#and I just know my coworker thinks I watch fucked up shit on youtube now but I DONT!! I just have unmedicated anxiety& am terminally online!

[pissmoon]

The way i have men coworkers lecturing me about how 'women just say they were raped and u get fired n go to jail that's how it works' and how victims are supposed to act like n if ur acting angry or smile ever Ur lying?? as a survivor thx to entire j*hnny d*pp meme bs. I told this gamer redditor vibes idiot its more likely ull end up in jail for killing ur abuser/rapist than for being a rapist n he said 'but well murder is a serious crime'. Oh wow so rape and domestic abuse is not?

#this guy always sounded like a total fucking idiot to me like i disagree with most of my coworkers but i dont get in discussions abt it but #theyre not this fucking dumb and evil even if theyre centrist liberal leaning #other coworkers noticed i got super angry n were like omg u came at him so hard but idk i think theyre both guilty n we dont know everythin #hes all fake nice now but im still glad i have 0 shifts with him next week #thx i did cbt 3 years ago n was so thick-skinned when it comes to dumb shit men say but now i feel like these dudebros about to start makin #rape jokes every 2 days n make fun of me if i show a shadow of emotion #i dont need to watch any of these dumbass youtubers to see how d*pp apologists dont care abt abuse victims #the guy i used to somewhat like is friends with this dude eww lol fuck him #what am i supposed to say? no one who raped me or abused me ended up in jail or fired? n those who did it to my friends just lost some #friends but theyd never end up friendless and lonely

[southislandwren]

I’ve had to fend off TWO kids now from watching YouTube on my phone. Listen all I watch is gaming and music theory content but I am absolutely not letting a kid go loose on fucking youtube

#like I should’ve known explaining algorithms and elsagate wouldn’t make sense but come on. trust the fucking adult in the situation #gaming -> pokimaine -> half naked people -> straight up porn. fucking 7 degrees of separation but for fucked up shit #music theory -> classical music -> historical military marches -> nazis. come ON people!!!! #and I just know my coworker thinks I watch fucked up shit on youtube now but I DONT!! I just have unmedicated anxiety& am terminally online! #trust me I spend every waking moment consuming media. I’m not letting anyone under the age of 10 anywhere near youtube w/o adult supervision #and I’m not going to be responsible for my boss’s kids learning about something they shouldn’t know about yet #I mean hell my youtube shorts are all rainbolt and GPB. poo talks about grown up stuff like fucking nonstop #rainbolts fine I would set that 6 yo on his stuff anytime. nothin wrong with being really good at geoguessr #idk. it got me all worked up and I know I gotta relax but like damn I’m tired of telling kids to give me my phone back #diary post

[qelflinq]

Every porn take I see blow up on here says the exact same thing and it’s wild to see 20,000 people play absolutely stupid every single time lol. “2 people should be allowed to record themselves having good angel consensual sex and that’s why porn is good actually so stop saying it’s bad😇” Ok how come that’s your position that’s not even a very divisive thing to say. Come on now defend the porn made in a studio with a pornstar man and a pornstar woman whose Instagram comments are full of old men describing how they’d like to violate her (best case scenario). Like WHO is taking up an issue with the ethical shit when they talk about porn. That’s literally 2% of porn you assholes KNOW the other 98% (the pornhub most searched , the shit most curious 11 year olds will see first) is simulated rape/incest/pedophilia (oftentimes all 3). I’m not saying the straight guy favourites are all like this, but even the majority of “normal” porn reestablishes really fucked up ways to view women (as do things like weightwatchers and razor ads but that’s probably pushing it a bit too much on here). I guess part of the problem is that hardly anybody on this website can think or see beyond themselves and their own porn habits. Like sure maybe (maybe) Rocko| 23| he/they only gets off to AO3 fanfiction but the kink freedom warriors don’t love mentioning the swaths of men that go abt their day fantasizing about controlling or hurting women. Do they just not exist when we consider the effects porn has on us? Or are they not supposed to be a problem, and I’m just another grouch yucking somebody’s yum? The men that are our classmates and coworkers and family members etc etc the men we have to interact with daily. Like I’m sorry but not everyone lives in Tumblr world 100% of the time lol it doesn’t make us anti sex crones to think it’s weird that porn is so accessible and commercialized and STILL so influenced by misogyny (again I’m talking THE MAJORITY of it not the ethical shit everyone uses as an example when defending porn). I’m starting to get ads from onlyfans telling me to sign up 👍 telling me hey girl this is such a fun opportunity to make money. Is that not like, evil?? Is that not scary to anyone? Like now it’s the company itself explaining how good and empowering it is to have your income dictated by how jackoffable you are deemed by strangers forming fantasies surrounding your body? Whether my body is a particular fetish? Nobody online rly wants to talk about the other side of sex work. Abt how it’s so closely linked to addiction and poverty in real life. It’s not just silly cute cosplay photoshoots that stay within the greater queer community. And even when it is, if you come across any trans OF creators twitter, a great chunk of their comments are (often conservative) men who want to hurt/degrade them. It’s not a new or made up phenomenon. You can very much witness it for yourself. Most people DO witness it, I guess it’s just not really a priority so it’s better ignored? It’s useless trying to have a normal conversation about these things cause everybody reblogs the same posts to show they share the same opinions. When the internet is this fast ur priorities shift, I get it. It’s easier to form opinions based on others safe agreeable pre-written ones. So often I see or hear someone regurgitating some shit I KNOW they read on a Tumblr post or heard in a YouTube essay cause bro I saw it too. Sometimes it’s straight up word for word. Like what ! Does nobody read books anymore. Or go to work. Or go outside and talk to people. I know it’s hard to find time to think about things much when there r so many tiktoks to watch, posts to read, pictures to chuckle and so little free-time in your day to do all that. It’s crazy to me that if you’re not a woman on here , you’re probably not gonna think about how women are treated at all.

[madwickedawesome]

juno. juno what are your favorite nischa hcs?

