“ 

“No, like seriously, stop.”

It’s strange how no one talks about Brian’s jaw and how it connects the alien texture of his cheekbones to the sandpaper feeling of his chin. Alaska has never understood either and she presses her thumb against his chin, where his lipstick has smudged. He’s cold, she realizes. He’s cold and his jaw is clenched so tight he’s shaking. When he speaks, it’s clear that the lozenges from earlier have worn off.

Katya or maybe Brian says, “Are we going to do it the bi-curious college girls experimenting way? I can be Mary-Anne the dean’s daughter who’s rebelling against daddy and pursuing a women’s studies major, if you know what I mean.”

“Why are you trying to fuck me in character?” 

Fuck, she’s made it awkward. Brian’s eyes are wide enough that she can see the tiny dilated vessels, leftover from the vodka. She thinks it might be hurt, or shock, but they’ve both been in the industry enough to know better. Put enough of yourself into the woman you paint on and you’re Miss. Charisma Uniqueness Nerve and Talent. Too much and you risk confusing fantasy and reality. It’s a dangerous line that Alaska has learned to toe. Addicts, former or otherwise, must take caution not to lose themselves. 

How many seconds has it been? Brian is staring at the carpet. One of his lashes has fallen to cover his eye. His wig is gone with his corset and most of his clothes, and only the lashes and communist-red lipstick remain. He makes no move to speak, nor to remove Alaska’s hand.

Justin sighs and drops his hand to Brian’s shoulder, intertwining his other hand through his fingers. “I’ll do it if you’re sure you want to. But I don’t think we should.” 

A pause.

“Brian? You know I mean this in a I’m horny, but I’m also worried about you way.”

“No, no,” Brian rushes, “no, you’re right, I’m sorry, it’s just, it’s just that my thoughts are really fucking loud and also, did you know that I find you very attractive?”

“I’m Justin right now.” 

Brian blinks like the thought hadn’t even occurred to him, trailing his fingers up Justin’s forearm. “Aren’t you always? Wait, is this philosophy? I don’t think I can have sex and think about philosophy at the same time.” 

And it’s simple after that. Whatever’s wrong, it’s none of Justin’s business, and he’s never been one to turn down an invitation to keep things easy. There are better things to drown in, he tells himself, and his mind goes blank as they kiss with just a little too much tongue and Brian wraps his hand around Justin’s dick.

—

—

Justin wasn’t always so careful. Justin had a habit of drowning in people with beautiful dreams and strange chins. He remembers them in pieces. Phillip, Wesley, Sharon-Aaron, Sharon, Sharon, Sharon. He’d wanted to be deconstructed, unwritten, assimilated into something better than a boy who would never be brave enough to be normal. Sometimes he still wants to drown until he forgets Justin and Alaska and everything in-between. But that’s not what Sharon wants to hear.

“Good,” he says. 

Sharon stares back, unimpressed. “Why are you trying to lie to me?” 

“I’m not,” Justin says, and it’s true. He’s not really lying so much as he is making a policy of not telling his ex every single thing that runs through his head. Sharon should know that. Or maybe Sharon suspects something. He looks at his nails on the table. That’s probably it. Stripped of Alaska’s razor-sharp plastic manicure, they are pale and ragged. He frowns. They didn’t look so ugly this morning, but that’s the Sharon effect. Somehow talking to her has always made Justin feel like an idiot teen – all at once becoming too much and not enough. “I’m fine. You’re not responsible for my bad decisions.” 

Sharon snorts. It suits her more than concern, and a part of him thinks that this should worry him, that he thinks Sharon is at her most beautiful with scorn lining her lips. “That’s what I get for being one of your bad decisions.” 

“If you want to put it that way,” Justin starts. 

“I have four years of rage I haven’t used on you. I get very creative when I’m angry.”

This part is easy. Sharon smirks, still looking like the crazy punk dreamer who never entirely left the 90’s. Justin bares his teeth back – his horse-face, they called it. “What are you suggesting?”

“That I could read you for being a bitch, but I won’t.”

“It takes one to know one,” Justin drawls.

