Hi hello, welcome to my master list. I’m a writer who spends pretty much all my spare time creating and sharing fanfiction, mostly for the BBC Sherlock and Doctor Strange fandoms. Below is a list of all my works, hope you enjoy!
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SHERLOCK
Based on BBC’s Sherlock unless stated otherwise.
Includes oneshots & requests for Sherlock x Reader (including 18+ content) & links to the Glass series (Sherlock x OC)
MARVEL/MCU
Currently only features Doctor Strange
Includes Character x Reader content (including 18+ content) & links to the Anomaly Saga (Doctor Strange x OC)
REAL PEOPLE
Currently only features Benedict Cumberbatch
Includes Ben x Reader content, omitted scenes from The Making Of (Ben x OC) 18+ & links to The Making Of (Ben x OC)
Requests open for xReader oneshots (including 18+ requests)
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Musical playlists curated to accompany my fics
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Disclaimer: All of these works are my own. While I do not own the characters of BBC Sherlock or Marvel, these works are still my intellectual property and I do not give permission for anyone to repost or redistribute them here or on any other platform. Quoting with credit is fine, as of course is sharing and reblogging. All mature content has been properly labelled, as have any content warnings and/or trigger warnings. Readers choosing to engage beyond that point are doing so at their own discretion. If anyone feels I have improperly labelled or tagged a fic, please don’t hesitate to send me a message and let me know.
Summary: (Surgeon Strange x OFC) Stephen deals with the aftermath of the New York invasion, while Juno clings to life, over and over again.[This story is a dual narration]
Word Count: 5.7K
Warnings: Strong language, adult themes, details of injury, physical trauma and death. Readers must be 18+
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'So... This all seems horrible.' - Bruce Banner
I could barely hear the whirring of the CT scanner over the incessant chattering of the technicians behind me. I stepped closer to the window, arms folded as I watched the table move smoothly through the machine, still forced to listen to their mindnumbing hospital gossip against my will. My eyes switched between the patient and the monitors attached to her like a metronome, back and forth and back again, waiting for the first images to start coming through.
“Oh my god, no way!” one of the techs exclaimed.
“I know,” the other replied. “I couldn’t believe it when she told me.”
“How long have they been-”
“Can you two shut up?” I asked bluntly, looking over my shoulder at them.
They went quiet, wide-eyed as they stared up at me from their chairs.
“Finally.” I returned to watching the scan. “Peace at last.”
“Aren’t you neuro?” one of them asked.
“Yes, and?”
“You know this is a… lower body scan… right?”
“So?”
“So you… don’t have to be here…”
I turned around to face them again. “I performed surgery on this patient for seven hours straight last night. You think I’m just going to leave her in the care of two glorified photographers who’re more interested in who’s been swapping spit in the break room?”
The small space fell silent again, before one of them finally spoke in a quiet, wavering voice. “The chief told you to stop calling us that.”
I rolled my eyes, and turned my attention to the screen, watching as the first images began to appear. A groan rumbled in my throat and I pressed my lips together, taking a step closer to the monitor. It wasn’t good.
“She has fractures to the pelvic ring,” I said, mostly to myself.
More slices of the scan appeared. More fractures, more displacements, a haematoma, embedded debris.
“Left tibial fracture,” I muttered, before glancing over my shoulder again. “Call ortho.”
“Already did,” one of the techs replied. “Trauma requested the consult before they brought her down here.”
Of course they did.
“Who’d they call?” I asked.
“I don’t know. I think Doctor Caffrey’s the ortho on call today.”
I groaned again, louder this time.
Right on cue, there was a knock at the viewing room door. Caffrey opened it and stepped inside immediately, not waiting to be welcomed in. He was a big guy, shoulders taking up the entire doorway, a build more suited to setting bones on a battlefield than operating on them under fluorescent lights. His brown hair was escaping the edges of his scrub cap, his straight, white teeth chewing on a piece of gum as he spoke.
“Who ordered the orthopod?” he asked casually as he closed the door behind him.
I grimaced.
“Ouch,” he said, gesturing to the screen. “That pelvis is gonna need surgery.”
“There’s a fracture in the left leg too,” I said. “Tibia.”
“Mm, fibula too. See?” he tapped his finger on the screen, pointing to a small break I hadn’t noticed. “I can just put that in a cast…” He trailed off, turning his head to look at me with narrow, curious eyes. “Since when did Doctor Strange care about bones?”
“Since the bones in question belong to the most complex spinal case I’ve ever treated.”
He stood for a moment with his hands on his hips, observing the patient through the window. “Well, I guess I better get her prepped for the OR.”
“I’ll scrub in with you.”
“Nah,” he said casually, slapping a firm hand on my back. “I’ve done this kind of surgery a million times. Besides, I’m sure there’s a tumor or… a bullet lodged in a cranium somewhere that needs you.”
“Caffrey,” I glared at him. “This woman’s injuries are unprecedented. One wrong move-”
“We will follow all precautions, I promise. The neck is all yours. Her pelvis is mine.”
I was certain if I was to cut open this guy’s skull there’d be a big rock where his brain was supposed to be. I shuddered at the thought of leaving my patient in his big, ungraceful hands.
“Don't screw it up, Caffrey,” I said, swinging the door open and leaving without another word.
I’d yet to see the damage to the city with my own eyes. I’d caught glimpses on the TV in the emergency room, heard stories as I passed people in the halls, watched the smoke billowing in the distance from my office window. Aliens. Mutants. Gods. I was still struggling to accept it was all real.
My eyes were starting to itch, my body aching more than usual. I had to go home. Hopefully my apartment was still standing when I got there. I pressed my fingers into my eyelids, resting my elbows on the nurses station while I waited for the feeling to return to my feet.
The wheels on the chair behind the desk screeched against the floor, I glanced up as a nurse named Tina sat down, clicking her knuckles and typing on the computer. She caught my eyeline for a moment before returning her gaze to the screen.
“Hey, Doctor Strange,” she said. “Crazy 24 hours, huh.”
“Mm,” I mumbled. “I need to head home. Can you have someone page me when my Jane Doe gets out of surgery?”
“Jane Doe?”
“Came in yesterday, crush injuries, cervical-”
“Oh! Miss Connor?” she interrupted.
“Hm? They identified her?”
“Yeah, I thought someone would’ve told you. We were able to match her to one of the missing person reports. Then someone handed in a bunch of items they found down at the wreckage and there was a purse with all of her stuff, so…”
I watched her glide to the other end of the station in her chair, grabbing a file and rolling back towards me as she flipped it open.
“Juno Sage Connor,” she read. “32, New York, lives in Manhattan-”
“Juno…?” I raised an eyebrow. “Seriously?”
“Yeah, like the goddess. I think it’s pretty,” she replied without paying me too much mind. “She works at Meridian Architecture, her firm were the first ones to call when she didn’t come back from a job.”
“She’s an architect?”
“Mhm.” She nodded. “Says here she’s a principal architect, whatever that means. Explains why they found her on a construction site.”
I took the file and flipped the page over, leaning in to get a better look at the photocopy of her driver’s license. She looked so different from the swollen, bruised version of her I’d operated on. Yet, somehow, she seemed almost familiar.
“Next of kin?” I asked.
“Parents,” Tina replied. “They live out in New Paltz, so they can’t get here because of all the bridge and tunnel closures. But her mom’s been calling pretty consistently. She’s worried sick.”
“No spouse? Partner? No one in the city that could come?”
“Doesn’t look like it.”
I let out a quiet hum, handing the file back to her. “Well, I’m heading out. I lost count of my overtime somewhere around sunrise. Don’t forget to page me when she’s out.”
“Wait, Doctor Strange,” she said, catching me as I began to walk away. “Before you go, do you think you could give her mom a call?”
I curled my lip. “Me?”
“Well you are her surgeon…”
I rolled my eyes, taking the file back with a huff and turning towards the elevator.
I closed my office door, basking in the quiet for a moment before wandering over to the window. The plumes of smoke rising from the city skyline were no longer thick and black, but a wispy pale grey, dissipating into the clouds above. Helicopters still circled overhead; some looked military, others I couldn’t tell. Probably the news, some reporter hanging out the side trying to get the best shot of the destruction below.
I closed the blinds and walked over to my desk to sit down, letting out a long exhale as my spine curved against the back of the chair. My computer was still running, I ran my fingers over the keyboard, waking the screens in front of me, the bright light making my eyes burn.
I searched her name - Juno S Connor - bringing up her patient record and scanning over it briefly. On the other screen was the preliminary surgical report I’d thrown together somewhere in the early hours of the morning. I skimmed it, finding three typos before I’d even reached the second paragraph.
Extensive damage to the cervix-
Cervix. I stared at the word for several seconds before correcting it to cervical with a huff. I really needed to sleep.
Upon first observation of the spinal chord-
Chord? Seriously?
“Jesus Christ,” I muttered.
The file sat open on the desk in front of me, I read over the names, the notes each nurse had written down after every call her parents made, and heard Christine’s voice in the back of my head reminding me to ‘be nice’.
I dialled the number at the top of the page, barely getting the receiver to my ear before someone picked up.
“Hello?” a soft female voice asked.
“Hi there, am I speaking to Dawn Connor?”
“You are.”
“Hello, Mrs Connor, this is Doctor Stephen Strange. I’m a neurosurgeon at Metro General Hosp-”
“Neurosurgeon? Oh god.”
I cleared my throat. “Mrs Connor-”
“Is she alive?”
I paused, the fear in her voice palpable through the phone. “Yes, ma’am, she’s alive.”
She let out a shaky, uneven breath, a distant male voice thanking god in the background.
“Mrs Connor, your daughter Juno was brought into the ER yesterday. We believe she was caught in a building collapse. I don’t want to cause you any more distress than-”
“No, no, Please, Doctor, I’d like to know.”
“Okay. Alright, well, um… She sustained multiple injuries including fractures to her pelvis and left leg, as well as some bleeding and swelling around the brain. The injury I’m mostly concerned about, however, is damage she sustained to her cervical spine. It’s the part closest to her skull.”
Another breath.
“It’s called an atlanto-occipital dissociation. In layman’s terms, the structures connecting her skull to her spine were significantly disrupted.” I swallowed. “She was in surgery for around seven hours.”
“With you?”
“Yes, ma’am, I am the one who operated on her. And I assure you I did everything I could to repair the damage, but… Until she wakes up, we won’t know the extent of what we’re dealing with. She’s heavily sedated right now, we have her on a ventilator which is helping her breathe-”
“Oh god.”
“But she is… She’s stable. I’m keeping a close eye on her.”
“Is she going to be paralysed?”
I paused again, longer this time. “I don’t know.”
I hated not knowing. I never didn’t know.
“God I just wish we could be there,” she said with a slight sniffle. “We tried to drive in this morning but they turned us around at the bridge. They said the whole city’s been closed off.”
“I know, it’s… I know. I’m sorry you can’t be here right now.”
“Do you have any children?”
The distant male voice returned. “Dawn, you can’t be asking him stuff like that.”
“No, I don’t have any children,” I replied.
“Well until we get there, please look after Juno like she’s your own.”
I exhaled a quiet laugh. “I’m only four years older, I think adopting her might raise some questions.”
“Oh,” she let out a weepy giggle. “Sorry, I don’t know why I assumed…”
“That’s alright, it’s not the first time I’ve been told I sound like an old man on the phone.”
She laughed again. “What did you say your name was?”
“I’m Doctor Strange.”
“Thank you, Doctor Strange.”
I was standing in an empty hospital corridor. It smelled like disinfectant, iodine, bandages, blood. The harsh lights above me flickered like morse code, while faint music drifted from a direction I couldn’t place. I looked down at my body, touching it, making sure it was all still intact; arms, chest, stomach, neck, face. Was this a dream? Was I dead?
“Hello?” I called out.
But nothing responded except my own echo.
I walked up to the first door on my left, pushing it open and stepping inside. A heart monitor beeped steadily beside the bed, tubes and wires and IVs threaded to the patient like the strings of a marionette. I stepped closer as the ventilator hummed with each artificial breath, in and out and in and out, until I was right beside it, close enough to reach out and touch the frail hand resting limply against the sheets.
She was perfectly still, besides the rhythmic rise and fall of her chest. Her dark hair was strewn across the pillow behind her head, her face bruised and swollen, and yet, I knew her.
Me. It was me. And for some reason, I wasn’t alarmed.
I stroked her hair softly, placed the back of my hand against her cheek, weaved my fingers through hers and squeezed gently.
“You’re going to be okay,” I whispered.
But like a cruel refute, the heart monitor began to slow, setting off alarms like dominos around the room.
“Help! Someone help!” I yelled.
The monitor flatlined, letting out a long, neverending beep. I placed my hand on her chest, searching her face for something, anything.
“Please! Someone…”
I ran to the door, but as I flung it open, my breath caught in my throat. It wasn’t a corridor anymore. It was another room. With another hospital bed. Another Juno lying motionless on a ventilator. I blinked a few times, glancing back over my shoulder to check the first one was still there. Alarms still screeched, her heart still not beating.
I stepped over the threshold into the new room, walking slowly towards the bed before glancing back again. But there was nothing in the doorway now except darkness. Opaque, vacuous black. She was gone.
The familiar sound of a flatline filled the room. I snapped my head around to the bed, but this time I didn’t wait. Instead I ran straight to the door ahead of me, pushing it open and barrelling through.
“Help! In here! Pl-” I stopped, my voice stolen by a sharp gasp.
The ground beneath my feet was uneven, the air thick with smoke and silt. I immediately began to cough, looking around as I stood within the remains of an unfinished building. There were mounds of rubble and slabs of cracked, fallen concrete. Water sprayed from burst pipes as sirens wailed beyond the wreckage.
I looked back again. No hospital room, just a doorframe of cold, pitch black.
I stumbled through the dirt, following a ray of sunlight poking through an opening up ahead. A layer of dust settled on my skin, the smell of smoke and gasoline pouring in from the street.
“Hello!?” I screamed. “Help me!”
I tripped over something, knocking the air from my chest as I hit the ground. Something warm and sticky coated my palms as I tried to push myself up, deep crimson slipping through my fingertips and gathering under my nails. My eyes followed the stream across the ground, stopping when they finally fell on the source.
She was wedged beneath an iron beam, arm outstretched, short, dark hair soaked in blood, green eyes wide open, glassy, unmoving.
“This isn’t happening,” I muttered. “This is a dream. I’m dreaming. I’m dreaming. I’m dreaming. I’m dreaming-”
I stumbled to my feet, repeating the words to myself as I rushed towards the light. When I got to it, I dug my fingers into the opening, dragging away loose stone and debris until I was sure I could fit through.
The sun was bright, the air warm and clean. I planted my hands on the ground, feeling a plush layer of soft, cool grass against my skin. Only then did I realise it was quiet; no sirens, no screaming, no city in the throes of disaster. I stood up, drawing in a deep inhale of soil and pollen. I knew this place. This was my parents’ home.