OH MY LORDY SO MANY OF THEM. hmmmm also all of these r in my perfect world where they dated before their deaths bc <///3

(under the cut bc this is kinda long my b)

mischa is soo good at baking (his mother taught him) and noel loves to eat all the silly pastries and desserts he makes bc he will always decorate them w the GOOOOOFIEST SHIT like he’ll walk up to noel and be like “what do i put on my cupcakes.” and noel will be like “idk???!!!!!!” and mischa will end up making like minion cupcakes or some shit [to the intense dismay/amusement of noel gruber]

noel (love language words of affirmation) gruber and mischa (love language physical touch) bachinski. they are absolutely INSUFFERABLE to be around. initially they were kind of iffy on pda but eventually they end up violently making out with one another when they think no one can see or hear them (EVERYONE can see and hear them like oh my god)

mischa tried teaching noel some ukrainian and started w lovey dovey words like pet names and how to say i love you and stuff and then he ran out of cute stuff and now noel knows most swear words and 20 variations of the word balls?????????? additionally noel tried teaching mischa some french and mischa caught on QUICK and hes so proud of himself for occassionally texting noel in only mildly broken french good for him

noel writes lullaby-style love songs that still play into his romanticization of his oui oui bonjour headass (love him) and mischa frequently raps about noel and how love is love and gets so mad at youtube haters

additionally mischa and noel holding a party for themselves bc mischa hit 2k youtube subs slay

mischas “parents” kick him out quite often and noel is more than happy to let him sleep over :] they do participate in pillow fights and painting each others’ nails and talking just so much shit. also noels mom looooves him despite him being unconventional for the area bc hes such a silly goose and shes happy he keeps noel in check and happy

i cannot stress how much shit they talk like it is unreal how judgmental they are . noel will be working a shift and mischa will burst in and walk up to the counter and give a vague sentence as to what the latest gossip is and then take a seat and watch as noel claps his hand over his mouth they r dramatic AND judgmental like!!!!

noel initially got so embarrassed when mischa would just Come Into His Workplace while he was working but eventually he got used to it and his coworkers all tease him for it

mischa and noel visiting an art museum and noel dragging them to the european paintings section. noel giving his interpretation of one of the paintings as mischa barely holds back tears bc did i mention how dramatic and emotional this guy is holy shit

neither of them have good chopstick form. thats it thats just me saying this dudes can NOT use chopsticks

mischa having a teddy bear from home and being kind of embarrassed abt it bc not only is he a cool masculine man but he is also a caring mature lover who does not have time to cuddle next to a teddy bear!! however noel is kind abt it and the teddy bear is Here 2 Stay!!!!!!!!!

matching stick and pokes thats it (theyre so fucking stupid i adore them)

whatever these are

bonus

I LOVE MY GAYS!!!!!!!!!

#my sillies #sorry this is crazy long

[jovalencia]

how has your day been? in as many words as possible pls

wow. aiming for the stars. bold since you know how much I love to talk but I’ll give the people what they want

my day was pretty good all things considered. the things we’re considering is that I worked 3-8 instead of 12-5 today and I don’t even have a show to watch with my family tonight. the bachelorette was crazy last night kallie you would have loved it.

anyways the play by play of my day was I woke up at 9:55 bc my friend has her radio show from 10-12 and I listen as often as I can. but it wasn’t even her on the radio it was some other bitch but I was already awake so I just stayed up even though I was up late last night reading fanfiction and texting bi guy jason and journaling. so I ate my breakfast which was an overripe mango which I ate peel and all over the kitchen sink and gas station potato wedges I got from work two days ago. it was fine. and I watched a youtube video on the barbie movie by a youtuber I’m subscribed to while I ate. but I was still tired and I had enough time to take a nap so I did and let me tell you the last fucking thing I wanted to do was get up but alas I did. and I was hungry so I had a struggle meal (so you could call every meal I have these days) it of an entire can of green beans. I heated them in the microwave ofc but honestly they were fucking delicious.

I left for work a little later than I wanted and that was stressing me out and I started listening to my playlist from last summer and I must have played that shit to death bc I skipped like a million songs before I got to one I could listen to. I got to work and I liked all my coworkers that were there which is a fucking miracle and my three favorite coworkers (the guy my age, the woman who got hired the day before me, and the manager who doesn’t give a shit how much work anybody’s doing and has been perpetuating the wheels vs doors debate for a week) were all there so I was content. even if all the customers were fucking cunts for some reason like idk what was in the air today but people were being such assholes but it was fine bc every time they walked away my coworkers and I would just talk shit about them. btw I didn’t like the woman who got hired the day before me at first but now me and her are like this 🤞 ily sandy. she’s so fucking real and every time I tell her that she’s so real she laughs bc she thinks it’s such a funny phrase. but she literally is I swear to god I would have lost it if I was the only new cashier. but apparently she got a way better training process then me bc she’s constantly like “nobody taught you how to do x or told you that you need to do y? that’s so weird” like yeah sandy it is weird. and both of us have the same irrational fear that every other one of our coworkers hates us but at least we like each other so it’s fine. bottom line I love sandy she’s my best friend and I hope when summer ends and I quit that she goes and finds a better job she deserves it. also both of us got soooooo excited when we saw the new halloween candy display like fuck yeah you know what time it is

all the coworkers were talking about arbys at work and I’ve never even gotten anything other than fries and I was starving and we have no food at home because my family sucks at grocery shopping so I went to arbys and got a french dip sandwich and some mozzarella sticks. the sky was beautiful on the drive home and when I got there my mom was sitting on the couch in the front room crocheting but I opted to be a hermit and eat in my room. I got some grease on my bedspread but it’s fine. I started the new garrett watts video bc I have to watch all of his videos it’s tradition. well it’s usually tradition to drink starbucks while I watch his videos. maybe instead of finishing it while I go through my drafts I’ll watch it tomorrow after work and get myself a lil drink as a treat. bc that tradition started back in 2020 when every thursday after my last online class instead of killing myself like I wanted to I would go and use my years and years of starbucks gift cards to buy myself a lil drink then go on a lil drive and go home and drink my drink while I watched the newest sweet boys (garrett watts and andrew siwicki) podcast episode while I embroidered. anyways after that greasy ass dinner I was feeling like collapsing and dying so I ate half a green bell pepper in the kitchen. and even though that was all like less than an hour and a half ago I’m really fucking hungry again. I literally don’t understand how I’m always so hungry. it’s pissing me off.

since then I’ve just been fucking around on my phone and I think I’m gonna write my diary entry of the day then take my shower (I have to wash my hair boo👎👎👎) then try and go to sleep I’m fucking exhausted. speaking of my diary thanks for asking me this bc I’m probably just gonna copy paste it instead of actually writing the diary entry for today. which I’m ideally gonna write in a week but I’m back to being two weeks behind on my diary again. I knew that was gonna happen with dani visiting and all but it still sucks. hopefully I can get my act together before school starts. thanks!