The teasing is new. Before, it had never really been so verbal – it had been cold fingers up Sharon’s sweater in February, nightmares and fantasies they’d whisper to each other in the mornings. They’d been serious. Sharon had wanted to build something and she could never find the words to explain how; only that she needed to destroy the world to make room. All Justin had known was that he trusted her vision more than his own, even when he was sober.

Thirty-two is too old for learning to create instead of destroy, to invent instead of borrow, but he has to try. But sitting across from Sharon, drinking coffee and not alcohol, he tells himself the world is ten shades brighter. 

“How are you really, then?” Sharon asks.

“Just tired,” Justin answers.

—

—

It starts with Trixie. “Have you seen Katya?”

“No,” Justin says. “Did something happen?”

“No,” Trixie answers. “Nothing. Just wondering. I’m not sure. I haven’t seen her in a while, and she mentioned that you’d been hanging out lately. Sorry if I woke you up. Anyway, I’ll see you later.”

The line goes dead. Across him, Brian snores softly, yesterday’s makeup smeared across his chin and the cushions. Justin will have to get a new couch soon, he tells himself as he shoves his phone across the floor. “You can stop pretending to be asleep now,” he tells Brian.

Morning in Los Angeles is jarringly pale and it has washed Brian of all color. Where the light hits his stubble, he seems brittle like he’s lost weight. He doesn’t open his eyes. “Five more minutes, Mom.” 

Justin pushes himself to his feet. He thinks he should expect something, or maybe feel something, but there’s only his stomach twisting itself into a post-clubbing knot. He lingers for a moment anyway, watching the way shadows settle into Brian’s cheekbones. Then, he heads into the kitchen and sets out the blueberries and pancake mix before he can change his mind. The problem is, he knows that he shouldn’t have lied. If anyone speaks Katya, or Brian, it’s Trixie with her strange ability to comprehend half Russian psychopath, half batshit American.

It’s not my problem. 

But is it?

Justin is good at reading people. He’s good at cataloguing sidelong glances and knowing when to joke, when to comfort. Sharon had told him her theory once, that all queer kids learn how to be invisible at the right times to avoid dangerous attention, how to do what people expect. Justin stirs the rest of his milk into the pancake mix. He turns on the stove, puts out a pan with a slab of melting butter. 

Something is wrong with Brian. It’s not the first time Brian’s annexed Justin’s living room after a show. The amount of tiny plastic hands lurking in wait between the couch cushions is atrocious. But bruises bloom beneath Brian’s eyes. Even after stealing all the blankets, he’d shivered all night. They’d talked yesterday at manic speeds, as if Brian had forgotten that Justin is barely proficient in his brand of logic.

Justin starts scooping the batter onto the pan. No, he decides. It’s not his place. Crazy as he can be, Brian is a private person. It strikes Justin that despite the fact that that he’s heard about every sexual encounter that Brian has had this year, he knows next to nothing about Brian’s life or his mind, that it sounds familiar.

(Once upon a time, there had been a boy who played so many roles that he lost himself.)

Then there’s Brian himself, standing in the kitchen doorway. He shifts from foot to foot, eyes downcast. For once, his awkwardness isn’t funny. Never one to miss an opportunity to get out of cooking, Justin places the spatula in Brian’s hand and pushes him to the stove. There’s a flash of something that tries to be a smile, then, nothing. Only Brian methodically stacking pancakes ceiling high on Justin’s Betty Boop plates.

Just as the silence threatens to swallow them both, Brian mutters, “Sorry.”

Neither of them are looking at each other. “But you didn’t want me to tell Trixie where you were.” 

There’s too much whipped cream on the pancakes, which is fine. Justin has an incurable sweet tooth. “I think I might’ve asked you not to yesterday.”

“I don’t remember,” Justin admits. “It was more like I saw the look on your face.”

Brian looks at the ceiling, contemplates the stains there. It’s the last five years mapped out in shadows that never really fade. He turns off the stove and drops the spatula into the sink. “Sorry.”

“Does it make you feel better to say you’re sorry?”  

“Not really,” Brian says, and for all that his eyes are oceans, it is nothing like a flood.