Their house stood several yards away; dad’s truck in the driveway, clothes blowing on the line mom tied between two trees. I made my way across the grass and up the steps, pushing open the door and walking inside.
“Hello? Mom? Dad?”
I could hear them talking, voices drifting down the hall from the kitchen. I rushed in, my legs almost giving out when I saw them at the table; Mom, Dad, my sister Astrid, my brother River, and me.
“You guys, I think I’m dreaming and I don’t know how to wake up,” I said.
No one answered, no one even glanced in my direction.
“Guys?”
They continued to talk amongst themselves. And I found myself just standing there for a little while. Watching. Listening.
“What about yellow?” asked Mom as she placed a steaming pot in the middle of the table.
“Yellow?” Astrid raised an eyebrow.
“Yeah, like a really warm, vibrant yellow.”
“Mom, you can’t paint the house yellow,” Juno laughed. “It'll look like a big stick of butter.”
“I said a block of cheese,” said Dad.
“That too.”
“You guys just can’t see my creative vision.”
The table erupted with laughs, people talking over each other as they ate.
“Hey, seriously, when have I ever made a bad decorating choice?” mom asked.
“When you covered the whole bathtub in green tiles when we were kids,” said River.
Juno and Astrid nodded in agreement. I didn’t remember ever having a tiled tub.
“I have no recollection of doing that,” mom said.
“Yeah ‘cause you were high as hell when you did it,” River laughed.
Mom’s mouth fell open, eyes widening in shock. “I was not!”
“Yes you were!”
“I have never been high-”
“You guys were hippies in the 70’s! Of course you were high,” Juno chuckled. “Come on. Dad?”
He paused. “Yeah, she was high.”
Everyone laughed, talking over each other again as mom tried to feign innocence. I smiled as I watched them, forgetting, just for a moment, about the hospital, the rubble, the blood beneath my fingernails. Juno leaned back in her seat, and I found myself staring at her. She looked happy, healthy, relaxed.
Then her eyes flitted up suddenly, locking with mine. My heart skipped, lips parting as we looked right at each other, and for a moment, I didn’t feel like I was dreaming anymore. Her eyes narrowed, a look of confusion, maybe even fear beginning to spread across her face. Then she blinked it away, returning her attention to the people around the table.
I sucked in a breath, closing my eyes and blowing it out softly.
“Juno…” said Astrid.
I opened my eyes again.
“Hey, what’s up?” she asked, placing a hand on Juno’s shoulder.
“Honey?” asked mom, rising slowly from her seat.
I glanced back over at Juno as she sat with her head in her hands.
“Sorry, I just… Got a really bad headache all of a sudden,” she mumbled.
“Do you need to go lie down?” mom replied.
“Y-yeah, I think…” Juno began to stand up. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me, it just…”
Her legs buckled, her body falling to the floor with a thud.
“Oh my god, Juno!”
“Hey, are you okay?”
“Juno, can you hear me?”
The room erupted into chaos, everyone rushing to her with panicked yells.
“She’s not breathing,” dad shouted. “River, call an ambulance!”
My body moved before my mind could catch up, turning on my heels and bolting back towards the front door. I opened it to nothing. The same darkness that had swallowed the hospital, followed me through each room. I slammed it shut again, running back to the kitchen where my family remained; dad trying CPR, mom screaming, Astrid crying, River shouting down the phone.
I kept running, hurrying to the back door and pushing through. It was just a dream.
Just a dream. Just a dream. Just a dream.
“Yes, asshole, I can see you,” I muttered under my breath, glaring through the windshield at the idiot flapping his arms in front of my car.
I turned off the engine and climbed out, rubbing my thumb over a small scratch on the car door.
“That’s probably been a piece of shrapnel or something,” said the guy as he wandered over to me.
He was in camo fatigues, a huge assault rifle slung across his chest, toothpick hanging out of the side of his mouth.
“Mm,” I said. “Didn’t account for an extraterrestrial disaster when I decided to drive to work yesterday.”
He chuckled, looking around at the remnants of the street we were on. “Yeah, looks like a warzone.”
“Technically it is a warzone.”
He looked at me, then took the toothpick out of his mouth, using it to point back down the way I came. “West End Avenue’s closed, but if you head back down and take a right onto West 86th-”
“Oh no, I live on West End.”
“Sorry, man, it’s closed until someone comes to take this big ass spaceship thing away.”
I glanced past him over the barricade at a lump of metal embedded in the sidewalk, a pulsing purple glow emanating from it.
“I promise I won’t touch your alien motorcycle,” I said plainly, too bored and tired to reason with him.
“Can’t let you through, man. Strict orders.”
“Then who can let me through?” I snapped. “My place is right there, I can literally see it.”
He shrugged.
“Listen, I am a neurosurgeon at Metro General who's been dealing with the fallout of this shit all night. I need sleep.”
He cocked his head, eyeing my car for a moment. “You could sleep in your Lambo.”
I glared at him before turning around and heading to the trunk, opening it and slinging my bag onto my shoulder. I slammed it shut and pointed my key at the car to lock it, smiling at him as I took off towards the barricade.
“Sir?” he called out behind me. “Sir, you need to stop walking right now.”
I kept walking.
“Sir. Stop!”
I halted, rolling my eyes before reluctantly turning back around. My gaze immediately fell on his hand, the way he’d moved to grip the handle of the rifle.
“You can’t be serious,” I said.
Another man approached from behind the barricade, dressed in the same camouflage fatigues but carrying significantly less hardware.
“Is there a problem?” he asked.
“Guy says he lives inside the perimeter,” said the idiot with the gun.
“I don’t say I live there. I do live there,” I replied.
The second man eyed me for a moment. “Which building?”
“That one.” I pointed.
“You got ID?”
I huffed and reached into my back pocket, taking out my wallet and sliding out my license. He took it from me, looking at it, then over at my street, then back at it again.
“Alright,” he finally said. “Don’t go beyond your building, don’t approach any debris, and if somebody tells you to stop, you stop.”
“Wonderful.”
“Your car stays here.”
I looked at him.
“No civilian vehicles beyond the barricade,” he said.
I glanced over at my car and sighed. This was it, the straw that would finally break the camel's back.
“Don’t worry, Doc,” said the brick with eyes. “I’ll keep a close watch on the Lambo.”
“I have a photographic memory,” I said with an insincere smile. “If my car acquires so much as a fingerprint, I’ll know.”
I approached the barricade, grabbing it with one hand and vaulting over it. My shoes crunched over broken glass as I began to walk, the road and sidewalk indistinguishable beneath the debris. The building across the street had no windows left intact, and the one next to it had collapsed completely. It was impressive, really, how my side of the street had somehow remained standing. There was dust on the windows, rubble scattered near the entrances, a fire hydrant spraying water. But the buildings themselves seemed almost untouched.
I slowed down a little as I passed the main wreckage. The closer I got, the less it looked like a vehicle. The metal was charred and warped from the collision, purple light pulsing weakly like a heartbeat. Aliens. I still couldn’t quite believe it.
“Keep it moving,” said the soldier guarding it.
I rolled my eyes. Apparently scientific curiosity was also prohibited. But I was too tired to get into an argument with another moron in camouflage. So I kept walking.
I stepped into the quiet, glorious stillness of my apartment, everything exactly as I left it. Except a piece of artwork hanging slightly crooked on the wall. I kicked off my shoes and walked over to it, straightening the frame, standing back to make sure it was level. Then I dropped my bag and threw my wallet and keys on the table by the door, loosening the strap of my watch as I made my way across the open space towards the master bedroom.
I glanced briefly out the window as I put my watch on the nightstand. The building behind me had been pretty lucky too. Or at least I thought, until I noticed a car hanging off an eleventh floor balcony. I stripped off my clothes and threw them in the hamper, noticing a single speck of dried blood on my forearm. How long had that been there? Whose was it? I shuddered and headed into the bathroom.
I only ever seemed to notice the hospital smell once I stepped into my bathroom. The iodine and disinfectant, sweat and antiseptic. Even after washing my hands and changing my scrubs a million times, I could still smell the chlorhexidine on my fingers, like it had permeated my pores. I turned on the shower and walked over to the mirror, barely able to focus on my own reflection. I’d done longer stints than this, worked several days straight without stopping, yet for some reason this was the most tired I’d been in years.
I could’ve groaned in pleasure as I stepped under the hot water. My muscles loosened instantly, the steam clearing out the dusty city air from my lungs. I washed quickly, lathering my hair and scrubbing my body raw, before allowing myself a few minutes to stand, head stooped under the strong water pressure, palms pressed to the cool tiled wall.
I closed my eyes. And for the first time since yesterday, there was no noise. No monitors, no pagers, no interns asking questions. No one bleeding. No one dying. Just water.
The peace lasted about thirty seconds. Then my brain rebooted.
I could see the cord beneath my loupes. Torn fibres, swelling, the certain death I somehow convinced myself I could cheat. I replayed the procedure in my head, step by step, searching for errors, complications I might have missed.
“Vertebral artery,” I muttered to myself. “Decompression, stabilisation, grafts, pathways…”
I opened my eyes. There was nothing I could do about it from my shower. But that didn’t stop me thinking about it.
She was probably still in surgery. Caffrey had said the pelvic repair was simple enough. But nothing about this case was simple. I wondered if anyone had paged me. Then I instantly grew irritated with myself.
I turned off the water.
I pulled on a pair of sweatpants and headed to the kitchen, running a towel over my hair as I went. I smelled good again, thank god, and my posture had finally settled into something less tense. I slung the towel over my shoulder and reached for the fridge, pausing before I opened it when my eyes landed on the name scrawled on the calendar.
Meg (the pharma rep) - 8pm.
I sighed and pulled my phone from my pocket, dialling her number and praying I got her answering machine.
“Hi, it’s Meg. Please leave your message after the tone.”
Thank god.
“Hey, it’s Stephen. I know we had a date tonight but, y’know, the city’s on fire. So we should probably take a rain check. Anyway, hope you’re safe. Maybe we can reschedule once E.T goes home. I’ll call you.”
I tossed my phone on the counter and opened the fridge, grabbing a tupperware of leftover thai food and throwing it in the microwave. I shouldn’t have said I’d call her. I wasn’t going to call her.
I carried my food to the couch and turned on the TV. News coverage of the attack. I flicked to the next channel. Death toll. Nope. Next channel. Big green guy barreling through the side of a bank. Next channel. Oh, the same footage from a different angle. Wonderful. I turned the TV off again, flicking on the record player next to me.
It’s The End Of The World As We Know It by R.E.M. began to play.
“Are you freaking kidding me?”
I switched it off again, leaning over to grab the small stack of vinyls off the coffee table. Pink Floyd - The Dark Side of the Moon sat amongst them, I slid it out of its sleeve, twirling it in my fingers for a second before swapping it onto the player, switching it on and lowering the needle gently.
I ate just to fill my stomach, leaving the rest in the tub as I leaned back to listen. Breathe started to play, and I let my eyes close for a little while. Until the pager beeped in my bag by the front door. Quiet, muffled, distant. But I heard it. I thought about leaving it in there; nothing I could do right now anyway. But I couldn’t help myself.
Juno Connor out of OR. Stable. No complications.
I nodded as I read it, letting out a quiet exhale. Bed. Time for bed.
I’d lost count of how many times I’d watched myself die.
Every door I ran through, every new place I wandered, it always ended the same way. Some were familiar; landscapes I recognised, people I’d met, a life I knew to be mine. But there were others too; a sky with three moons, a world with colours I’d never seen before. There was a city that grew from the ground like a forest; moss where roads should have been, trees as tall as skyscrapers. The people walked barefoot there. It was so beautiful. Yet still, I found myself watching helplessly as another me fell to her knees, gasping for breath until her body stilled completely.
I thought I was dreaming. But I was starting to wonder if this was death after all. If the afterlife was just a never-ending cycle of final breaths. Some of them repeated. I’d run through so many hospital rooms I could still hear the flatline ringing in my ears. I’d been back to my parents’ home too, more than once. But I could never stop the inevitable.
I was in an apartment now. It looked like mine, except the walls were a different colour, the view from the window a different skyline. I knew how this one ended; I’d been here before too. This Juno was going on a date. She’d dress up, grab her keys, step into the elevator, and plummet to her death. Every. Single. Time.
I wandered into the bathroom where I knew she’d be, stood in the doorway and watched as she blotted her lipstick, sprayed herself with perfume. She was trying to decide if her hair looked better tucked behind her ears when her gaze shifted in the mirror towards me. She gasped, then turned around quickly.
Her eyes widened. “What the f-”
My breath stilled. “You can see me?”
“Wh- What… Wh…”
“You can see me.”
She blinked hard, her head falling into her hands as she whispered breathlessly to herself. “Oh my god, am I going crazy?”
“Wait, no- No, listen to me,” I hissed, my heart pounding in my chest, making my voice catch. “You’re not going crazy-”
She looked up at me again. “You-”
“I am you. I’m you. And I need you to listen to me. Do not take the elevator.”
Her brow furrowed, eyes glossy.
“You are not dreaming. You are not going crazy. You are not hallucinating.” I whispered frantically. “Do not take the elevator. If you take the elevator, you will die.”
“What?”
“Just take the stairs. Please. Tell me you will not go in that-”
“Okay.” She nodded, terrified, confused. “Okay, I won’t go in the elevator.”
“Okay,” I said quietly, raising my hands in surrender. “I’m leaving now.”
She nodded again, her eyes never leaving mine, gaze following me as I backed out of the room.
Then I ran, heart pounding as I rushed down the stairwell. I had to get to the next one. I could save them. I could actually save them. I pushed through the door, preparing myself for where I would find myself next. But it was just a street. My street. I stopped and turned back, looking for the darkness that had followed me down every path. But it was just a doorway; a set of steps leading back up the way I’d come.
I wandered down onto the sidewalk, staring up at the building in confusion before finally walking away. She was okay. This one was finally okay.
“Fire!” a woman screamed.
I turned back as a crowd began to form, pointing and staring in horror at a blazing orange inferno licking at the windows of my apartment. Her apartment.
“No,” I whispered.
“Someone call the fire department!” A man shouted.
“No!” I screamed as I ran back towards the entrance of the stairwell.
I yanked open the door and ran inside. But there were no stairs. Instead, there was nothing.
The darkness was suffocating. I couldn’t even hear my own breath as it left me. There was no light, nothing to touch, nowhere to go.
“Juno?” a faint voice echoed through the void.
I spun around. “Hello?”
“Juno, can you hear me?”
“Yes, I can hear you!”
“If you can hear me, squeeze my hand.”
I looked down at my hands. No one was there, no one was touching me.
“Where are you?” I called, but the darkness swallowed my voice.
“Juno?”
Tag List: @j3mj3rrica @sonasri @aysamuka @kawaiigothsludgeperson @yuu-chan-is-still-a-student12
I just wanted to say that I really love your work!! A few years ago I started delving back into reading fanfics (a post-doctoral work indulgence of mine) and yours were the first I found. They inspired me to make my own, and I (also shamelessly) wanted to say that I relate to much of what you post aside this. The motivations, the struggles of updates—it’s reassuring.