#I love talking!!!!!! #meemaw😨

[robinruns]

Ok, let's see if I can get my thoughts from this weird ass day out of my head

I slept hard last night. Like I woke up enough at 6 to turn off my alarm, then half an hour later heard Kyle's alarm. I struggled to get going so I didnt go in early to do any overtime. When I got to work, I realized I left my phone at home. I don't think I woke up fully until 9:30. I had a meeting at 11 am and oof.

So my work does this wellness program and we didn't get the highest score this year because they now include mental health policies as a portion of the score. I brought up that it would be nice if we had designated mental health days, or clarity in the sick time policy that allows for taking time off due to mental health reasons.

Boomer Coworker: Well I could say it's really nice out and I need a mental health day on the golf course lololol

Me: I have days where I struggle to get out of bed due to depression, but I do because I'm not physically ill so I don't feel like I can call in. Sometimes my anxiety is so bad I'm feeling physically ill, but I don't feel like I can leave. Having a definitive policy that allows for time off for mental health reasons would be really helpful.

Coworker with a Brain: Thank you for sharing all that, we'll take that to (HR lady) and see what we can do

BC: Oh yea we can do that, I'm not totally heartless

No buddy, I know you're not, but you're a bit thick headed sometimes. I sent a follow up after the meeting to the coworker who has common sense and said if they want any opinions or input from someone that is Actually Mentally Ill, I'd be more than happy to help. I shouldn't have to put my fucking diagnoses out on the table to have what I'm saying be taken seriously, but here we are.

Then I went home for lunch, Kyle had the episode of IASIP where they're trying to get in to the World Series on and when he finished his work call said "I put this on because the regular channel had baseball on." He didn't see the irony until I pointed it out later.

Afternoon was super fast since I left early for therapy. I'm glad that we're not beating around the bush and just straight up saying the root of my problems is my non existent self worth. My "homework" for this time is to watch a YouTube video and come up with a list of consequences for things that don't have obvious consequences, such as "when I don't take the time to put away laundry, I end up feeling like shit and it exacerbates my already bad mental health."

The thing is, what consequence is there if I don't? Ha, suck on that Jordyn!!

God I wish I loved myself

ANYWAY!!!

We then went to McDonalds for dinner and got Adult Happy Meals again, we've gotten 2 of the 4 (5?) Toys so far. I dunno if we're gonna try to collect them all but getting chicky nugs from McDonalds is so much easier than making dinner.

Then I laid on the couch and thought about how I should be editing a fic with the change to the backstory that I came up with recently. And watched more IASIP. And now I'm in bed.

#personal

[thereisnoblogniche]

more personal diary thoughts on trauma and TLOU

sort of.

I really do have fucking issues. I know this. I'm in therapy. but it's going to take years to start digging through this.

god this is so embarrassing.

it makes me angry to see behind the scenes shit of pedro and bella. not because they aren't hilarious and adorable. but because it reminds me that it's not real. well, that's one of the reasons. I have had to unpack this all morning after seeing cute montages of them together. I'm still figuring it out.

they're obviously not actually related, in the show or in real life. but i feel sad and angry that they're not. they're supposed to be my de facto father/daughter relationship. this is me living vicariously through them and their story. please, why are you being real right now? go back to being joel and ellie. stop laughing together and hugging all normally and naturally, like coworkers who have bonded.

I'm literally about to cry hahaha i'm so fucking stupid. i hate this.

I guess when I said in my other entry that it's bringing up uncomfortable stuff, first of all, it's confusing that I find pedro/joel to be so attractive. because the real crux of this is that I feel abandoned and miss being a little girl and wish I had had a better childhood. I don't want to be attracted to someone who is reminding me of that. i'm not expressing this longing of a father/daughter relationship through dating "daddys" or wanting someone like that romantically. it's just me living vicariously in a fictional world and dreaming of being in that situation, where I am saved and chosen over and over again, and someone is comforting me. and yes, i guess experiencing a sort of dad/daughter journey like joel and ellie.

i mean from a psychology perspective, maybe it makes perfect sense that I want that and feel it's unresolved in my childhood/adolescence. That the ache in my heart when I see those moments on screen is an all-too familiar ache. Not too many fictional moments have caused that. I struggle to think of a single one besides this and it hit the fucking hardest.

I had a similar thing with Tony Stark. Yes, I found him "attractive" but I couldn't think of him sexually. I tried. All I saw him as was a hero to save the world. I wanted him to mentor me. I wanted him to Peter Parker me. I guess I wanted the bond and the relationship there. But it seemed to get confused with romantic/sexual feelings because god forbid a person have intense feelings that aren't either of those things.

i think it's just a way for me to resolve some of my childhood trauma. there's other things i'm not saying because even though i don't intend for anyone to read this, it's online, and there's a chance someone might read it. there's other factors to my history and trauma that might be complicating my feelings and making this harder.

it's all scary and difficult and I hate that a good show with good actors who are just being silly and having fun could turn me into such a self-hating, angry, sad little monster. I just want to be loved. i just want to feel validated. I want that to be me I guess. I get jealous when I see happy families or relationships I wish I had.

I admit I've felt like that seeing some family vlogs/YouTube shorts. I've felt that jealousy toward friends who have stable, loving homes. Who grew up normal and well-adjusted, a concept so foreign I almost got culture shock.

God. I want to be self-compassionate and tell myself it's understandable i'd feel this way. it's understandable that emotions, situations anywhere and everywhere can trigger this feeling of abandonment, of longing, of past pain that hasn't healed. it's not silly.

but my god i can't help but just feel so incredibly silly and dumb. i just want to enjoy this show and simp for pedro like a normal person. instead i have to complicate it with my trauma and make watching BTS content an exercise in self-regulation.