“I’m not sure what the problem is,” Justin says instead. “But you can keep coming here if you need a place. You don’t have anything to be sorry for if you just do the dishes or something.” 

Because there is a tightness in his lungs that feels like fire when Brian smiles, or maybe a breathless summer in Erie. Because there’s a quality about Brian that seems swing toward happiness no matter what, and Justin can’t help but want to make him laugh. And somewhere along the road, he’d realized that he could say no to the strange three a.m. conversations and crazy childhood stories, but that he didn’t want to. 

Because Brian says, “You’re a furry little gnome, and we feed you too much,” holds a straight face for one second, before collapsing into cackles. 

“You can’t ruin that show for me,” Justin cuts in, “whatever you do, that’s like the one thing, you can’t ruin Golden Girls.” 

But Brian is doing that scream-laugh that’s uniquely his, and Justin can’t help but join in.

—

—

The second time they fuck, it’s to Prometheus playing in the background. Brian’s dick is heavy against his tongue, and it’s spring and Justin is half-crazy from the moans and the way the couch cushions dig into his erection. And they climax like teens, all shuddering curses and sad, sad stamina. He tells Brian on the way to the trashcan, two used condoms swinging from his hand. 

“But okay, did you know, did you know that it’s been a few months? And it’s the craziest thing too, because I think it’s because a month ago, I was going through an occult research phase, and this like, orgy cult got my email and now I’m invited to their moonlit trysts every fortnight.”

Justin laughs. “Are you going to go?”

“I’m thinking about it,” Brian says. He crosses his legs, then his arms, and then makes a truly disgusting face. “I feel like it would be like, like, too soon? I think there’s a level of comfort with myself that I have yet to achieve.”

“So, not the fact that you don’t know if these strangers have STDs.”

Justin sinks into the couch, and Brian pulls him into his arms. Their height difference is such that Justin’s feet dangle off the armrest.

“Well,” Brian says reasonably, “you never know if strangers have STDs. Eating ass is an adventure.”

“So, when you offered to help Violet with her show, that wasn’t community service.” 

The arm around him shifts, shaking with laughter. “No, I got finished doing that months ago after they realized that yes, I did leave the stove on. And it wasn’t community service, I was exploring as of yet… ah, unmapped mysteries.”

“Don’t flatter the whore,” Justin says. 

Brian wheezes, slamming a hand onto the spot where Justin’s heart beats, his entire body curling inward from laughter. “Mama, are you worried about indirect kisses?”

“I wouldn’t call you indirect. I can smell you from my kitchen before you even knock.” 

The briefest touch of lips against his neck, and, “What do I smell like?”

Justin doesn’t remember the last time he felt this light, or even the last time he wanted to feel. Justin is new to wanting things for himself, caught halfway between mania and hesitation, where he can’t help but be too much because that’s better than not enough. But this is soap-bubble-thin and it’s so much easier to deadpan, “Desperation.”

It’s a cheap joke, but Brian laughs, soft and warm. “Did I ever tell you that you’re absolutely shit at reading me?”

“Don’t worry, I know.”

Brian goes still. “You know I’m fine, right? I don’t want to –“

“You’re not,” Justin says, and he has the feeling that Brian doesn’t know which question he’s answering either. He doesn’t want to have this conversation now. It’s too much trying to adjust and his mind’s still stuck on the joke he didn’t tell. “I don’t mind it. I –“

“It’s not fair to you, I know,” Brian interrupts. The hand on Justin’s back has stilled, and god he can hear every car coming down the street through these shitty walls. “You have enough to deal with right now, and I promised I’d tell you soon, it’s just spiraling out of control and I feel like I’m back to who I was ten years ago, and I really don’t want you to meet that person.” 

It should worry him, that the moment the emotion reel begins it all feels fake. Suddenly he is transported to grade school where he’s auditioning for a part, making all the exaggerated motions to the back row. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he’s still hanging onto Ms. Zhu telling him that he got the part, and he can’t stop thinking about the things he should do and say. The correct response is to turn around and look Brian in the eye, grip his hands and tell him that it’s more than two fools grasping at permanence. It’s more than two fuck ups in mourning, that you can make something beautiful out of everything ugly. But his thoughts are a storm and he has no real reason to be unhappy.