So happy to always click on your updates and read!! c: 🖤
Thank you so much! I love that I inspired you to write your own fics. It’s such a satisfying, creatively freeing craft, I implore anyone with an idea for a story to try putting it on paper. Even if you never post/publish it.
It makes me sad that you can relate to the struggles, I wouldn’t wish it on anyone. But it’s also nice to know we’re not alone.
I really appreciate your message, it honestly still blows my mind whenever someone takes the time to be so kind. I hope your fic writing is going well 🤍🤍
Hi guys, I just gave myself a shameless reblog of my Surgeon Strange fic (the post below this one) to hopefully bring it back onto your feed if you missed it.
It would really mean a lot, if you’re a Doctor Strange fan, if you’d consider giving Planes of Existence a chance. I just published chapter 2 yesterday and will be trying to keep the updates more consistent. If you do read it, I would be so unbelievably grateful if you could maybe leave a like, reblog, or even leave a little comment with your thoughts? It really helps me stay motivated to write if I know people are actually interested in reading more lol.
I know I disappeared for a hot minute there, but I promise I’m going to do my best to ease back in more consistently. 🤍
The Strange Nexus: Planes of Existence || Contents
A/N: A few years ago, I published a Doctor Strange x OC fic called Anomaly on AO3 & Wattpad. And while I am still super proud of that book (as well as its [unfinished] sequel), I can’t help but feel like it wasn't at all the story it could have been, or what it was supposed to be.
I started writing and posting Anomaly chapter by chapter back in 2020 without giving it too much thought. There was an idea/concept but no real consideration behind it. Just vibes, honestly, and my first ever toe dip into the MCU. Because of that, it inevitably came out messy, unplanned, and nothing like the story I had in my head.
So with that being said, I’ve decided to write a brand new fic. Not a rewrite, not a sequel/prequel, nor a retelling. A totally new story, the story I feel these characters were always supposed to have.
If you read Anomaly and notice some similarities here, no you didn't.
I really hope you enjoy it.
Pairing: Surgeon Strange x OFC
Fandom: Dr Strange/MCU
POV: First Person Dual Narration.
Summary: It's 2012, and a catastrophic attack on New York City has left architect Juno Connor clinging to life. There’s nothing left for the emergency team to do but sit back and wait for her to die. Except one surgeon, who refuses to let her go.
Doctor Stephen Strange has never been known to doubt what his hands are capable of, but even he knows this case is impossible. Still, something dares him to try.
It's a decision that changes everything, in more ways and realities than either of them will ever be able to comprehend.
Warnings: Contains adult content which will include: details of injury and physical/mental trauma, descriptions of surgery, medical conditions & procedures, disability and medical/technical terminology.
This story is an adult romance and will contain smut and sexual content. As always, readers must be 18+
Disclaimer of sorts: While this fic is set in the US, I have written in [mostly] British English. However, I have tried my best to stick to American words, terms, phrases and dialect. I’m sure there may be occasions where I slip up, and I apologise in advance if I do. I've also done my best, through reading, research and fact checking, to make the surgical/medical/architectural aspects of this story as accurate as possible.
chapter 2... whatttt!!! you posted chapter 2....is it Christmas or what!!!!! 🤗🥳🥳🥳🥳
Of Planes of Existence? Yes! I did finally 😭 I’ve been dying to continue it, I just couldn’t wait until The Feature was over to write more. I’m so beyond excited for this one, I really feel like it might be my most ambitious story so far!
Summary: (Surgeon Strange x OFC) Stephen deals with the aftermath of the New York invasion, while Juno clings to life, over and over again.[This story is a dual narration]
Word Count: 5.7K
Warnings: Strong language, adult themes, details of injury, physical trauma and death. Readers must be 18+
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'So... This all seems horrible.' - Bruce Banner
I could barely hear the whirring of the CT scanner over the incessant chattering of the technicians behind me. I stepped closer to the window, arms folded as I watched the table move smoothly through the machine, still forced to listen to their mindnumbing hospital gossip against my will. My eyes switched between the patient and the monitors attached to her like a metronome, back and forth and back again, waiting for the first images to start coming through.
“Oh my god, no way!” one of the techs exclaimed.
“I know,” the other replied. “I couldn’t believe it when she told me.”
“How long have they been-”
“Can you two shut up?” I asked bluntly, looking over my shoulder at them.
They went quiet, wide-eyed as they stared up at me from their chairs.
“Finally.” I returned to watching the scan. “Peace at last.”
“Aren’t you neuro?” one of them asked.
“Yes, and?”
“You know this is a… lower body scan… right?”
“So?”
“So you… don’t have to be here…”
I turned around to face them again. “I performed surgery on this patient for seven hours straight last night. You think I’m just going to leave her in the care of two glorified photographers who’re more interested in who’s been swapping spit in the break room?”
The small space fell silent again, before one of them finally spoke in a quiet, wavering voice. “The chief told you to stop calling us that.”
I rolled my eyes, and turned my attention to the screen, watching as the first images began to appear. A groan rumbled in my throat and I pressed my lips together, taking a step closer to the monitor. It wasn’t good.
“She has fractures to the pelvic ring,” I said, mostly to myself.
More slices of the scan appeared. More fractures, more displacements, a haematoma, embedded debris.
“Left tibial fracture,” I muttered, before glancing over my shoulder again. “Call ortho.”
“Already did,” one of the techs replied. “Trauma requested the consult before they brought her down here.”
Of course they did.
“Who’d they call?” I asked.
“I don’t know. I think Doctor Caffrey’s the ortho on call today.”
I groaned again, louder this time.
Right on cue, there was a knock at the viewing room door. Caffrey opened it and stepped inside immediately, not waiting to be welcomed in. He was a big guy, shoulders taking up the entire doorway, a build more suited to setting bones on a battlefield than operating on them under fluorescent lights. His brown hair was escaping the edges of his scrub cap, his straight, white teeth chewing on a piece of gum as he spoke.
“Who ordered the orthopod?” he asked casually as he closed the door behind him.
I grimaced.
“Ouch,” he said, gesturing to the screen. “That pelvis is gonna need surgery.”
“There’s a fracture in the left leg too,” I said. “Tibia.”
“Mm, fibula too. See?” he tapped his finger on the screen, pointing to a small break I hadn’t noticed. “I can just put that in a cast…” He trailed off, turning his head to look at me with narrow, curious eyes. “Since when did Doctor Strange care about bones?”
“Since the bones in question belong to the most complex spinal case I’ve ever treated.”
He stood for a moment with his hands on his hips, observing the patient through the window. “Well, I guess I better get her prepped for the OR.”
“I’ll scrub in with you.”
“Nah,” he said casually, slapping a firm hand on my back. “I’ve done this kind of surgery a million times. Besides, I’m sure there’s a tumor or… a bullet lodged in a cranium somewhere that needs you.”
“Caffrey,” I glared at him. “This woman’s injuries are unprecedented. One wrong move-”
“We will follow all precautions, I promise. The neck is all yours. Her pelvis is mine.”
I was certain if I was to cut open this guy’s skull there’d be a big rock where his brain was supposed to be. I shuddered at the thought of leaving my patient in his big, ungraceful hands.
“Don't screw it up, Caffrey,” I said, swinging the door open and leaving without another word.
I’d yet to see the damage to the city with my own eyes. I’d caught glimpses on the TV in the emergency room, heard stories as I passed people in the halls, watched the smoke billowing in the distance from my office window. Aliens. Mutants. Gods. I was still struggling to accept it was all real.
My eyes were starting to itch, my body aching more than usual. I had to go home. Hopefully my apartment was still standing when I got there. I pressed my fingers into my eyelids, resting my elbows on the nurses station while I waited for the feeling to return to my feet.
The wheels on the chair behind the desk screeched against the floor, I glanced up as a nurse named Tina sat down, clicking her knuckles and typing on the computer. She caught my eyeline for a moment before returning her gaze to the screen.
“Hey, Doctor Strange,” she said. “Crazy 24 hours, huh.”
“Mm,” I mumbled. “I need to head home. Can you have someone page me when my Jane Doe gets out of surgery?”
“Jane Doe?”
“Came in yesterday, crush injuries, cervical-”
“Oh! Miss Connor?” she interrupted.
“Hm? They identified her?”
“Yeah, I thought someone would’ve told you. We were able to match her to one of the missing person reports. Then someone handed in a bunch of items they found down at the wreckage and there was a purse with all of her stuff, so…”
I watched her glide to the other end of the station in her chair, grabbing a file and rolling back towards me as she flipped it open.
“Juno Sage Connor,” she read. “32, New York, lives in Manhattan-”
“Juno…?” I raised an eyebrow. “Seriously?”
“Yeah, like the goddess. I think it’s pretty,” she replied without paying me too much mind. “She works at Meridian Architecture, her firm were the first ones to call when she didn’t come back from a job.”
“She’s an architect?”
“Mhm.” She nodded. “Says here she’s a principal architect, whatever that means. Explains why they found her on a construction site.”
I took the file and flipped the page over, leaning in to get a better look at the photocopy of her driver’s license. She looked so different from the swollen, bruised version of her I’d operated on. Yet, somehow, she seemed almost familiar.
“Next of kin?” I asked.
“Parents,” Tina replied. “They live out in New Paltz, so they can’t get here because of all the bridge and tunnel closures. But her mom’s been calling pretty consistently. She’s worried sick.”
“No spouse? Partner? No one in the city that could come?”
“Doesn’t look like it.”
I let out a quiet hum, handing the file back to her. “Well, I’m heading out. I lost count of my overtime somewhere around sunrise. Don’t forget to page me when she’s out.”
“Wait, Doctor Strange,” she said, catching me as I began to walk away. “Before you go, do you think you could give her mom a call?”
I curled my lip. “Me?”
“Well you are her surgeon…”
I rolled my eyes, taking the file back with a huff and turning towards the elevator.
I closed my office door, basking in the quiet for a moment before wandering over to the window. The plumes of smoke rising from the city skyline were no longer thick and black, but a wispy pale grey, dissipating into the clouds above. Helicopters still circled overhead; some looked military, others I couldn’t tell. Probably the news, some reporter hanging out the side trying to get the best shot of the destruction below.
I closed the blinds and walked over to my desk to sit down, letting out a long exhale as my spine curved against the back of the chair. My computer was still running, I ran my fingers over the keyboard, waking the screens in front of me, the bright light making my eyes burn.
I searched her name - Juno S Connor - bringing up her patient record and scanning over it briefly. On the other screen was the preliminary surgical report I’d thrown together somewhere in the early hours of the morning. I skimmed it, finding three typos before I’d even reached the second paragraph.
Extensive damage to the cervix-
Cervix. I stared at the word for several seconds before correcting it to cervical with a huff. I really needed to sleep.
Upon first observation of the spinal chord-
Chord? Seriously?
“Jesus Christ,” I muttered.
The file sat open on the desk in front of me, I read over the names, the notes each nurse had written down after every call her parents made, and heard Christine’s voice in the back of my head reminding me to ‘be nice’.
I dialled the number at the top of the page, barely getting the receiver to my ear before someone picked up.
“Hello?” a soft female voice asked.
“Hi there, am I speaking to Dawn Connor?”
“You are.”
“Hello, Mrs Connor, this is Doctor Stephen Strange. I’m a neurosurgeon at Metro General Hosp-”
“Neurosurgeon? Oh god.”
I cleared my throat. “Mrs Connor-”
“Is she alive?”
I paused, the fear in her voice palpable through the phone. “Yes, ma’am, she’s alive.”
She let out a shaky, uneven breath, a distant male voice thanking god in the background.
“Mrs Connor, your daughter Juno was brought into the ER yesterday. We believe she was caught in a building collapse. I don’t want to cause you any more distress than-”
“No, no, Please, Doctor, I’d like to know.”
“Okay. Alright, well, um… She sustained multiple injuries including fractures to her pelvis and left leg, as well as some bleeding and swelling around the brain. The injury I’m mostly concerned about, however, is damage she sustained to her cervical spine. It’s the part closest to her skull.”
Another breath.
“It’s called an atlanto-occipital dissociation. In layman’s terms, the structures connecting her skull to her spine were significantly disrupted.” I swallowed. “She was in surgery for around seven hours.”
“With you?”
“Yes, ma’am, I am the one who operated on her. And I assure you I did everything I could to repair the damage, but… Until she wakes up, we won’t know the extent of what we’re dealing with. She’s heavily sedated right now, we have her on a ventilator which is helping her breathe-”
“Oh god.”
“But she is… She’s stable. I’m keeping a close eye on her.”
“Is she going to be paralysed?”
I paused again, longer this time. “I don’t know.”
I hated not knowing. I never didn’t know.
“God I just wish we could be there,” she said with a slight sniffle. “We tried to drive in this morning but they turned us around at the bridge. They said the whole city’s been closed off.”
“I know, it’s… I know. I’m sorry you can’t be here right now.”
“Do you have any children?”
The distant male voice returned. “Dawn, you can’t be asking him stuff like that.”
“No, I don’t have any children,” I replied.
“Well until we get there, please look after Juno like she’s your own.”
I exhaled a quiet laugh. “I’m only four years older, I think adopting her might raise some questions.”
“Oh,” she let out a weepy giggle. “Sorry, I don’t know why I assumed…”
“That’s alright, it’s not the first time I’ve been told I sound like an old man on the phone.”
She laughed again. “What did you say your name was?”
“I’m Doctor Strange.”
“Thank you, Doctor Strange.”
I was standing in an empty hospital corridor. It smelled like disinfectant, iodine, bandages, blood. The harsh lights above me flickered like morse code, while faint music drifted from a direction I couldn’t place. I looked down at my body, touching it, making sure it was all still intact; arms, chest, stomach, neck, face. Was this a dream? Was I dead?
“Hello?” I called out.
But nothing responded except my own echo.
I walked up to the first door on my left, pushing it open and stepping inside. A heart monitor beeped steadily beside the bed, tubes and wires and IVs threaded to the patient like the strings of a marionette. I stepped closer as the ventilator hummed with each artificial breath, in and out and in and out, until I was right beside it, close enough to reach out and touch the frail hand resting limply against the sheets.
She was perfectly still, besides the rhythmic rise and fall of her chest. Her dark hair was strewn across the pillow behind her head, her face bruised and swollen, and yet, I knew her.
Me. It was me. And for some reason, I wasn’t alarmed.
I stroked her hair softly, placed the back of my hand against her cheek, weaved my fingers through hers and squeezed gently.
“You’re going to be okay,” I whispered.
But like a cruel refute, the heart monitor began to slow, setting off alarms like dominos around the room.
“Help! Someone help!” I yelled.
The monitor flatlined, letting out a long, neverending beep. I placed my hand on her chest, searching her face for something, anything.