#personal

[nevermindirah]

Do you have any thoughts on the use of AAVE for Nile (or lack thereof) in TOG fanfiction? I've been reading some Book of Nile fic and some writers seem to write her as a Millennial™ (using words like "fave" and "woke") but never acknowledge her Blackness in her patterns of speech. I know we don't see her use as much AAVE in the films, but I would argue she's in situations where code-switching would be valued (first in a "professional" environment in the army, then around a group of non-Black strangers).

Hi anon! I have many thoughts on this and I'm honored you asked me! But I should start by saying I'm white and any thoughts Black fans and especially Black American fans have on this that they want to share would be beyond lovely. (I'm not gonna tag anybody bc that feels rude but please add onto this post if any of y'all see this and want to!)

The main reason I personally avoid AAVE for Nile in my own fics is because I'm not Black. But Nile-centric fics by Black writers tend to avoid using much of it too, at least from what I've noticed/understood, and my guess is it's largely for the reason you mention, that she's in situations that encourage code-switching.

In movie canon Nile is highly competent at tailoring her language to each situation she finds herself in. This fantastic linguistics analysis meta shows how skillfully Nile chooses her vocabulary and grammar to meet her goals with different conversation partners in different contexts. In comics canon Nile had a bunch of different civilian jobs before joining the Marines, so she would've had experience code-switching in the ways that made sense for all those different contexts as well as the Marines and her family and high school and wherever else she spent her time before we met her. And now she's spending her time with a handful of immortals none of whom are native English speakers and a fellow Black American but one with a Queen's English UK accent whose professional experience is in the CIA where high-status code-switching is often an absolute must for success or even survival.

Fics featuring Nile are charged with extrapolating from that to how it might show up in her use of language that she's coping with a traumatic separation from her family and her career and pretty much everything she's ever known and now she needs to be able to make herself understood to people who seem to care about her and each other but are super duper in crisis, three (soon to be four) of whom predate Modern English entirely and the only one who's anywhere near her contemporary she's not supposed to talk to for a century. All of these people are telling her that pretty much any contact with any mortals poses an existential threat to her and the rest of the group. How the FUCK is she supposed to cope with that, like, generally? And would it be a more effective way for her to cope if she talked to Andy Joe and Nicky using the speech patterns that she used to use with her mom and brother, to at least retain that part of her identity even if it means having to do a lot of explaining, or would it meet her needs better to prioritize Andy Joe and Nicky understanding what she means with her words over using the particular words and grammar forms she used with her family?

I've seen several fics, both Nile-centric / BoN and otherwise, explore this a little bit in how/whether Nile uses Millennial™ speak. It's often a theme in Nile texting Booker despite the exile because of the popular headcanon that he as The Tech Guy is the only other immortal who understands memes. But Nile's much-younger-than-Booker mom probably uses Boomer and/or Gen X memes and Andy has been adapting to new communication styles for forever as evidenced by her canon high level of fluency with standard-American-accented English.

Which brings us back to people avoiding AAVE because they're not Black and they don't want to make mistakes (or they're not Black and they don't want to get yelled at for making mistakes, though I think many people overestimate how much they'll get yelled at while underestimating how much these mistakes can hurt). I can imagine some Black fans hold back from using much AAVE in fic because they don't want to share in-group stuff with white people who are likely to then adopt and ruin it, as white people so often do with Black cultural stuff. Some links about this including a great Khadija Mbowe video. I'm saying this gently, anon, because you might not know: woke, an example you cited as Millennial™ speak, is AAVE, and that's gotten erased by so many white people appropriating it and using it incorrectly online.

And also there's the part where fandom is a hobby and you never know when you're reading a fic that's the very first thing someone's ever written outside of a school assignment. This cultural considerations of language shit takes a level of effort and skill that not everybody puts into every fic, or even could if they wanted to because they haven't had time to build their skills yet. It's definitely easier for non-Black fans to project our millennial feels onto Nile than to do the layers of research and self-reflection it requires to depict what Blackness might mean to Nile, and it's not surprising that often people sharing their hobby creations on the internet have gone the easier route. There's not even necessarily shame in doing what's easier. It's just frustrating and often hurtful when structural white supremacy means that 3-dimensional Black characters are rare in media and thoughtful explorations of them in fandom are seen by the majority of fans as not-easy to make and therefore Nile Freeman, the main character in The Old Guard (2020) dir. Gina Prince-Bythewood, has the least fic and meta and art made about her of our 5 main immortals.

I've been active in different fandoms off and on for twenty years and I barely managed to write 5,000 words about Sam Wilson across multiple different fics in the 7 years since I fell in love with him. There's an alchemy to which characters we connect with, and on top of that which characters we connect with in a way that causes us to create stuff about them. Something about Nile Freeman finally tipped me over the edge from a voracious reader to a voracious writer. It's not for me to judge which characters speak to other individuals to the level of creating content about them, but I do think it's important for us to notice, and then work to fight, the pattern where across this fandom as a whole Nile gets way less content, and way less depth in so much of the content that's in theory about her, than any of these other characters.

Anyway, back to language. My two long fics feature Nile with several Black friends — Copley and OCs and cameos from other media — but all of those characters except Alec Hardison from Leverage aren't American. It's very possible I'm guilty of stereotyping Black British speech patterns in I See Your Eyes Seek a Distant Shore. I watched hours and hours of Black haircare YouTube videos in the research for that fic and I modeled my OCs' speech patterns on what I heard from some of those YouTubers as well as what I've heard people like John Boyega and Idris Elba saying in interviews, but the thing about doing your best is you still might fuck up.

I'm slowly making progress on my WIP where Nile and Sam Wilson are cousins, and what ways of talking with a family member might be authentic for Nile is a major question I need to figure out. For that, I'm largely modeling my writing choices on how I hear my Black friends and colleagues talking to each other. I haven't overheard colleagues talking in an office in a long-ass time, but back when that was a thing, I remember seeing a ton of nuance in the different ways many of my Black colleagues would talk to each other. Different people have different personalities! And backgrounds! And priorities! A few jobs ago my department was about 1/3 Black and we worked closely with Obama administration staff many of whom were Black and there was SO MUCH VARIETY in how Black people talked to each other, about work and workplace-appropriate personal stuff, where I and other white coworkers could hear. There are a few work friends in particular who I have in my head when I'm trying to imagine how Sam and Nile might talk to each other. From the outside looking in, God DAMN is shit complicated, intellectually and interpersonally and spiritually, for Black people who are devoting their professional lives to public service in the United States.