He wants Brian, or maybe he wants move back to Erie. He wants to shoot up. Justin has never been good at wanting anything.

—

—

“What do you think?”

“I think that we never watch Contact together and it’s a sign. Also, I’m so fucking scared, Detox, I like, am seriously considering going for someone who regularly admits to being a crazy bitch.” 

Detox gives him an unimpressed look. “Bitch, you’re not considering it. Stop trying to pull the shy act. I saw those drunk texts.”

Justin has to smirk at that. “Yeah, but sober is different.”

“Boo-hoo, you have to be responsible for your actions when you don’t have mind-bending shit in you, boo-fucking-hoo, grow up. How hard can it be? You’ve already –“

“Wow, I came here looking for sympathy,” Justin drawls. But it’s what he already knew, and he’s aware that he’s in danger of being slaughtered by Detox for being melodramatic. It’s simple, but –

(Brian turns his phone off and the car plunges into darkness. They are floating over mountains and clouds in a ski lift in Colorado and it sounds more poetic than it is. Later, he hears that Katya and Trixie are taking a break because Katya isn’t good at lines; she’s all the weirdness Brian was afraid to let out and Brian is half-in-love-drowning-mad. Later he hears that Brian hasn’t been on his phone in days, has deleted the half of his friends who are using. But now, there is only Brian and Justin huddling closer for warmth, then closer yet. Their lips meet, and, and, and…)

—

—

It’s the last thing he thought he’d hear himself say, “Let’s go back to testing it out then. Let’s just hang out, have a good time, let’s talk about shit. I’m probably going to fail at talking about shit right now, because I’m not having a good few months, and you’re not either, but I’ll try if you do.”

Brian blinks before he makes that gross noise again. “I never thought that you’re Trixie’s replacement,” he blurts out. His voice is scratchy like the words have clawed scars into his throat. “You were there at the time, but you’re not, I swear.”

He does turn over then, to find that Brian is looking at him with wide eyes. Up close, he can see that there are fine lines in the corners of those eyes. “Well, obviously. I can pass for a woman in the dark, and she can pass for a woman if you’re blind.”

There’s a quiet snort, and the eyes and nose crinkle together. “Oh my god, we were having a moment.”

Justin considers it, and decides to reenter the moment. “I hope you’re talking to her again.”

Brian frowns. “It’s the good thing about being a whore. Inevitably, something happens like lusting after your best friend and it’s somewhat socially acceptable?”

Justin raises an eyebrow.

“Yes, Mom, I’m talking to her and we’re halfway back to where we were, like good adults. Stop trying to reenact Thanksgiving Dinner.” Then, he tries again, leaning into Justin’s shoulder. “But it’s a little different. I guess we’re more, we’re more learning to laugh about it. That’s what we do.” 

“What do we do?” Justin asks. Outside of the tiny plastic hands in the couch, the apartment is clean for the first time in years. Justin’s books are ordered on the shelves, and the refrigerator is stocked with something other than takeout. It seems they’re both better at taking care of others than they are of themselves, and he can work with it. “Can we promise to tell each other when something is wrong? Like we’re joking about it now, but at the end of the jokes, I want to know about you.”

A stray bit of sunlight lands on Brian’s cheek. It’s warm to the touch. “I’ll try,” he agrees. 

Beautiful people with strange chins, Justin thinks. Drowning in them felt like justice. But he knows better now than to trade his ideas and for theirs, to lose himself in their visions. Beautiful people with strange chins who are different people, at the end of the day – just as he has changed. He thinks he’s learned how to be ambitious. 

He hopes he knows how to dream.

#alaska thunderfuck #katya zamolodchikova #sharon needles #detox icunt #trixie mattel #katlaska #past shalaska #one-sided trixya #slow burn #slight smut #canon compliant #svetlana #rpdr fanfiction #pygmalion #tw mention of substance abuse #submission #tw substance abuse #tw depression