“Please! Someone…”
I ran to the door, but as I flung it open, my breath caught in my throat. It wasn’t a corridor anymore. It was another room. With another hospital bed. Another Juno lying motionless on a ventilator. I blinked a few times, glancing back over my shoulder to check the first one was still there. Alarms still screeched, her heart still not beating.
I stepped over the threshold into the new room, walking slowly towards the bed before glancing back again. But there was nothing in the doorway now except darkness. Opaque, vacuous black. She was gone.
The familiar sound of a flatline filled the room. I snapped my head around to the bed, but this time I didn’t wait. Instead I ran straight to the door ahead of me, pushing it open and barrelling through.
“Help! In here! Pl-” I stopped, my voice stolen by a sharp gasp.
The ground beneath my feet was uneven, the air thick with smoke and silt. I immediately began to cough, looking around as I stood within the remains of an unfinished building. There were mounds of rubble and slabs of cracked, fallen concrete. Water sprayed from burst pipes as sirens wailed beyond the wreckage.
I looked back again. No hospital room, just a doorframe of cold, pitch black.
I stumbled through the dirt, following a ray of sunlight poking through an opening up ahead. A layer of dust settled on my skin, the smell of smoke and gasoline pouring in from the street.
“Hello!?” I screamed. “Help me!”
I tripped over something, knocking the air from my chest as I hit the ground. Something warm and sticky coated my palms as I tried to push myself up, deep crimson slipping through my fingertips and gathering under my nails. My eyes followed the stream across the ground, stopping when they finally fell on the source.
She was wedged beneath an iron beam, arm outstretched, short, dark hair soaked in blood, green eyes wide open, glassy, unmoving.
“This isn’t happening,” I muttered. “This is a dream. I’m dreaming. I’m dreaming. I’m dreaming. I’m dreaming-”
I stumbled to my feet, repeating the words to myself as I rushed towards the light. When I got to it, I dug my fingers into the opening, dragging away loose stone and debris until I was sure I could fit through.
The sun was bright, the air warm and clean. I planted my hands on the ground, feeling a plush layer of soft, cool grass against my skin. Only then did I realise it was quiet; no sirens, no screaming, no city in the throes of disaster. I stood up, drawing in a deep inhale of soil and pollen. I knew this place. This was my parents’ home.
Their house stood several yards away; dad’s truck in the driveway, clothes blowing on the line mom tied between two trees. I made my way across the grass and up the steps, pushing open the door and walking inside.
“Hello? Mom? Dad?”
I could hear them talking, voices drifting down the hall from the kitchen. I rushed in, my legs almost giving out when I saw them at the table; Mom, Dad, my sister Astrid, my brother River, and me.
“You guys, I think I’m dreaming and I don’t know how to wake up,” I said.
No one answered, no one even glanced in my direction.
“Guys?”
They continued to talk amongst themselves. And I found myself just standing there for a little while. Watching. Listening.
“What about yellow?” asked Mom as she placed a steaming pot in the middle of the table.
“Yellow?” Astrid raised an eyebrow.
“Yeah, like a really warm, vibrant yellow.”
“Mom, you can’t paint the house yellow,” Juno laughed. “It'll look like a big stick of butter.”
“I said a block of cheese,” said Dad.
“That too.”
“You guys just can’t see my creative vision.”
The table erupted with laughs, people talking over each other as they ate.
“Hey, seriously, when have I ever made a bad decorating choice?” mom asked.
“When you covered the whole bathtub in green tiles when we were kids,” said River.
Juno and Astrid nodded in agreement. I didn’t remember ever having a tiled tub.
“I have no recollection of doing that,” mom said.
“Yeah ‘cause you were high as hell when you did it,” River laughed.
Mom’s mouth fell open, eyes widening in shock. “I was not!”
“Yes you were!”
“I have never been high-”
“You guys were hippies in the 70’s! Of course you were high,” Juno chuckled. “Come on. Dad?”
He paused. “Yeah, she was high.”
Everyone laughed, talking over each other again as mom tried to feign innocence. I smiled as I watched them, forgetting, just for a moment, about the hospital, the rubble, the blood beneath my fingernails. Juno leaned back in her seat, and I found myself staring at her. She looked happy, healthy, relaxed.
Then her eyes flitted up suddenly, locking with mine. My heart skipped, lips parting as we looked right at each other, and for a moment, I didn’t feel like I was dreaming anymore. Her eyes narrowed, a look of confusion, maybe even fear beginning to spread across her face. Then she blinked it away, returning her attention to the people around the table.
I sucked in a breath, closing my eyes and blowing it out softly.
“Juno…” said Astrid.
I opened my eyes again.
“Hey, what’s up?” she asked, placing a hand on Juno’s shoulder.
“Honey?” asked mom, rising slowly from her seat.
I glanced back over at Juno as she sat with her head in her hands.
“Sorry, I just… Got a really bad headache all of a sudden,” she mumbled.
“Do you need to go lie down?” mom replied.
“Y-yeah, I think…” Juno began to stand up. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me, it just…”
Her legs buckled, her body falling to the floor with a thud.
“Oh my god, Juno!”
“Hey, are you okay?”
“Juno, can you hear me?”
The room erupted into chaos, everyone rushing to her with panicked yells.
“She’s not breathing,” dad shouted. “River, call an ambulance!”
My body moved before my mind could catch up, turning on my heels and bolting back towards the front door. I opened it to nothing. The same darkness that had swallowed the hospital, followed me through each room. I slammed it shut again, running back to the kitchen where my family remained; dad trying CPR, mom screaming, Astrid crying, River shouting down the phone.
I kept running, hurrying to the back door and pushing through. It was just a dream.
Just a dream. Just a dream. Just a dream.
“Yes, asshole, I can see you,” I muttered under my breath, glaring through the windshield at the idiot flapping his arms in front of my car.
I turned off the engine and climbed out, rubbing my thumb over a small scratch on the car door.
“That’s probably been a piece of shrapnel or something,” said the guy as he wandered over to me.
He was in camo fatigues, a huge assault rifle slung across his chest, toothpick hanging out of the side of his mouth.
“Mm,” I said. “Didn’t account for an extraterrestrial disaster when I decided to drive to work yesterday.”
He chuckled, looking around at the remnants of the street we were on. “Yeah, looks like a warzone.”
“Technically it is a warzone.”
He looked at me, then took the toothpick out of his mouth, using it to point back down the way I came. “West End Avenue’s closed, but if you head back down and take a right onto West 86th-”
“Oh no, I live on West End.”
“Sorry, man, it’s closed until someone comes to take this big ass spaceship thing away.”
I glanced past him over the barricade at a lump of metal embedded in the sidewalk, a pulsing purple glow emanating from it.
“I promise I won’t touch your alien motorcycle,” I said plainly, too bored and tired to reason with him.
“Can’t let you through, man. Strict orders.”
“Then who can let me through?” I snapped. “My place is right there, I can literally see it.”
He shrugged.
“Listen, I am a neurosurgeon at Metro General who's been dealing with the fallout of this shit all night. I need sleep.”
He cocked his head, eyeing my car for a moment. “You could sleep in your Lambo.”
I glared at him before turning around and heading to the trunk, opening it and slinging my bag onto my shoulder. I slammed it shut and pointed my key at the car to lock it, smiling at him as I took off towards the barricade.
“Sir?” he called out behind me. “Sir, you need to stop walking right now.”
I kept walking.
“Sir. Stop!”
I halted, rolling my eyes before reluctantly turning back around. My gaze immediately fell on his hand, the way he’d moved to grip the handle of the rifle.
“You can’t be serious,” I said.
Another man approached from behind the barricade, dressed in the same camouflage fatigues but carrying significantly less hardware.
“Is there a problem?” he asked.
“Guy says he lives inside the perimeter,” said the idiot with the gun.
“I don’t say I live there. I do live there,” I replied.
The second man eyed me for a moment. “Which building?”
“That one.” I pointed.
“You got ID?”
I huffed and reached into my back pocket, taking out my wallet and sliding out my license. He took it from me, looking at it, then over at my street, then back at it again.
“Alright,” he finally said. “Don’t go beyond your building, don’t approach any debris, and if somebody tells you to stop, you stop.”
“Wonderful.”
“Your car stays here.”
I looked at him.
“No civilian vehicles beyond the barricade,” he said.
I glanced over at my car and sighed. This was it, the straw that would finally break the camel's back.
“Don’t worry, Doc,” said the brick with eyes. “I’ll keep a close watch on the Lambo.”
“I have a photographic memory,” I said with an insincere smile. “If my car acquires so much as a fingerprint, I’ll know.”
I approached the barricade, grabbing it with one hand and vaulting over it. My shoes crunched over broken glass as I began to walk, the road and sidewalk indistinguishable beneath the debris. The building across the street had no windows left intact, and the one next to it had collapsed completely. It was impressive, really, how my side of the street had somehow remained standing. There was dust on the windows, rubble scattered near the entrances, a fire hydrant spraying water. But the buildings themselves seemed almost untouched.
I slowed down a little as I passed the main wreckage. The closer I got, the less it looked like a vehicle. The metal was charred and warped from the collision, purple light pulsing weakly like a heartbeat. Aliens. I still couldn’t quite believe it.
“Keep it moving,” said the soldier guarding it.
I rolled my eyes. Apparently scientific curiosity was also prohibited. But I was too tired to get into an argument with another moron in camouflage. So I kept walking.
I stepped into the quiet, glorious stillness of my apartment, everything exactly as I left it. Except a piece of artwork hanging slightly crooked on the wall. I kicked off my shoes and walked over to it, straightening the frame, standing back to make sure it was level. Then I dropped my bag and threw my wallet and keys on the table by the door, loosening the strap of my watch as I made my way across the open space towards the master bedroom.
I glanced briefly out the window as I put my watch on the nightstand. The building behind me had been pretty lucky too. Or at least I thought, until I noticed a car hanging off an eleventh floor balcony. I stripped off my clothes and threw them in the hamper, noticing a single speck of dried blood on my forearm. How long had that been there? Whose was it? I shuddered and headed into the bathroom.
I only ever seemed to notice the hospital smell once I stepped into my bathroom. The iodine and disinfectant, sweat and antiseptic. Even after washing my hands and changing my scrubs a million times, I could still smell the chlorhexidine on my fingers, like it had permeated my pores. I turned on the shower and walked over to the mirror, barely able to focus on my own reflection. I’d done longer stints than this, worked several days straight without stopping, yet for some reason this was the most tired I’d been in years.
I could’ve groaned in pleasure as I stepped under the hot water. My muscles loosened instantly, the steam clearing out the dusty city air from my lungs. I washed quickly, lathering my hair and scrubbing my body raw, before allowing myself a few minutes to stand, head stooped under the strong water pressure, palms pressed to the cool tiled wall.
I closed my eyes. And for the first time since yesterday, there was no noise. No monitors, no pagers, no interns asking questions. No one bleeding. No one dying. Just water.
The peace lasted about thirty seconds. Then my brain rebooted.
I could see the cord beneath my loupes. Torn fibres, swelling, the certain death I somehow convinced myself I could cheat. I replayed the procedure in my head, step by step, searching for errors, complications I might have missed.
“Vertebral artery,” I muttered to myself. “Decompression, stabilisation, grafts, pathways…”
I opened my eyes. There was nothing I could do about it from my shower. But that didn’t stop me thinking about it.
She was probably still in surgery. Caffrey had said the pelvic repair was simple enough. But nothing about this case was simple. I wondered if anyone had paged me. Then I instantly grew irritated with myself.
I turned off the water.
I pulled on a pair of sweatpants and headed to the kitchen, running a towel over my hair as I went. I smelled good again, thank god, and my posture had finally settled into something less tense. I slung the towel over my shoulder and reached for the fridge, pausing before I opened it when my eyes landed on the name scrawled on the calendar.
Meg (the pharma rep) - 8pm.
I sighed and pulled my phone from my pocket, dialling her number and praying I got her answering machine.
“Hi, it’s Meg. Please leave your message after the tone.”
Thank god.
“Hey, it’s Stephen. I know we had a date tonight but, y’know, the city’s on fire. So we should probably take a rain check. Anyway, hope you’re safe. Maybe we can reschedule once E.T goes home. I’ll call you.”
I tossed my phone on the counter and opened the fridge, grabbing a tupperware of leftover thai food and throwing it in the microwave. I shouldn’t have said I’d call her. I wasn’t going to call her.
I carried my food to the couch and turned on the TV. News coverage of the attack. I flicked to the next channel. Death toll. Nope. Next channel. Big green guy barreling through the side of a bank. Next channel. Oh, the same footage from a different angle. Wonderful. I turned the TV off again, flicking on the record player next to me.
It’s The End Of The World As We Know It by R.E.M. began to play.
“Are you freaking kidding me?”
I switched it off again, leaning over to grab the small stack of vinyls off the coffee table. Pink Floyd - The Dark Side of the Moon sat amongst them, I slid it out of its sleeve, twirling it in my fingers for a second before swapping it onto the player, switching it on and lowering the needle gently.
I ate just to fill my stomach, leaving the rest in the tub as I leaned back to listen. Breathe started to play, and I let my eyes close for a little while. Until the pager beeped in my bag by the front door. Quiet, muffled, distant. But I heard it. I thought about leaving it in there; nothing I could do right now anyway. But I couldn’t help myself.
Juno Connor out of OR. Stable. No complications.
I nodded as I read it, letting out a quiet exhale. Bed. Time for bed.
I’d lost count of how many times I’d watched myself die.
Every door I ran through, every new place I wandered, it always ended the same way. Some were familiar; landscapes I recognised, people I’d met, a life I knew to be mine. But there were others too; a sky with three moons, a world with colours I’d never seen before. There was a city that grew from the ground like a forest; moss where roads should have been, trees as tall as skyscrapers. The people walked barefoot there. It was so beautiful. Yet still, I found myself watching helplessly as another me fell to her knees, gasping for breath until her body stilled completely.
I thought I was dreaming. But I was starting to wonder if this was death after all. If the afterlife was just a never-ending cycle of final breaths. Some of them repeated. I’d run through so many hospital rooms I could still hear the flatline ringing in my ears. I’d been back to my parents’ home too, more than once. But I could never stop the inevitable.
I was in an apartment now. It looked like mine, except the walls were a different colour, the view from the window a different skyline. I knew how this one ended; I’d been here before too. This Juno was going on a date. She’d dress up, grab her keys, step into the elevator, and plummet to her death. Every. Single. Time.
I wandered into the bathroom where I knew she’d be, stood in the doorway and watched as she blotted her lipstick, sprayed herself with perfume. She was trying to decide if her hair looked better tucked behind her ears when her gaze shifted in the mirror towards me. She gasped, then turned around quickly.
Her eyes widened. “What the f-”
My breath stilled. “You can see me?”
“Wh- What… Wh…”
“You can see me.”
She blinked hard, her head falling into her hands as she whispered breathlessly to herself. “Oh my god, am I going crazy?”
“Wait, no- No, listen to me,” I hissed, my heart pounding in my chest, making my voice catch. “You’re not going crazy-”
She looked up at me again. “You-”
“I am you. I’m you. And I need you to listen to me. Do not take the elevator.”