One more aspect of this that I have big thoughts on but I need to take extra care in talking about is the idea of acknowledging Nile's Blackness in her patterns of speech. There's no one right way to be Black, and Nile's a fictional character created by a white dude but there are plenty of real-life Black Americans who don't use much or even any AAVE, for reasons that are complicated because of white supremacy. (Highly highly recommend this video by Shanspeare on the harms of the Oreo stereotype.)

Something that's not the same but has enough similarity that I think it's worth talking about is my personal experience with authenticity and American Jewish speech patterns. My Jewish family members don't talk like they're in The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel, and I've known lots of people who do talk that way (or the millennial version of it), some of whom have questioned my Jewishness because I don't talk that way. That hurts me. Sometimes when another Jew tells me some shit like "I've never heard a Jew say y'all'd've," I can respond with "well now you have asshole, bless your Yankee-ass heart," because the myth of Dixie is a racist lie but I will totally call white Northerners Yankees when they're being shitty to me for being Southern, and this particular Jew fucking revels in using "bless your heart" with maximum polite aggression, especially with said Yankees. But sometimes I don't have it in me to say anything and it just quietly hurts having an important part of me disbelieved by someone who shares that important part of me. The sting isn't quite the same when non-Jews disbelieve or discount my Jewishness, but that hurts too.

Who counts as authentically Jewish is a messy in-group conversation and it doesn't really make sense to explain it all here. Who counts as authentically Jewish is a matter of legal status for immigration, citizenship, and civil rights in Israel, and it's my number 2 reason after horrific treatment of Palestinians that I'm antizionist. But outside that extremely high-stakes legal situation, it can just feel really shitty to not be recognized as One Of Us, especially by your own people.

It can also feel really shitty to be The Only One of Your Kind in a group, even if that group is an immortal chosen family who all loves each other dearly. Sometimes especially in a situation like that where you know those people love you but there are certain things they don't get about you and will never quite be able to. I'm definitely projecting at least a little bit of my "lonely Jew who will be alone again for yet another Jewish holiday" stuff onto Nile when at the end of I See Your Eyes Seek a Distant Shore she's thinking about being the only Black immortal and moving away from the community she'd built with a mostly-Black group of mortals in that fic. Maybe that tracks, or maybe that's fucked up of me.

Basically, this got very long but it's complicated, writing about experiences that aren't your own takes skill which in turn takes time and practice to build, writing about experiences not your own that our society maligns can cause a lot of harm if done badly, it can also cause a lot of harm when a large enough portion of a fandom just decides to nope out of something that's difficult and risky because then there's just not much content about a character who deserves just a shit ton of loving and nuanced content, people are individuals and two people who come from the exact same cultural context might show that influence in all kinds of different ways, identity is complicated, language is complicated, writing is hard, and empathy and humility and doing our best aren't a guarantee of avoiding harm but they do go a long way in helping people create thoughtful content about a character as awesome and powerful and kind and messy and scared and curious and WORTHY as Nile Freeman.

#nile freeman #linguistics #TOG POC Love Fest #nileweek2021 #tog meta #tog #long post #mine #antiblackness #jewish things #hi i'm an antizionist jew no i don't really want to talk about it

[inkskinned]

When the honey showed up, we all just took it inside. That was one of the things about it - it was always a little warm, always in the same simple jar and the nice plaid bow. Handmade-like. Most of us put it in our pantries or in the back of our cabinets, some put it in the fridge. we just thought to ourselves: gee, what a wonderful present.

I don’t know how long it took before we all had one. For a while, the most that would happen was two-minute feel-good op ed pieces in local newspapers. People would run little letters to the editor to find out the “culprit”. Sometimes there were faux-serious “investigations” when that parent freaked out about the possibility of drugs in honey. Most of the time, it ended quickly. After all, it was a nice gift from a neighbor, and it was yours. that was another thing. A house could be 122 people, and we’d all find our own jar on the doorstep, one at a time. we would know when it was ours and when it wasn’t, no matter how alike they looked. nobody ate it, at first. It was yours, and you wouldn’t eat it, and you couldn’t eat another person’s. it just wasn’t done. and the thing is - in that imaginary house, of 122 people? we’d all buy other honey. it was both there and took up space - but none of us thought of it as actually existing. we’d put down our storebought honey right next to it and think - why did i buy another? i’ve wanted to try this one for a while. and then the thought would simply be out of our head, because this is our third bag of baby carrots we have bought to let spoil again.

it was that one person who mentioned it on youtube. actually i think it was a vimeo “urban legends” series. some person with 6 followers who deleted like instantly. but then 6 people said something similar: everyone they knew had this one specific honey story. and then 12. and then all of a sudden we all woke up to “#honeyonthedoorstep” globally trending. we all posted our pictures of our honey and called each other liars and got into discourse fights with vegans and people without a sweet tooth. In 24 hours, it was running the media. 9-at-night serious news anchors leaned over to each other and said “now john, did you hear about this?” and despite their disbelief, they’d admit: i got the honey too. I think somewhere in march. maybe around the 5th. but i never ate it or thought anything of it. i just thought - what a nice gift. 