Her brow furrowed, eyes glossy.
“You are not dreaming. You are not going crazy. You are not hallucinating.” I whispered frantically. “Do not take the elevator. If you take the elevator, you will die.”
“What?”
“Just take the stairs. Please. Tell me you will not go in that-”
“Okay.” She nodded, terrified, confused. “Okay, I won’t go in the elevator.”
“Okay,” I said quietly, raising my hands in surrender. “I’m leaving now.”
She nodded again, her eyes never leaving mine, gaze following me as I backed out of the room.
Then I ran, heart pounding as I rushed down the stairwell. I had to get to the next one. I could save them. I could actually save them. I pushed through the door, preparing myself for where I would find myself next. But it was just a street. My street. I stopped and turned back, looking for the darkness that had followed me down every path. But it was just a doorway; a set of steps leading back up the way I’d come.
I wandered down onto the sidewalk, staring up at the building in confusion before finally walking away. She was okay. This one was finally okay.
“Fire!” a woman screamed.
I turned back as a crowd began to form, pointing and staring in horror at a blazing orange inferno licking at the windows of my apartment. Her apartment.
“No,” I whispered.
“Someone call the fire department!” A man shouted.
“No!” I screamed as I ran back towards the entrance of the stairwell.
I yanked open the door and ran inside. But there were no stairs. Instead, there was nothing.
The darkness was suffocating. I couldn’t even hear my own breath as it left me. There was no light, nothing to touch, nowhere to go.
“Juno?” a faint voice echoed through the void.
I spun around. “Hello?”
“Juno, can you hear me?”
“Yes, I can hear you!”
“If you can hear me, squeeze my hand.”
I looked down at my hands. No one was there, no one was touching me.
“Where are you?” I called, but the darkness swallowed my voice.
“Juno?”
Tag List: @j3mj3rrica @sonasri @aysamuka @kawaiigothsludgeperson @yuu-chan-is-still-a-student12
Chapter Summary: Quinn and Ben make their first public appearance. (Female Reader)
Chapter Word Count: 5.5K
Chapter Warnings: Strong language, adult and sexual themes. Readers must be 18+
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A/N: Hi guys! Thank you so much for bearing with me during my time away. I appreciate all of your kind messages so much. Hope you're all still there. (p.s I know the Serpentine Summer Party doesn't take place in late July but can we just pretend for this chapter? pls)
There was an odd sense of peace that came with feeling like yesterday’s news. Like the world was slowly loosening its hold on your throat and you could finally breathe again. There were times you could still feel it, though; a brief squeeze or a sharp pinch, its grip tightening just enough to remind you it was still there; not gone, just further away.
Summer was passing by warmly, gently. Ben spent his birthday at home with you, sunbathing in the back garden, drinking aperol and acting like the book you bought him was the most wonderful gift he’d ever received. Your parents had sent him a son-in-law card, which amused him so much it still sat on the mantelpiece weeks later.
You’d filled your days with writing; legs curled under yourself in the living room armchair, laptop overheating against your thighs and a graveyard of abandoned drafts in your harddrive. Ben tried to leave you alone as much as possible, occasionally popping his head around the door to ask how you were doing, reminding you to take breaks or bringing you his latest cocktail creation to try.
The summer was his ‘down time’, the months he reserved for rest and recreation. You wondered what it must feel like to have as much control as he did over how he spent his days, who he gave his energy to, what jobs were worth his effort. You’d tried to embrace your newfound free time, bask in the security he was providing, but the truth always remained like an itch at the back of your mind; you weren’t resting, you were unemployed, and you weren’t cohabitating, you were being kept.
The cursor flashed beside the last word you’d typed, like it was waiting impatiently for you to continue. You’d re-written the same sentence four times and it still didn’t sound right. It was clunky, inartful, lacked impact. You huffed and tapped the backspace key, erasing it letter by letter as the living room door opened beside you.
You glanced up as Ben stepped into the room with a phone to his ear.
“Yeah, just one moment,” he said, before pressing the phone against his chest and looking down at you. “What dress size are you again?”
“Rude,” you replied dryly.
He rolled his eyes. “I’m on the phone with Cath, she needs to know.”
“Why does it matter what size I am? She’s your stylist, not mine.”
“She’s offered to pull you some options for tomorrow.”
“And you don’t know what size your own girlfriend wears?”
“Quinn.” He breathed out your name with a slight laugh, gesturing to the phone at his chest. “She’s waiting. Just remind me.”
“You know I’m capable of dressing myself?”
He let out a groan and began making his way over to you. You shifted further back into the armchair, watching with suspicion as he approached you.
“What are you doing?” you asked.
He brought the phone back to his ear. “Sorry, Cath, just bear with me one second.” He leaned over you and hooked his fingers into the neckline of your t-shirt, pausing to read the label and covering the phone with his hand. “A large?”
“This is yours,” you replied simply.
He sighed in realisation. “Quinn…”
“Fine.” You rolled your eyes. “Eight will do.”
He nodded and turned on his heels, returning to the call as he made his way back towards the door. “Cath, hi, sorry about that. She said an eight- Yes, UK- Shoes, erm, five- Yes. Height… Er…”
You scoffed when you saw him pause and glance over his shoulder at you cluelessly.
“Five… Four?” he said with hesitation.
You furrowed your brow at him.
“Five five?” he tried again.
You rolled your eyes and shook your head.
“I don’t know,” he huffed. “Shorter than me. Yes- No, a fair bit.”
“If I ever go missing, let’s hope to god you’re not the one giving my description to the police,” you called out as he left the room. “I’ll never be found again.”
You returned your attention to your laptop, the cursor still blinking in the middle of a half-deleted word. Ben’s voice was a muffled hum as he wandered up and down the hallway, before finally going quiet, the door creaking open again.
“You’re a pain in the arse,” he said. “Do you know that?”
You smirked. “You might have mentioned it once or twice.”
He walked into the room and dropped onto the couch opposite you, throwing his phone carelessly aside with an exhausted kind of grace.
“I told her the sort of things you like to wear,” he said, stretching one arm along the back of the cushions. “Y’know, feathers, sequins, boobs out.”
You exhaled a laugh. “Bright colours?”
“Neon green, specifically.”
“Perfect.” You smiled, allowing a brief silence to settle between you, broken only by the rhythmic tapping of your fingers against the keyboard. You managed half a sentence, then deleted it again. “You know I was just going to wear something I already have. You said it was just a summer party fundraiser… thing…”
“It is.” He nodded reassuringly. “But you know what these events are like. Industry people, fashionistas, cameras. It’s always a big deal for the press, lots of media coverage.”
“And heaven forbid I wear a dress I got three years ago in the Zara sale.”
He chuckled, glancing over at you with a slight smirk. “You could go in that t-shirt and you’d be the most beautiful person there. I just don’t want to give anyone a reason to… pick at you, y’know? It’s our first official outing as a couple. There’ll be eyes. Everywhere.”
Your stomach turned, your body jerking with an uncomfortable shudder. Ben’s house had become a sanctuary, a cushion between you and the rest of the world. It felt wrong to leave it if you didn’t have to.
The bedroom smelled like a salon; hairspray and lotions and hot, steamy air. You’d spent half the morning digging through boxes and bags in the spare room, only to realise your hair rollers were still in your flat, along with your eyelash curler, fancy perfume, and the expensive eyeshadow palette you only used on special occasions. You’d done your best with what you had; styling your hair with a dryer and round brush, taking extra time with your makeup in the hopes it wouldn't melt off under the July sun.
Now, you found yourself waiting. Sitting on the edge of the bed in one of Ben’s bathrobes, anxiously rubbing your finger over your front teeth despite already checking three times for lipstick smudges. When the front door creaked downstairs, followed by muffled voices and shuffling footsteps, you didn’t know what to do with yourself.
You stood up and wandered over to the window, peering through the blinds at the clear blue sky, the greenery below perfectly still in the absence of any breeze. Ben’s voice drifted faintly through the house; his warm laughter echoed by the voice of a woman, the screech of metal coat hangers and rustling plastic. You made your way back to the bed and sat down, listening to the hum of conversation downstairs, waiting for it to make its way up to you.
The knock on the bedroom door eventually came. You glanced up to see Ben peering around it with a smile.
“Just checking you’re decent,” he said as he stepped fully into the room.
He was already half-dressed; a white cotton t-shirt and a pair of loose cream trousers hanging low on his hips, pleated and oversized in a way that could have easily looked ridiculous. But instead, he looked effortless, comfortable, stylish. Clean, neutral tones against tanned skin and dark stubble. His hair had grown out over the summer, curling under his ears and at the nape of his neck, unruly enough that he’d given up trying to tame it.
Catherine followed him into the room, an array of garment bags draped over one arm as she dragged a small wheeled suitcase behind her. You’d met her briefly a few times before, always surprised by her dedication to wearing a well-tailored jacket no matter how hot the weather was. A shock of white hair framed her face, the rest long and brunette as she flicked it off her shoulder.
“I come bearing options,” she said, laying the garment bags carefully on the bed beside you.
“Quinh, this is Cath,” said Ben. “Cath, Quinn.”
“I remember,” she replied, smiling down at you politely.
“Alright, well I’ll be downstairs if you need anything.”
You watched him leave before shifting your gaze to her, watching how carefully she handled each piece; how slowly she unzipped them from the bags, how neatly every strip of plastic and tissue was set aside.
“Okay,” she said, half to herself. “Now, if you don’t like any of these, it’s Benedict’s fault.”
You laughed. “I’d say I trust him, but he didn’t even know how tall I was, so…”
She laughed too, gently pulling the first dress out of its bag. “Men, eh?”
You smiled, cocking your head to eye the dress as she hung it on the doorframe. It was a simple slip; silk, thin straps, in a soft butter-yellow colour. No feathers, no sequins, no neon. Perfect.
“This one is a ready-to-wear Victoria Beckham,” she said as she straightened the hem. “A bit simple, but very pretty.”
“It’s lovely.”
She opened the next bag, pulling out a long skirt with a matching cropped, sleeveless top. It had an exaggerated collar, the skirt pleated to give just the right amount of volume, a print of indigo blue flowers on crisp white fabric.
“This is Emilia Wickstead, Autumn Winter 2021,” she said as she hung it next to the first dress. “Looks a bit strange on the hanger, but it’s really quite stunning on.”
You tilted your head slightly as you looked at it.
“Trust me,” she added with a reassuring smile, before moving onto the next one. “This is Connor Ives, straight off the runway. I think he’s actually going to be there today.”
You knew immediately as she opened the bag that it was a no. The cut of the dress was beautiful; delicate, feminine, thin straps and a light, airy fabric that draped elegantly into an asymmetric hem. But it was covered in clashing patterns, black and white checks next to soft yellow and teal blue, a patch of brown florals and an odd stripe of green on one side. To the fashion world, you were sure it was revered, applauded as a work of art. But to you, it was, for lack of a better word, ugly.
“So this one’s a definite no,” she said with a slight laugh, leaving the dress inside the bag.
“Sorry,” you replied.
“No, it’s fine,” she waved her hand. “I like when a client’s decisive.”
You tried on the Victoria Beckham dress first, standing on your tiptoes as you eyed yourself in the floor length mirror, twisting your body and adjusting your braless chest, one breast refusing to sit where you wanted it.
“That can be sorted with a bit of tape,” said Cath.
“Is it industrial strength? The last thing I need right now is a public nip slip.”
She chuckled, gesturing for you to undress as she took the skirt and top set off the hanger.
“I think I’m just going to wear this,” you said with a casual shrug.
“Will you at least try it on? I think you’ll be surprised.”
You carefully peeled the soft yellow silk down your body, standing in the middle of the room, bare chested, waiting for her to come and dress you like her own lifesized doll. She crouched at your feet, instructing you to step into the skirt, pulling it up to your waist and zipping it closed. The fit was snug, the length skimming perfectly at your ankles. The top fastened all the way up to the collar, the buttons hidden seamlessly inside a panel of fabric. It felt like the shirts you wore at school, the kind that sat stiffly around your neck, stopped you from being able to look all the way down. But when you finally saw yourself in the mirror, the slight discomfort seemed entirely worth it.
You knew now why Cath had insisted you tried it on. It fit beautifully; the skirt cinching you in at the waist and flowing down in a soft a-line. It made you want to twirl around, like a little girl pretending to be a princess. The top was cropped just below your breasts, leaving your skin bare from rib to waist. But somehow, it still looked elegant. Chic, effortless, fashionable.
“That is just gorgeous,” she said, taking a step back to look at you properly. “I’ve been dying to get a client in this set.”
“And you’re wasting it on me?”
She rolled her eyes with a kind smile. “The waste would be if you didn’t wear it.”
You took another moment to look at yourself in the mirror, fluffing your hair around, shifting slightly into different poses, trying to picture what you might look like in photos. Cath unzipped the suitcase, taking a shoebox out of it and carrying it over to you. She knelt at your feet, opening the box to reveal a pair of heels in the exact same flower print. She slipped you into them, and you knew immediately they were going to hurt after an hour or two. But right now, it was hard to care.
She went back downstairs soon after, packing away the rejected outfits with as much care as she’d opened them with. You sat on the edge of the bed for a moment after she left, slipping on a couple of rings and your trusty gold huggie hoops, the watch Ben had given you what felt like a lifetime ago now. You slipped your sunglasses into the clutch bag Cath had given you, along with your lipstick and phone, and took a breath before making your way out of the room.
You could hear the hum of conversation drifting from the kitchen, clicking slowly down the hall in your heels, partly to get used to the feel of them on your feet, mostly because you were scared of scuffing them before you’d even left the house. You stepped through the door to find Ben fully dressed now; white shoes and a soft, brown embroidered jacket, yellow-tinted glasses hooked into the neckline of his t-shirt. On his wrist, just beneath his watch, was your nameplate bracelet. You didn’t even realise he still had it, the sight of it bringing back memories of the articles and speculation, the online sleuths trying to decipher it like a secret code.
He turned to look at you, eyeing you up and down before allowing a small smile to lift the corner of his mouth. “Wow,” he said simply.
“Yeah?” You wandered over to him as you spoke. “Good ‘wow’, or bad ‘wow’?”
“Good ‘wow’, obviously,” he replied, leaning down for a quick kiss.
You pressed your lips to his, giving him a soft peck, immediately running your thumb across his mouth to wipe away the sheen of lipstick you’d left behind.
“You look very stylish,” you said.
“That’s how you know I didn’t dress myself.”
You exhaled a slight laugh, turning to look at Cath as she hoisted a large bag onto her shoulder.
“I’ll send someone tomorrow to collect everything,” she said.
Ben nodded. “No problem. Thank you.”
“There’s some blister patches and a couple of stain remover pens on the counter. Don’t forget to take them with you, just in case.” She turned before leaving the room, eyes flitting over to you. “And remember, if anyone asks, who are you wearing?”
You paused. “Emilia Wickford?”
“Wickstead,” she corrected.
“Wickstead, right.”
She left down the hall with her assistant in tow, dragging a metal clothing rack noisily over the lip of the front door. When it finally closed, the silence was serene. You returned your gaze to Ben with a smile, reaching up to run your fingers over the trim of his jacket.
“You’re going to be warm in this,” you said.
“Beauty is pain,” he replied.
You laughed softly, running both palms gently up his chest, fingers brushing over the soft fabric at his collar; neatening it, despite it already laying perfectly. His hands came up naturally to rest at your waist, thumbs stroking over the exposed strip of skin between your top and skirt.
“You look incredible,” he said, his voice so low and gentle it was almost a murmur.
You smiled appreciatively before exhaling a soft sigh through your nose. “Why are we doing this?”
“Because the longer we hide, the more it looks like we have something to be hiding from. I was invited, and I accepted, because I have no reason not to. And I have no reason not to bring my partner with me.” His grasp tightened slightly at your waist, firm and protective. “We did nothing wrong.”
You paused for a moment, looking up at him. “Partner…” you repeated, almost teasingly.
He laughed. “Girlfriend sounds too… juvenile. Doesn’t feel right in my mouth.”
His phone buzzed on the kitchen island. He turned to pick it up, glancing down at the screen for a moment before slipping it into the back pocket of his trousers. “The car’s here.”
You resisted the urge to protest, opting instead for a deep, lung-filling breath and a resigned nod.
The sun’s rays were blisteringly hot, making the air so thick and damp you felt like you were wading through it as you stepped out of the air-conditioned car. Tall hedges surrounded the entrance of the event, their flowers letting off an aroma so sickly sweet it made you feel instantly nauseous.
Sounds drifted over the nearby fences; music, clinking glasses, the hum of a thousand conversations taking place at once. You drifted away for a moment, eyes glazing over as you took it all in, like a prisoner stepping out of solitary confinement directly into a busy train station at rush hour. The path leading down to the event was lined by a small pit of photographers, huddled together and sweltering beneath the unrelenting sun.
You felt Ben’s fingers slip between yours before you’d even realised he was beside you, the firm grip of his hand like an anchor stopping you from disappearing completely. He said something, but you didn’t quite catch it, letting him walk you together down the path, switching sides to place himself between you and the cameras as they began to click and flash in sporadic bursts.
“You okay?” he asked, giving your hand a squeeze.
You looked up at him blankly for a moment, blinking away the daze and nodding with a slight smile.
“Benedict, this way!” a voice called from the pit.
“Just on that mark!” shouted another.
“Over here please Benedict!”
He stopped you both, turning to face the cameras and wrapping a hand around your waist, the other slipping into his trouser pocket. It was all so instinctive for him, like muscle memory, like he’d learned to sit in the chaos, in the discomfort of feeling so exposed. Where your body stiffened, his remained loose, where your jaw clenched, his mouth curled into a perfect smile.
“Over here!”
“Slightly more this way!!”
You still felt nauseous, but it wasn’t the flowers anymore.
“Quinn!”
Your heart was thudding, the air too thick to take a good breath.
“Give us a smile, Quinn!”
Your eyes flitted directly towards the photographer. Not with a smile. But with a look. A look that made certain he would never tell another woman to smile ever again.
Ben must have sensed it, leaning down slightly to whisper to you. “Ignore them.”
“Can we get an over-the-shoulder!?”
“Kiss!”
“Just Benedict now!”
That one you could do, gladly. You stepped aside without a moment’s hesitation, backing away until you were certain you were out of shot. He looked over his shoulder at you, as though checking you were okay, and you gave a slight reassuring nod in response. He turned to face the cameras again, adjusting his stance and slipping his hands into the pockets of his trousers. You watched on, fanning yourself with your hand and shifting your weight from side to side to soothe the ache already forming in the balls of your feet.
“Another few together now!” one of them called out.
Ben raised his hands, his tone polite yet firm. “No, that’s more than enough now.”
He extended his hand to you, and you took it in yours, letting him lead you away from the chaos as he gave a few kind waves and a thumbs up, ignoring the persistent shouting for more photos.
“Cheers guys,” he said calmly, sternly.
The cloying floral scent began to fade as you made your way inside, replaced by freshly cut grass, warm beer, and a clash of perfumes and colognes from guests mingling on the lawn. You wandered around at Ben’s side for a while; stopping with him whenever he ran into someone he knew, standing politely at his side like the silent plus-one you swore you’d never become. You would say thank you when someone complimented your outfit, ignore the brief, unsettling pang in your chest whenever someone you’d never met already knew your name. You would pose for photos with an ease that almost surprised you; shoulders relaxed, face angled to your ‘good side’, legs crossed at the ankles, Ben’s hand around your waist as you turned slightly into him.
You’d spent months imagining scenarios just like this one; events filled with people who had read every headline, seen every photograph, heard every rumour. Walking into rooms of strangers who’d already decided exactly what kind of woman you were. Now you were there, and it was becoming more and more apparent that no one actually cared. There were no lingering stares, no conversations that seemed to stop the moment you approached, no tuts or shaking heads or curled lips.
Fame was an ecosystem, with its own language, its own food chain, its own habitats. These people had evolved to thrive within it; fluent in its rules and rituals, so well-adapted to the environment that they moved through it with instinct. Those on the outside simply stood with their faces pressed up to the glass, studying, catching glimpses and drawing conclusions.
You were beginning to understand now, that everyone inside knew it was all an exhibition. The interviews, the appearances, the carefully worded statements and conveniently anonymous sources, it was all for the people beyond the glass. But inside, in the places they couldn’t reach, the corners they couldn’t see around, nobody cared to pretend any of it was real.
It was a somewhat comforting realisation. But there was also a part of you that found it maddening. Your life had been turned upside down; you’d lost your job, your privacy, your reputation. All for a scandal that somehow ceased to exist the moment there was no audience to perform it for.
“You doing okay?” Ben asked softly, placing his hand on the back of your neck.
You looked up at him and nodded. “Feels weird being somewhere like this without a press lanyard around my neck.”
“You’ve joined the dark side.”
“I was always a bit darksided anyway,” you replied with a slight smirk.
He smiled, deep lines forming in his cheeks and around his eyes. “Tell me about it,” he said, unhooking his glasses from the neckline of his t-shirt and slipping them onto his face.
You kept your gaze on him for a little longer, admiring his sunkissed complexion, the way his hair curled slightly behind his ears, the slope of his nose as he tilted his face towards the sun. Music drifted from somewhere beyond the pavilion, the bass softened by the hum of conversations. There was a breeze now, but it wasn’t refreshing. It was thick and warm, like an oven door had been opened right in front of you.
You wafted your hand in front of your face like a fan, trying to stop the sweat beading through your makeup. Ben looked down at you, noticing your discomfort.
“Let’s go and sit in the shade,” he said, taking your hand and beginning to walk without waiting for your response.
“Hi, excuse me, Benedict?” said a woman jogging up beside you. “Hi, sorry, I’m Lou, I’m here with British Vogue. I wondered if we could just get a quick shot and a few words about what you’re wearing?”
He slowed gently to a stop in the middle of the grass, glancing at her, then at you.
“I’m fine,” you said, gesturing for him to do it.
You took a few steps back, standing off to the side and waiting as he talked the woman through his outfit. You let your eyes wander around the event; celebrity spotting, people watching, scoping out a shady place to sit.
Then you saw her.
Your fingers tightened around your clutch bag, stomach twisting into a hard, uncomfortable knot. There was a crowd of people between you, half her body obscured by a trellis of pink flowers and thick ivy. Yet still, you knew without a doubt that it was Ellen Ford.
She was dressed in a deep plum structured gown, a pair of exquisitely tailored grey trousers peeking through a deep slit in the skirt. Her grey hair was pulled back in a bun, slick and neat, eyes hidden behind a pair of pointed sunglasses.
You felt the urge to turn your back and hide, yet for some reason your legs were already moving, carrying you across the grass towards her. Your heart was pounding, sweat turning the underside of your hair curly. A waiter stopped to offer you a flute of champagne and you took it without stopping, weaving through the crowd until you were close enough for her words to become clear, for the people she was standing with to notice you approaching them.
You recognised her assistant from Draft; was his name Jack? Jamie? Jake, maybe? He nudged her gently, nodding in your direction. She turned, seemingly unfazed by your presence, and simply waved her group away.
“Quinn, you’re looking well,” she said in her usual bored, smoky voice.
You exhaled through your nose, the breath coming out hot and shaky.
“Who are you wearing?” she asked, lifting her sunglasses and cocking her head to examine your outfit. “It’s very nice.”
“You threw me under the bus,” you finally said. “You fired me publicly, you fed into the lies Dan Swain’s been spreading, you tarnished my reputation as a journalist-”
“Well I think you did that all on your own, didn’t you,” she interjected calmly.
You furrowed your brow. “What?”
“You manipulated a superior to get an interview you were unprepared to conduct, undermined a colleague by stealing the opportunity from them, made a mockery of my magazine by sleeping with your subject.”
“And you think that justifies publicly validating Dan’s lies? You think that’s a good stance for your precious magazine to have?” You shifted slightly closer to her. “I never made a complaint. I never threatened to make a complaint. But do you know what did happen? I was assaulted. I was pinned to a wall and groped and kissed and if I hadn’t kneed that fucker in the balls-”
“I’m aware of what happened, Quinn. I’m the one who fired him,” she said, her tone emotionless, like she couldn’t care less.
“And still, you backed him up. You lied in that statement to protect him.”
She sighed, sliding her sunglasses onto her head, like she was finding the whole thing utterly exhausting. “I wasn’t protecting Daniel Swain. I was protecting the magazine.”
“By ruining my life.”
She rolled her eyes. “Oh, come on. You’re standing here right now; beautiful clothes, champagne in hand, rubbing shoulders with the elite, on the arm of a rich and successful actor. Your life is hardly ruined.”
You clenched your jaw, inhaling a deep breath before responding. “My livelihood is ruined. How will I ever work in journalism again after this?”
She scoffed out a quiet laugh. “You were never a journalist, let’s be honest. You wrote puff pieces, filler articles. You were there to put the padding around the stuff that actually mattered.”
Your breath caught, anger bubbling in your chest. “You were going to publish my piece.”
“Because you’re a good writer. That’s nothing to do with journalism.” She paused briefly in thought. “You don’t need employability to be a writer. You could… I don’t know, start a blog? Go into social media, become an influencer? You’re pretty enough for it. And now you’re with Benedict, money is no issue, so you’ve got all the time in the world to figure it out.”
You paused, awestruck by her callousness, staring at her in disbelief. “You really don’t care, do you…”
“About you?”
“About the truth!”
She sighed. “For goodness sake, lower your voice-”
You exhaled a clipped laugh. “Don’t tell me what to do. I don’t work for you anymore.”
“That’s right, you don’t. And as much as the concept of accountability seems to repel you, you have no one to blame for that but yourself.”
“I-”
“You didn’t threaten Daniel with false accusations, but you did offer sexual favours in exchange for the job. You didn’t know Benedict before the interview, but you did get involved with him during it. So what would you like me to do, Quinn? Retract the statement? Replace the things people are saying about you with the equally despicable truth?”
You remained still for a moment, looking right at her, your pulse throbbing in your throat. “Yeah.”
She narrowed her eyes at you, lip curling in confusion.
“Yes. Take it back, tell the truth.”
Her expression remained tight for a moment, before softening with a slight laugh. “You don’t really believe that would make your situation any better…”
“No,” you said bluntly. “But that’s not the point.”
She let out a sigh, rolling her eyes again as she put her sunglasses back on. “The media is everchanging, Quinn. And the people who consume it are fickle. They’ll forget and move onto the next villain soon enough.”
You shook your head, almost disappointedly. “How can an editor-in-chief be so comfortable with publishing lies?”
“You’d be surprised,” she chuckled, before letting her expression turn neutral again. “I was doing what was best for the survival of my magazine.”
“Maybe I should do what’s best for my own survival then,” you replied. “Share the truth.”
She shrugged. “You said yourself, you don’t work for me anymore.”
You felt a hand on your lower back, glancing over your shoulder to find Ben suddenly at your side.
“There you are…” he began, trailing off when he realised who you were talking to.
“Benedict,” she said.
“Ellen,” he replied curtly.
“You should keep a closer eye on your other half here.” She gestured to you. “She’s quite a livewire.”
You smiled at her. “And you’re a cunt.”
“Oop, alright, off we go,” said Ben, taking you by the shoulder and quickly ushering you away.
“I wasn’t finished with my conversation,” you said as he walked you back across the lawn.
“Conversation.” He repeated the word skeptically, slowing down as you made it into the heart of the crowd, his hand falling to grip yours, like he was scared you’d disappear again, run back and punch the woman in the face.
You glanced back as you walked. Ellen had already rejoined her group, champagne in hand, your interruption seemingly already forgotten.
“What was that about?” asked Ben.
“What do you think?”
“I’m guessing it went well; you’re best friends now and she gave you your job back?” he asked sarcastically.
You couldn’t help but let out a slight giggle, but the irritation quickly flooded right back in.
Ben noticed. “Do you want to go home?”
“No.” Your champagne was warm now, but you gulped it down anyway. “She told me I should be an influencer.”
He laughed, stopping quickly when he saw your disgruntled face. “Not sure you’re the type to be flogging supplements and teeth whitening kits online.”
Another smile crept across your face. “How did your chat with Vogue go?”
“It was fine. They actually wanted to get a few shots of you too, which is when I noticed you’d ran off.”
“They wanted pictures of me?”
“Mhm. Why wouldn’t they? Look at you.”
You rolled your eyes, leaning into him slightly as you strolled together through the party.
“God, this really is a totally different environment, isn’t it,” you said. “I’ll admit it’s nice though, being able to walk around together without feeling like the whole world is watching.”
You stopped on the edge of the lawn, turning to face each other, still hand-in-hand. He brushed a lock of hair from your face before placing a finger under your chin, tilting your face up to him. He leaned down, pressing a soft, reverent kiss against your lips.
A bright light flashed beside you. You both turned to see a photographer, his camera aimed right at you.
Ben looked back down at you with a quiet chuckle. “Spoke too soon.”
Chapter Summary: Quinn and Ben make their first public appearance. (Female Reader)
Chapter Word Count: 5.5K
Chapter Warnings: Strong language, adult and sexual themes. Readers must be 18+
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A/N: Hi guys! Thank you so much for bearing with me during my time away. I appreciate all of your kind messages so much. Hope you're all still there. (p.s I know the Serpentine Summer Party doesn't take place in late July but can we just pretend for this chapter? pls)
There was an odd sense of peace that came with feeling like yesterday’s news. Like the world was slowly loosening its hold on your throat and you could finally breathe again. There were times you could still feel it, though; a brief squeeze or a sharp pinch, its grip tightening just enough to remind you it was still there; not gone, just further away.