By the end of the week, there were YouTube challenges and instagram memes and a netflix miniseries in the works. Lots of people tried to eat their honey, and most who “succeeded” were deemed a hoax - but truth be told? it’s not good tv to watch someone pick up honey and say “actually it’s not ready” or something similar and just decide to go do something else. i tried once, winedrunk and thinking i could be famous because it’s just honey. and i remember thinking that exact thing - it’s not ready. i realized i needed to go do dishes, this was stupid and kind of cringey. 

and people freaked out, of course. outside of the jokes were parents who were asking if their children would get a jar one day, if this was a one-time thing. there were so many conspiracy theories the government finally had to say something (not that any of us were actually listening), there were massive hunts to find “the team of honey dispatchers”, there were plenty of false confessions, there were rallies to destroy the things. i don’t know if anyone actually did, because in the end? it was just a jar of honey, and it was yours, and it would be a shame to throw it at the floor just because the internet told you so. I moved three times that year - grad school, job, other better job. i always took mine with me. it wasn’t a real choice, it was just... like taking a plate that belonged to your grandmother, or carrying a song stuck in your head. it was just something that was going to come with, but it bore no special attention. and then back into the pantry it went.

two weeks later? we all just... moved on from talking about honey. it was in some memes, it was in BuzzFeed’s “top 5 weirdest stories (that are actually true)”, it was going to be the central plot of books and horror movies. but it wasn’t interesting, not really, anymore. it was like saying “all people need food”. it was just true, and not really changing. every consecutive conspiracy video got less likes, and by the end of the year, it was old enough to be a staple in bad stand-up comedy and in coming-of-age children’s shows.

nobody believed the first ones who ate it. the most traction that those posts got were from friends and family who barely remembered the whole fad. we all just figured it was a weird annual resurgence kind of thing. 

but then people were definitely, absolutely, 100% eating their honey. i think i heard about one of my coworkers first. i didn’t know her; she was in another department. she told everyone it was very similar to “normal” honey. just a little tarter than she’d expected.

twitter was in an uproar. the honey was sweet to some. spicy to others. horrible, bitter, like a thousand stingers. it was perfect, it tasted like summer. most people said: it’s just honey, and absolutely regular.

those of us who weren’t ready were biting our fingernails for a while, going to our pantries, wondering - what the fuck do i mean it’s not ready? but it wasn’t ready.  

like i said, it’s warm, always. But you just... know. one day you realize you really want honey on toast. or honey on tea, honey on a banana, just... honey. i remember opening it, but it didn’t feel like any more interesting than going to the cabinet for honey ever feels. i pour mine, usually, skipping a spoon because i’m usually too lazy. i was already in the middle of my meal before i realized - this is the honey. it’s not just a normal breakfast, it’s the breakfast, holy shit. 

mine is just, you know. honey. it has a little hint of spice and sweet to it, which i actually quite like. it reminds me of this red pepper jelly my family used to get, and it makes me happy. but in the end? it’s honey. i don’t feel like i’m connected to a seventh realm. it’s good on oatmeal and bad in coffee no matter what some of you will tell me.

it’s just, you know. once you get your jar, and it’s ready, you have a little honey roughly every 24ish hours. it’s nothing absurd. it’s just honey, i mean - it’s like saying “you’re alive, so at some point, you should probably eat.” Most of us, it hasn’t really changed our schedules. it doesn’t seem to ever run out, which is good, because we’re always forgetting to check to see if we need more before we go shopping. for most of us? you don’t die if you miss a few days, even a few weeks, you don’t go crazy trying to get it back. sure, there’s weirdass cultists who worship it, but most of us just seem to think - it’s nice to have, and it’s okay to want this thing.

now, there’s some stuff out there, you know, about what it all “means”. and honestly, we all notice things. i’m not the only one who has seen that good people tend to think their honey tastes good and eat it normally. bad people tend to eat their honey frequently but hate every second of the eating. there are plenty who will snort and say “i’m a good person and i think it tastes like dirt” and plenty who will say “i’m a shit person and i think it tastes like the summer i finally kissed her”. and i don’t know, not the way i knew if it was ready, but it feels like a simple thing amidst all the messy. and it’s probably helpful that i think mine is, like most people’s, just a nice in-the-middle. i mean, the other day i heard it asked like a star sign - what’s your honey like?

there’s this one thing, though, you know. i choose to believe, because it might make me secretly happy. it’s like believing in nessie. i know realistically it’s probably just hearsay. but there’s this underground rumbling that, over time, the honey changes. just a little, every day, unnoticeable to most of us who go to work and do our best by others but still sometimes steal toilet paper. there’s these stories of people who made it rich by selling out their friends, who stole patents, who argue that others should charge for insulin - that they liked the honey, at first, but over time, it’s gone rotten. and similarly, every so often, there’s these stories of people who were normal “regular” honey people, who helped someone out of the bottom. who chose to be just a little bit better than they were the day before. who had moments of decisive kindness that changed them. they all say the same thing: since then, the honey has been amazing, and they work to keep it that way. 

my grandmother and my mother were never surprised. they have this saying about bees and their secrets. my mother said to me: we have always had these tiny angels. they’re just giving us each a taste of the world we are making.

my grandmother later tells me, while watering the flowers, almost the exact same thing: they will haunt us when they go, because they keep books in their combs. and they see us giants, and no matter who we lie to? the world of bees will know.

#spilled ink #prose #short story #honey #i originally wrote this in my car while binge eating doritos happy mardi gras style #but then tumblr deleted it lmao bc i walked between 2 wifi connections #so if it sucks its bc i had to half-remember a good version

[elisela]

and eat it too buck x eddie, 1.3k, fluff for @eddiediaz the love of my life

--

“Red velvet with cream cheese frosting,” Hen says, a faraway look on her face, chin tilted up. Eddie feels the same way as he thinks about his own childhood birthdays and the cakes his mom would make, always chocolate, always with some type of filling that makes Eddie cringe now—he’s pretty sure that he insisted on Pop Rocks one year. “Everything else she tried to make was a disaster.”

“Unless it’s chocolate on chocolate, it’s wrong,” Chim says, and curls in on himself when Buck hits him with a throw pillow.

“The bakery my mom always ordered from made a really good carrot cake,” Buck says, and Eddie can practically hear the conversation screech to a halt.

“Yeah, it was a bakery,” Chim says, looking over at Buck. “Of course it was good. But you’ve got to have some kind of birthday cake horror story, everyone does.”

The smile on Buck’s face becomes a little fixed, too rigid. “She wasn’t the homemade cake kinda mom,” he says, shrugging. “What does it matter? The cake was good.”

Eddie can’t pinpoint exactly why it matters to him that Buck’s never had a homemade birthday cake, only that it does. But Buck’s birthday is only three months away, and Eddie can definitely remedy that.

Maybe.

Boxed cake mix can’t be so hard, can it?