Summer was passing by warmly, gently. Ben spent his birthday at home with you, sunbathing in the back garden, drinking aperol and acting like the book you bought him was the most wonderful gift he’d ever received. Your parents had sent him a son-in-law card, which amused him so much it still sat on the mantelpiece weeks later.
You’d filled your days with writing; legs curled under yourself in the living room armchair, laptop overheating against your thighs and a graveyard of abandoned drafts in your harddrive. Ben tried to leave you alone as much as possible, occasionally popping his head around the door to ask how you were doing, reminding you to take breaks or bringing you his latest cocktail creation to try.
The summer was his ‘down time’, the months he reserved for rest and recreation. You wondered what it must feel like to have as much control as he did over how he spent his days, who he gave his energy to, what jobs were worth his effort. You’d tried to embrace your newfound free time, bask in the security he was providing, but the truth always remained like an itch at the back of your mind; you weren’t resting, you were unemployed, and you weren’t cohabitating, you were being kept.
The cursor flashed beside the last word you’d typed, like it was waiting impatiently for you to continue. You’d re-written the same sentence four times and it still didn’t sound right. It was clunky, inartful, lacked impact. You huffed and tapped the backspace key, erasing it letter by letter as the living room door opened beside you.
You glanced up as Ben stepped into the room with a phone to his ear.
“Yeah, just one moment,” he said, before pressing the phone against his chest and looking down at you. “What dress size are you again?”
“Rude,” you replied dryly.
He rolled his eyes. “I’m on the phone with Cath, she needs to know.”
“Why does it matter what size I am? She’s your stylist, not mine.”
“She’s offered to pull you some options for tomorrow.”
“And you don’t know what size your own girlfriend wears?”
“Quinn.” He breathed out your name with a slight laugh, gesturing to the phone at his chest. “She’s waiting. Just remind me.”
“You know I’m capable of dressing myself?”
He let out a groan and began making his way over to you. You shifted further back into the armchair, watching with suspicion as he approached you.
“What are you doing?” you asked.
He brought the phone back to his ear. “Sorry, Cath, just bear with me one second.” He leaned over you and hooked his fingers into the neckline of your t-shirt, pausing to read the label and covering the phone with his hand. “A large?”
“This is yours,” you replied simply.
He sighed in realisation. “Quinn…”
“Fine.” You rolled your eyes. “Eight will do.”
He nodded and turned on his heels, returning to the call as he made his way back towards the door. “Cath, hi, sorry about that. She said an eight- Yes, UK- Shoes, erm, five- Yes. Height… Er…”
You scoffed when you saw him pause and glance over his shoulder at you cluelessly.
“Five… Four?” he said with hesitation.
You furrowed your brow at him.
“Five five?” he tried again.
You rolled your eyes and shook your head.
“I don’t know,” he huffed. “Shorter than me. Yes- No, a fair bit.”
“If I ever go missing, let’s hope to god you’re not the one giving my description to the police,” you called out as he left the room. “I’ll never be found again.”
You returned your attention to your laptop, the cursor still blinking in the middle of a half-deleted word. Ben’s voice was a muffled hum as he wandered up and down the hallway, before finally going quiet, the door creaking open again.
“You’re a pain in the arse,” he said. “Do you know that?”
You smirked. “You might have mentioned it once or twice.”
He walked into the room and dropped onto the couch opposite you, throwing his phone carelessly aside with an exhausted kind of grace.
“I told her the sort of things you like to wear,” he said, stretching one arm along the back of the cushions. “Y’know, feathers, sequins, boobs out.”
You exhaled a laugh. “Bright colours?”
“Neon green, specifically.”
“Perfect.” You smiled, allowing a brief silence to settle between you, broken only by the rhythmic tapping of your fingers against the keyboard. You managed half a sentence, then deleted it again. “You know I was just going to wear something I already have. You said it was just a summer party fundraiser… thing…”
“It is.” He nodded reassuringly. “But you know what these events are like. Industry people, fashionistas, cameras. It’s always a big deal for the press, lots of media coverage.”
“And heaven forbid I wear a dress I got three years ago in the Zara sale.”
He chuckled, glancing over at you with a slight smirk. “You could go in that t-shirt and you’d be the most beautiful person there. I just don’t want to give anyone a reason to… pick at you, y’know? It’s our first official outing as a couple. There’ll be eyes. Everywhere.”
Your stomach turned, your body jerking with an uncomfortable shudder. Ben’s house had become a sanctuary, a cushion between you and the rest of the world. It felt wrong to leave it if you didn’t have to.
The bedroom smelled like a salon; hairspray and lotions and hot, steamy air. You’d spent half the morning digging through boxes and bags in the spare room, only to realise your hair rollers were still in your flat, along with your eyelash curler, fancy perfume, and the expensive eyeshadow palette you only used on special occasions. You’d done your best with what you had; styling your hair with a dryer and round brush, taking extra time with your makeup in the hopes it wouldn't melt off under the July sun.
Now, you found yourself waiting. Sitting on the edge of the bed in one of Ben’s bathrobes, anxiously rubbing your finger over your front teeth despite already checking three times for lipstick smudges. When the front door creaked downstairs, followed by muffled voices and shuffling footsteps, you didn’t know what to do with yourself.
You stood up and wandered over to the window, peering through the blinds at the clear blue sky, the greenery below perfectly still in the absence of any breeze. Ben’s voice drifted faintly through the house; his warm laughter echoed by the voice of a woman, the screech of metal coat hangers and rustling plastic. You made your way back to the bed and sat down, listening to the hum of conversation downstairs, waiting for it to make its way up to you.
The knock on the bedroom door eventually came. You glanced up to see Ben peering around it with a smile.
“Just checking you’re decent,” he said as he stepped fully into the room.
He was already half-dressed; a white cotton t-shirt and a pair of loose cream trousers hanging low on his hips, pleated and oversized in a way that could have easily looked ridiculous. But instead, he looked effortless, comfortable, stylish. Clean, neutral tones against tanned skin and dark stubble. His hair had grown out over the summer, curling under his ears and at the nape of his neck, unruly enough that he’d given up trying to tame it.
Catherine followed him into the room, an array of garment bags draped over one arm as she dragged a small wheeled suitcase behind her. You’d met her briefly a few times before, always surprised by her dedication to wearing a well-tailored jacket no matter how hot the weather was. A shock of white hair framed her face, the rest long and brunette as she flicked it off her shoulder.
“I come bearing options,” she said, laying the garment bags carefully on the bed beside you.
“Quinh, this is Cath,” said Ben. “Cath, Quinn.”
“I remember,” she replied, smiling down at you politely.
“Alright, well I’ll be downstairs if you need anything.”
You watched him leave before shifting your gaze to her, watching how carefully she handled each piece; how slowly she unzipped them from the bags, how neatly every strip of plastic and tissue was set aside.
“Okay,” she said, half to herself. “Now, if you don’t like any of these, it’s Benedict’s fault.”
You laughed. “I’d say I trust him, but he didn’t even know how tall I was, so…”
She laughed too, gently pulling the first dress out of its bag. “Men, eh?”
You smiled, cocking your head to eye the dress as she hung it on the doorframe. It was a simple slip; silk, thin straps, in a soft butter-yellow colour. No feathers, no sequins, no neon. Perfect.
“This one is a ready-to-wear Victoria Beckham,” she said as she straightened the hem. “A bit simple, but very pretty.”
“It’s lovely.”
She opened the next bag, pulling out a long skirt with a matching cropped, sleeveless top. It had an exaggerated collar, the skirt pleated to give just the right amount of volume, a print of indigo blue flowers on crisp white fabric.
“This is Emilia Wickstead, Autumn Winter 2021,” she said as she hung it next to the first dress. “Looks a bit strange on the hanger, but it’s really quite stunning on.”
You tilted your head slightly as you looked at it.
“Trust me,” she added with a reassuring smile, before moving onto the next one. “This is Connor Ives, straight off the runway. I think he’s actually going to be there today.”
You knew immediately as she opened the bag that it was a no. The cut of the dress was beautiful; delicate, feminine, thin straps and a light, airy fabric that draped elegantly into an asymmetric hem. But it was covered in clashing patterns, black and white checks next to soft yellow and teal blue, a patch of brown florals and an odd stripe of green on one side. To the fashion world, you were sure it was revered, applauded as a work of art. But to you, it was, for lack of a better word, ugly.
“So this one’s a definite no,” she said with a slight laugh, leaving the dress inside the bag.
“Sorry,” you replied.
“No, it’s fine,” she waved her hand. “I like when a client’s decisive.”
You tried on the Victoria Beckham dress first, standing on your tiptoes as you eyed yourself in the floor length mirror, twisting your body and adjusting your braless chest, one breast refusing to sit where you wanted it.
“That can be sorted with a bit of tape,” said Cath.
“Is it industrial strength? The last thing I need right now is a public nip slip.”
She chuckled, gesturing for you to undress as she took the skirt and top set off the hanger.
“I think I’m just going to wear this,” you said with a casual shrug.
“Will you at least try it on? I think you’ll be surprised.”
You carefully peeled the soft yellow silk down your body, standing in the middle of the room, bare chested, waiting for her to come and dress you like her own lifesized doll. She crouched at your feet, instructing you to step into the skirt, pulling it up to your waist and zipping it closed. The fit was snug, the length skimming perfectly at your ankles. The top fastened all the way up to the collar, the buttons hidden seamlessly inside a panel of fabric. It felt like the shirts you wore at school, the kind that sat stiffly around your neck, stopped you from being able to look all the way down. But when you finally saw yourself in the mirror, the slight discomfort seemed entirely worth it.
You knew now why Cath had insisted you tried it on. It fit beautifully; the skirt cinching you in at the waist and flowing down in a soft a-line. It made you want to twirl around, like a little girl pretending to be a princess. The top was cropped just below your breasts, leaving your skin bare from rib to waist. But somehow, it still looked elegant. Chic, effortless, fashionable.
“That is just gorgeous,” she said, taking a step back to look at you properly. “I’ve been dying to get a client in this set.”
“And you’re wasting it on me?”
She rolled her eyes with a kind smile. “The waste would be if you didn’t wear it.”
You took another moment to look at yourself in the mirror, fluffing your hair around, shifting slightly into different poses, trying to picture what you might look like in photos. Cath unzipped the suitcase, taking a shoebox out of it and carrying it over to you. She knelt at your feet, opening the box to reveal a pair of heels in the exact same flower print. She slipped you into them, and you knew immediately they were going to hurt after an hour or two. But right now, it was hard to care.
She went back downstairs soon after, packing away the rejected outfits with as much care as she’d opened them with. You sat on the edge of the bed for a moment after she left, slipping on a couple of rings and your trusty gold huggie hoops, the watch Ben had given you what felt like a lifetime ago now. You slipped your sunglasses into the clutch bag Cath had given you, along with your lipstick and phone, and took a breath before making your way out of the room.
You could hear the hum of conversation drifting from the kitchen, clicking slowly down the hall in your heels, partly to get used to the feel of them on your feet, mostly because you were scared of scuffing them before you’d even left the house. You stepped through the door to find Ben fully dressed now; white shoes and a soft, brown embroidered jacket, yellow-tinted glasses hooked into the neckline of his t-shirt. On his wrist, just beneath his watch, was your nameplate bracelet. You didn’t even realise he still had it, the sight of it bringing back memories of the articles and speculation, the online sleuths trying to decipher it like a secret code.
He turned to look at you, eyeing you up and down before allowing a small smile to lift the corner of his mouth. “Wow,” he said simply.
“Yeah?” You wandered over to him as you spoke. “Good ‘wow’, or bad ‘wow’?”
“Good ‘wow’, obviously,” he replied, leaning down for a quick kiss.
You pressed your lips to his, giving him a soft peck, immediately running your thumb across his mouth to wipe away the sheen of lipstick you’d left behind.
“You look very stylish,” you said.
“That’s how you know I didn’t dress myself.”
You exhaled a slight laugh, turning to look at Cath as she hoisted a large bag onto her shoulder.
“I’ll send someone tomorrow to collect everything,” she said.
Ben nodded. “No problem. Thank you.”
“There’s some blister patches and a couple of stain remover pens on the counter. Don’t forget to take them with you, just in case.” She turned before leaving the room, eyes flitting over to you. “And remember, if anyone asks, who are you wearing?”
You paused. “Emilia Wickford?”
“Wickstead,” she corrected.
“Wickstead, right.”
She left down the hall with her assistant in tow, dragging a metal clothing rack noisily over the lip of the front door. When it finally closed, the silence was serene. You returned your gaze to Ben with a smile, reaching up to run your fingers over the trim of his jacket.
“You’re going to be warm in this,” you said.
“Beauty is pain,” he replied.
You laughed softly, running both palms gently up his chest, fingers brushing over the soft fabric at his collar; neatening it, despite it already laying perfectly. His hands came up naturally to rest at your waist, thumbs stroking over the exposed strip of skin between your top and skirt.
“You look incredible,” he said, his voice so low and gentle it was almost a murmur.
You smiled appreciatively before exhaling a soft sigh through your nose. “Why are we doing this?”
“Because the longer we hide, the more it looks like we have something to be hiding from. I was invited, and I accepted, because I have no reason not to. And I have no reason not to bring my partner with me.” His grasp tightened slightly at your waist, firm and protective. “We did nothing wrong.”
You paused for a moment, looking up at him. “Partner…” you repeated, almost teasingly.
He laughed. “Girlfriend sounds too… juvenile. Doesn’t feel right in my mouth.”
His phone buzzed on the kitchen island. He turned to pick it up, glancing down at the screen for a moment before slipping it into the back pocket of his trousers. “The car’s here.”
You resisted the urge to protest, opting instead for a deep, lung-filling breath and a resigned nod.
The sun’s rays were blisteringly hot, making the air so thick and damp you felt like you were wading through it as you stepped out of the air-conditioned car. Tall hedges surrounded the entrance of the event, their flowers letting off an aroma so sickly sweet it made you feel instantly nauseous.
Sounds drifted over the nearby fences; music, clinking glasses, the hum of a thousand conversations taking place at once. You drifted away for a moment, eyes glazing over as you took it all in, like a prisoner stepping out of solitary confinement directly into a busy train station at rush hour. The path leading down to the event was lined by a small pit of photographers, huddled together and sweltering beneath the unrelenting sun.
You felt Ben’s fingers slip between yours before you’d even realised he was beside you, the firm grip of his hand like an anchor stopping you from disappearing completely. He said something, but you didn’t quite catch it, letting him walk you together down the path, switching sides to place himself between you and the cameras as they began to click and flash in sporadic bursts.
“You okay?” he asked, giving your hand a squeeze.
You looked up at him blankly for a moment, blinking away the daze and nodding with a slight smile.
“Benedict, this way!” a voice called from the pit.
“Just on that mark!” shouted another.
“Over here please Benedict!”
He stopped you both, turning to face the cameras and wrapping a hand around your waist, the other slipping into his trouser pocket. It was all so instinctive for him, like muscle memory, like he’d learned to sit in the chaos, in the discomfort of feeling so exposed. Where your body stiffened, his remained loose, where your jaw clenched, his mouth curled into a perfect smile.