--

He does a trial run a month out. Chocolate cake mix, canned frosting—the expensive kind from Whole Foods, natural sugar and all that shit that Buck blathers on about occasionally when he gets deep into tracking his macros. He follows the directions on the back with fidelity, watches a damn YouTube video just to be sure, lets it cool before spreading the frosting and cutting a slice for Chris.

Chris looks at him suspiciously before taking a bite. “Did you do something wrong? Max’s dad gives him candy when he does something wrong.”

“Buck’s birthday is next month,” Eddie says, giving Chris a look. He’ll stick with apologies over bribes when he fucks up, thank you very much. “I thought we could make him a cake.”

Chris’ brow furrows. “Why don’t you ask abuela? Buck likes her cake.”

Eddie stops. “I just thought it’d be nice,” he says, frowning. Asking abuela hadn’t actually crossed his mind, but maybe it should have. It feels like cheating, even though he knows abuela made plenty of his birthday cakes. “We can ask her to make him one, too,” he says after a moment. “You know Buck’s sweet tooth.”

Chris takes another bite and shrugs. “It’s okay,” he says finally. “But abuela’s is better. I think she puts vanilla in it. Did you do that?”

He hadn’t—the box hadn’t called for it. “It’s chocolate cake,” he says, “why would you need vanilla?”

Chris rolls his eyes.

--

Despite his coworkers teasing him, Eddie is not afraid of technology, he just doesn’t like how it tracks his every move and stores a lifetime of information about him, which is a perfectly reasonable thing to dislike. It doesn’t mean he doesn’t use it—it’s the first thing he turns to after Chris is unenthusiastic about the cake (although he had no problem finishing off half of it himself over several days).

Eddie’s not fooling himself—he’ll settle for good, which is frankly just a step above okay. He’s well aware of his abilities, and they don’t include baking anything that anyone will clamor for, but he can live with that when he saves lives on a regular basis.

“Why are you doing this?” Chris asks, eyes roaming over the ingredients on the counter. “You never made me a birthday cake.”

“You want me to make yours this year instead of abuela?” he asks. He will, but he doubts that’s the point. His kid is getting—too old, too interested in Eddie’s life, too presumptuous—

“Sure, but only if abuela still makes one,” Chris says, and Eddie snorts.

“Nice try.”

Chris shrugs like it was worth a shot and eyes the counter again. “Call me when it’s done,” he says, and then, over his shoulder, “just tell Buck you love him.”

Casually.

Like it’s no big deal.

Eddie doesn’t bother denying it.

--

The second attempt goes better. The third goes horribly—it tastes good, but Eddie can rarely leave well enough alone and decides his ambition is taking him to new heights in baking and that a two-layered cake is what Buck would really like. By the time he’s gotten both layers level, there’s hardly any cake left—and three days before Buck’s birthday he sets a slice of cake in front of Chris and prays.

Chris, simply to torture him, eats every bite—incredibly slowly—before nodding. “This is really good, Dad,” he says, giving Eddie a crooked grin. “Can I take some to school tomorrow for Maria?”

“Just tell her you love her,” Eddie says, and Chris’ mouth drops open before he starts to laugh.

--

He follows every step the same way the morning of Buck’s birthday. He spends extra time making sure he didn’t drop any eggshells in the batter, gets the espresso shot from the better coffee shop a few miles away, and uses the organic, full-fat milk in place of the water in the recipe. He keeps the canned frosting as a back-up and spends too long looking for the old handheld beaters he inherited from abuela so that he can try making the buttercream on his own—and then eats at least a quarter of it straight out of the bowl when he’s done before he manages to stop himself.

They celebrated the day before at the station, when all of them were on shift, with a carrot cake that Maddie had gotten from a bakery, but Buck is supposed to come over later—the family celebration, he’d called it, and Eddie had to pretend his heart didn’t give out at the words.

The cake is as far as Eddie will go, though—abuela’s providing the rest of the food, though he’s pretty sure it’s just because Chris had let his baking experiments slip and she wants to see how big of a disaster it’ll be.

Eddie’s looking forward, just a little, to showing off.

Dinner goes well, sitting in the backyard at twilight; Buck is gracious as he opens gifts, exclaiming happily over each one. He tears up when Chris hands him a robotics team sweatshirt with a beaming grin and tells him the team is a go—his school had finally approved the activity and Buck had offered to help out at the meetings and competitions. Eddie’s gift of an emergency kit for his car—he still can’t believe Buck doesn’t have one—is boring and practical, but Buck will find the gift certificates for mini-golf when he finally gets around to opening it up and Eddie finds a strange joy in knowing that he’ll be surprised later on.

When it’s time for cake, he’s surprised to realize he’s nervous. Chris—well, Chris hadn’t been joking when he told Eddie just to tell Buck he loved him, but—that’s kind of what Eddie’s trying to do. He’s just not sure that Buck will understand.

“Dad made it himself,” Chris blurts out as soon as their done singing happy birthday, and Buck turns a blinding smile his way.

“Thanks, Eddie,” he says, and it’s soft enough that Eddie thinks he might know.

“Make a wish,” Eddie says, wishing he didn’t sound so hoarse, so breathless, and Buck closes his eyes as he blows out the candles.

--

Buck’s warm against him, thumb rubbing against Eddie’s knuckles as they sit on the patio steps, half-empty beer bottles at their feet as the sounds of Los Angeles at night float past them. “What’d you wish for?” Eddie asks, finally breaking the quiet.

“Same thing I wished for the last five years,” Buck says, looking over at him with a small smile. “This. You and Chris.”

“You got us,” he says, and leans in to kiss Buck again, new and exhilarating and so achingly familiar, all at once.