“Over here!”
“Slightly more this way!!”
You still felt nauseous, but it wasn’t the flowers anymore.
“Quinn!”
Your heart was thudding, the air too thick to take a good breath.
“Give us a smile, Quinn!”
Your eyes flitted directly towards the photographer. Not with a smile. But with a look. A look that made certain he would never tell another woman to smile ever again.
Ben must have sensed it, leaning down slightly to whisper to you. “Ignore them.”
“Can we get an over-the-shoulder!?”
“Kiss!”
“Just Benedict now!”
That one you could do, gladly. You stepped aside without a moment’s hesitation, backing away until you were certain you were out of shot. He looked over his shoulder at you, as though checking you were okay, and you gave a slight reassuring nod in response. He turned to face the cameras again, adjusting his stance and slipping his hands into the pockets of his trousers. You watched on, fanning yourself with your hand and shifting your weight from side to side to soothe the ache already forming in the balls of your feet.
“Another few together now!” one of them called out.
Ben raised his hands, his tone polite yet firm. “No, that’s more than enough now.”
He extended his hand to you, and you took it in yours, letting him lead you away from the chaos as he gave a few kind waves and a thumbs up, ignoring the persistent shouting for more photos.
“Cheers guys,” he said calmly, sternly.
The cloying floral scent began to fade as you made your way inside, replaced by freshly cut grass, warm beer, and a clash of perfumes and colognes from guests mingling on the lawn. You wandered around at Ben’s side for a while; stopping with him whenever he ran into someone he knew, standing politely at his side like the silent plus-one you swore you’d never become. You would say thank you when someone complimented your outfit, ignore the brief, unsettling pang in your chest whenever someone you’d never met already knew your name. You would pose for photos with an ease that almost surprised you; shoulders relaxed, face angled to your ‘good side’, legs crossed at the ankles, Ben’s hand around your waist as you turned slightly into him.
You’d spent months imagining scenarios just like this one; events filled with people who had read every headline, seen every photograph, heard every rumour. Walking into rooms of strangers who’d already decided exactly what kind of woman you were. Now you were there, and it was becoming more and more apparent that no one actually cared. There were no lingering stares, no conversations that seemed to stop the moment you approached, no tuts or shaking heads or curled lips.
Fame was an ecosystem, with its own language, its own food chain, its own habitats. These people had evolved to thrive within it; fluent in its rules and rituals, so well-adapted to the environment that they moved through it with instinct. Those on the outside simply stood with their faces pressed up to the glass, studying, catching glimpses and drawing conclusions.
You were beginning to understand now, that everyone inside knew it was all an exhibition. The interviews, the appearances, the carefully worded statements and conveniently anonymous sources, it was all for the people beyond the glass. But inside, in the places they couldn’t reach, the corners they couldn’t see around, nobody cared to pretend any of it was real.
It was a somewhat comforting realisation. But there was also a part of you that found it maddening. Your life had been turned upside down; you’d lost your job, your privacy, your reputation. All for a scandal that somehow ceased to exist the moment there was no audience to perform it for.
“You doing okay?” Ben asked softly, placing his hand on the back of your neck.
You looked up at him and nodded. “Feels weird being somewhere like this without a press lanyard around my neck.”
“You’ve joined the dark side.”
“I was always a bit darksided anyway,” you replied with a slight smirk.
He smiled, deep lines forming in his cheeks and around his eyes. “Tell me about it,” he said, unhooking his glasses from the neckline of his t-shirt and slipping them onto his face.
You kept your gaze on him for a little longer, admiring his sunkissed complexion, the way his hair curled slightly behind his ears, the slope of his nose as he tilted his face towards the sun. Music drifted from somewhere beyond the pavilion, the bass softened by the hum of conversations. There was a breeze now, but it wasn’t refreshing. It was thick and warm, like an oven door had been opened right in front of you.
You wafted your hand in front of your face like a fan, trying to stop the sweat beading through your makeup. Ben looked down at you, noticing your discomfort.
“Let’s go and sit in the shade,” he said, taking your hand and beginning to walk without waiting for your response.
“Hi, excuse me, Benedict?” said a woman jogging up beside you. “Hi, sorry, I’m Lou, I’m here with British Vogue. I wondered if we could just get a quick shot and a few words about what you’re wearing?”
He slowed gently to a stop in the middle of the grass, glancing at her, then at you.
“I’m fine,” you said, gesturing for him to do it.
You took a few steps back, standing off to the side and waiting as he talked the woman through his outfit. You let your eyes wander around the event; celebrity spotting, people watching, scoping out a shady place to sit.
Then you saw her.
Your fingers tightened around your clutch bag, stomach twisting into a hard, uncomfortable knot. There was a crowd of people between you, half her body obscured by a trellis of pink flowers and thick ivy. Yet still, you knew without a doubt that it was Ellen Ford.
She was dressed in a deep plum structured gown, a pair of exquisitely tailored grey trousers peeking through a deep slit in the skirt. Her grey hair was pulled back in a bun, slick and neat, eyes hidden behind a pair of pointed sunglasses.
You felt the urge to turn your back and hide, yet for some reason your legs were already moving, carrying you across the grass towards her. Your heart was pounding, sweat turning the underside of your hair curly. A waiter stopped to offer you a flute of champagne and you took it without stopping, weaving through the crowd until you were close enough for her words to become clear, for the people she was standing with to notice you approaching them.
You recognised her assistant from Draft; was his name Jack? Jamie? Jake, maybe? He nudged her gently, nodding in your direction. She turned, seemingly unfazed by your presence, and simply waved her group away.
“Quinn, you’re looking well,” she said in her usual bored, smoky voice.
You exhaled through your nose, the breath coming out hot and shaky.
“Who are you wearing?” she asked, lifting her sunglasses and cocking her head to examine your outfit. “It’s very nice.”
“You threw me under the bus,” you finally said. “You fired me publicly, you fed into the lies Dan Swain’s been spreading, you tarnished my reputation as a journalist-”
“Well I think you did that all on your own, didn’t you,” she interjected calmly.
You furrowed your brow. “What?”
“You manipulated a superior to get an interview you were unprepared to conduct, undermined a colleague by stealing the opportunity from them, made a mockery of my magazine by sleeping with your subject.”
“And you think that justifies publicly validating Dan’s lies? You think that’s a good stance for your precious magazine to have?” You shifted slightly closer to her. “I never made a complaint. I never threatened to make a complaint. But do you know what did happen? I was assaulted. I was pinned to a wall and groped and kissed and if I hadn’t kneed that fucker in the balls-”
“I’m aware of what happened, Quinn. I’m the one who fired him,” she said, her tone emotionless, like she couldn’t care less.
“And still, you backed him up. You lied in that statement to protect him.”
She sighed, sliding her sunglasses onto her head, like she was finding the whole thing utterly exhausting. “I wasn’t protecting Daniel Swain. I was protecting the magazine.”
“By ruining my life.”
She rolled her eyes. “Oh, come on. You’re standing here right now; beautiful clothes, champagne in hand, rubbing shoulders with the elite, on the arm of a rich and successful actor. Your life is hardly ruined.”
You clenched your jaw, inhaling a deep breath before responding. “My livelihood is ruined. How will I ever work in journalism again after this?”
She scoffed out a quiet laugh. “You were never a journalist, let’s be honest. You wrote puff pieces, filler articles. You were there to put the padding around the stuff that actually mattered.”
Your breath caught, anger bubbling in your chest. “You were going to publish my piece.”
“Because you’re a good writer. That’s nothing to do with journalism.” She paused briefly in thought. “You don’t need employability to be a writer. You could… I don’t know, start a blog? Go into social media, become an influencer? You’re pretty enough for it. And now you’re with Benedict, money is no issue, so you’ve got all the time in the world to figure it out.”
You paused, awestruck by her callousness, staring at her in disbelief. “You really don’t care, do you…”
“About you?”
“About the truth!”
She sighed. “For goodness sake, lower your voice-”
You exhaled a clipped laugh. “Don’t tell me what to do. I don’t work for you anymore.”
“That’s right, you don’t. And as much as the concept of accountability seems to repel you, you have no one to blame for that but yourself.”
“I-”
“You didn’t threaten Daniel with false accusations, but you did offer sexual favours in exchange for the job. You didn’t know Benedict before the interview, but you did get involved with him during it. So what would you like me to do, Quinn? Retract the statement? Replace the things people are saying about you with the equally despicable truth?”
You remained still for a moment, looking right at her, your pulse throbbing in your throat. “Yeah.”
She narrowed her eyes at you, lip curling in confusion.
“Yes. Take it back, tell the truth.”
Her expression remained tight for a moment, before softening with a slight laugh. “You don’t really believe that would make your situation any better…”
“No,” you said bluntly. “But that’s not the point.”
She let out a sigh, rolling her eyes again as she put her sunglasses back on. “The media is everchanging, Quinn. And the people who consume it are fickle. They’ll forget and move onto the next villain soon enough.”
You shook your head, almost disappointedly. “How can an editor-in-chief be so comfortable with publishing lies?”
“You’d be surprised,” she chuckled, before letting her expression turn neutral again. “I was doing what was best for the survival of my magazine.”
“Maybe I should do what’s best for my own survival then,” you replied. “Share the truth.”
She shrugged. “You said yourself, you don’t work for me anymore.”
You felt a hand on your lower back, glancing over your shoulder to find Ben suddenly at your side.
“There you are…” he began, trailing off when he realised who you were talking to.
“Benedict,” she said.
“Ellen,” he replied curtly.
“You should keep a closer eye on your other half here.” She gestured to you. “She’s quite a livewire.”
You smiled at her. “And you’re a cunt.”
“Oop, alright, off we go,” said Ben, taking you by the shoulder and quickly ushering you away.
“I wasn’t finished with my conversation,” you said as he walked you back across the lawn.
“Conversation.” He repeated the word skeptically, slowing down as you made it into the heart of the crowd, his hand falling to grip yours, like he was scared you’d disappear again, run back and punch the woman in the face.
You glanced back as you walked. Ellen had already rejoined her group, champagne in hand, your interruption seemingly already forgotten.
“What was that about?” asked Ben.
“What do you think?”
“I’m guessing it went well; you’re best friends now and she gave you your job back?” he asked sarcastically.
You couldn’t help but let out a slight giggle, but the irritation quickly flooded right back in.
Ben noticed. “Do you want to go home?”
“No.” Your champagne was warm now, but you gulped it down anyway. “She told me I should be an influencer.”
He laughed, stopping quickly when he saw your disgruntled face. “Not sure you’re the type to be flogging supplements and teeth whitening kits online.”
Another smile crept across your face. “How did your chat with Vogue go?”
“It was fine. They actually wanted to get a few shots of you too, which is when I noticed you’d ran off.”
“They wanted pictures of me?”
“Mhm. Why wouldn’t they? Look at you.”
You rolled your eyes, leaning into him slightly as you strolled together through the party.
“God, this really is a totally different environment, isn’t it,” you said. “I’ll admit it’s nice though, being able to walk around together without feeling like the whole world is watching.”
You stopped on the edge of the lawn, turning to face each other, still hand-in-hand. He brushed a lock of hair from your face before placing a finger under your chin, tilting your face up to him. He leaned down, pressing a soft, reverent kiss against your lips.
A bright light flashed beside you. You both turned to see a photographer, his camera aimed right at you.
Ben looked back down at you with a quiet chuckle. “Spoke too soon.”
Firstly, thank you so much to everyone who has reached out to me while I’ve been MIA. I truly appreciate it even though I’ve not been able to respond. I’m really sorry for not getting back to all of your asks, messages and comments, but I promise I’ve read them all and am deeply grateful.
I didn’t intend for this break to turn into a full blown hiatus. It started as a little bit of writer’s block, mixed with being quite busy and run down irl, so I took some time to hopefully get back on track. However, instead of getting back on track, I ended up in the absolute trenches lmao.
I’ve been quite open in the past about my struggles with mental illness, late autism diagnosis, and the total shit show my life has been over the last few years. In November, I noticed I was having bouts of severe anxiety, more severe than I'd experienced in a really long time. I also became very obviously depressed, and by the beginning of this year, it was clear my medications were no longer working and I deteriorated to the point where my mental health was the worst it’s been in a very long time. Being a parent, I ended up in a situation where the little amount of energy and mental capacity I had basically went on keeping my kids alive. Everything else suffered. I would usually write on the weekends when the kids went to their dad’s. It was my peace and my me-time. A hobby, but also something I truly care about and have invested a lot into. But instead of opening my laptop, I would bed rot, or stare at the wall, or ruminate for the duration of my 'alone time'. My self care fell to the wayside, chores and tasks piled up, sleep became non-existent.
It’s so hard to explain. I didn’t want to die. But I was struggling to see a future beyond how I was feeling. It was very clear that I needed help, and I have gotten help.
I saw my GP (who is fucking wonderful by the way. A true diamond, I love her). She was very worried about me, which made me realise how bad things were. I had my medication increased and she sent me to counseling and therapy (my counselor is lovely and so is my therapist, I’ve been really lucky. We must protect the NHS at all costs). It’s been around 3 months now and I’m noticing small improvements; the anxiety attacks are less frequent, the feelings of despair are also settling down, I’m starting to feel a little bit more human again. I have a long, long way to go, but I’m doing good.
My kids are nuts. The big one is going to secondary school in September (she starts her SATs on Monday, please wish her luck!). The little one is like my shadow; if he could crawl into my skin and live there, he would. He’ll be starting nursery in September and his favourite words are currently ‘bitch’, ‘jesus christ’ and ‘oh hell no, man, what the fuck’ (yes, like the meme). Not at all appropriate for a 3 year old in a catholic school nursery, but unfortunately very funny. He hit the TV with a hanger yesterday and broke the screen. I’m too poor to replace it so we’ll be watching his weird ass youtube videos on my phone for the foreseeable future. Being a parent with autism is not for the weak. Being a parent with autism and mixed anxiety depression disorder is even worse. But my daughter’s friend did ask if I was her sister recently, so every cloud has a silver lining I suppose.
Throughout all of this, I’ve genuinely thought about my fics, writing and you guys pretty much every day. I’m not even joking. This is a really positive little piece of my life, and it’s one of the only things in my life that I do solely for myself. I’ve invested years into these stories, and I’m so aware that many of you have invested that same amount of time into supporting them. I’m so, so sorry for being gone as long as I have.
I’m finally starting to feel motivated to write again, but I’m still struggling with terrible writer's block, especially when it comes to The Feature. I know exactly what I want to write but the words just won’t come out of me. I’m doing everything I can to push through and overcome it but I don’t know how long that’s going to take, or if what I eventually write will even be any good. But I’m really trying. And I know you guys understand that, I just wanted to put it out there. Like maybe if I acknowledge it, it might actually help it pass.
I really hope you’re all doing well. If anyone’s struggling, please seek help. It feels impossible when you’re in the thick of it, but I promise it’s not as daunting as it seems.