#evan buckley #eddie diaz #buddie #buddie fic #for may my sunrise #queenmay #fluff fluff fluff #eli writes

[dropsofletters]

unintended consequences

title: unintended consequences pairing: kim dongyoung/reader genre: meet messy!au/interviewer!au/actor!au/enemies to coworkers to lovers!au summary: kim dongyoung, kim dongyoung...who the hell is kim dongyoung? the question ran through her head endlessly when she was in the middle of a red carpet, having studied enough about everyone to take place on any interview, but something about his name just didn’t connect to her memory. the recording of their interview, extremely awkward and improvised, ends up in the most well-known of sites, viral thanks to its awkward repetition from phone to phone. oh, she knows who kim dongyoung is—the reason why she lost her job as an interviewer. type: fluff/angst/romance/humor/drama word count: 26,229

Everything is about imagination. Romance is, in a way, part of our imagination. With our own very nerves, we craft images of who we imagine to be our soulmate—the reception of our interests in said person translates into connections of love and desire. Working is about imagination, too. Those who are creative will, forever and always, end up at the very top of work ladders. The reason? Simplistic. People love a good image, a nice daydream, a mind that will always look ahead, more profoundly, whose mind will always be running and creating more and more. Endless, this cycle is, but in her line of work…reality is reality.

Gossip magazines are known for their exaggerations. Two actors could be dating and suddenly it’s blasted as some irrationality. People could simply smoke a cigarette and it’s already on every headline. Nonetheless, this is the side that people judge—paparazzi with cameras, interviewers that pry too much, non-studious people who make money out of exploiting the real artistic essence of interest. Plucking those misconceptions away is as tough as the word can get. Hated. Ignored.

Forgotten.

Typical journalists never last in her environment. The box is already complicated; three-dimensional, understandably so, and she has to stand out from that. Her strong fingertips—all caused by endless hours of typing on a computer to get her column to be filled with interesting, yet professionally acceptable articles—are holding onto a pen. Ink-less, it is, glistening on its platinum glow when she holds it close to the man in front of her. Sprawled on a love-seat, to be exact, eyes widened with adoration the more she repeats the questions that shall be delivered elegantly to actors and actresses alike in less than twenty-four hours.

“Mr. Lim, it’s a pleasure to see you here on our red carpet today,” This is typical. Studied. The type of interviewer greeting that comes with those who are fashion enthusiasts or simply socialites asking surface-level questions. However, this is not who she is.

The ups and downs of her cameraman’s voice sounds like puberty. Growth of a twenty-seven-year-old man, in a way, someone who clearly keeps his youth even with the passage of time. Nothing like the actor she has in mind, but no less intriguing than any other celebrity could be. Jason fixes his glasses, plays with the strands of his bleached hair before speaking. “The pleasure is mine.”

“Your last movie was inspired on a memoir written in 2004. What do you think are the correlations between yourself and this character, inspired on a real person?” Like an arrow, questions should be aimed to celebrities to judge them as thinking and reasonable beings. To be a performer, there needs to be some capability of learning lines—but the strength of the delivery of emotions is worth studying. While her articles may not be the most popular in between headlines, for they are not captivating enough or filled with drama, they are…hers. They study what real actors want to be asked; about their performance, not their personal lives.

This imaginary microphone—a pen, if she’s honest—is taken in between the long and skinny fingertips of her partner in crime. Jason, whose face is normally behind a camera pointed at her, and who has accompanied her through thick and thin while building her career. The skies suddenly changed their dulled colors when her boss, finally, rang her phone for something else other than complaining about lack of substance in her articles. For the first time in her journalistic career, she gets to do something important. Interview celebrities live while on the red carpet. “Oh my fucking— You’re going to kill this. I claim it.” Jason’s high voice speaks through the air, pulling the hood of his sweater over his head just when he stands up.

Other than him, no one would know that her eyes can barely stay open after endless studying of the latest works of each of the invitees to the red carpet. Every single one of them, written down on a document, read by her at any given time in which she doesn’t have to work on articles. From movies, to shows, to musicals, to personal relationships, to anything of the like; confirmed invitees were studied by her, ready to ask just the right questions for cinematography enthusiasts. “You really think so?” The hopefulness of her voice shouldn’t have showed through in such a lightweight matter. Her pen rests on her chest, hands clasped together in what seems to be naivety. “Because I’ve been studying every question for the past two months.”

“Well, duh,” Jason’s voice rings through the hotel room when he leans over her vanity, playing with the strands of his hair to fix it. Hours of the journalist interviewing him must have taken a toll on his look, tired beyond relief. “You’re the most intelligent of our team. Only you would prepare this much.”

Questionable, really. She is the most enthusiastic of her team; the only one that remembers the exact day in which journalists are celebrated worldwide, the only one that reads articles and departs them as books, whose diction battled the ones that beauty pageant contestants had to practice, because she believes in the magic of interviewing. It shouldn’t be about asking: ‘Who designed your dress?’ if it’s not Fashion Week. Talking to actors should deal with acting. “I prepare this much because I’m not exactly the smartest of the bunch, you know?”

With a quick motion of his legs, Jason turns around to look at her, long body seated on top of the vanity. “Don’t steal my title. I’m a cameraman for a reason.”

A small smack to his shoulder should suffice, much more now that she can finally close the document on her tablet and let out that one breath that had been suffocating her for the past hour of asking Jason any possible question to every invitee of the red carpet. “Now that this is over…I should really start worrying about what to wear tomorrow.”

Freeze-frame worthy is Jason’s face when he hears those words escaping her lips. “Y—You still haven’t thought of your outfit?”

Staring down at her t-shirt and leggings, the shake of her head is given. “I’m not much of a fashion lady.” She replies, quite clear in the way she seems to have, at least, three gray t-shirts in her wardrobe and a lot more leggings than she’d like to admit. “Hyoyeon sent me some clothing for me to wear. Some dresses and whatnot, but I haven’t even opened the box. I’ve been too busy revising—”

“Where’s the box?”

“On top of my luggage, why—?” The question is not finished when she watches Jason overtake the room with long, purposeful strides, taking the big box in between certain fingers before dropping the package on top of her undone hotel bed. “…Okay, let’s look at what I have here, I guess.”

“I am the one deciding.”

“Uh…why?” She asks, resting her hand on top of the lid before Jason could open it, but for someone so skinny he seems to have a bit of strength in him, popping it open even through her attempts of stopping him.

“You’d pick whatever is most similar to t-shirts and leggings, and let me tell you something: you’re going to be live to the world tomorrow. Through YouTube or the TV, people are going to look at you.” As if the constant names, questions and reminders inside her head are not stressful enough, Jason’s words seem to deflate her confidence a bit. Maybe…she should have taken more care of what she is going to wear tomorrow. “And I may not look like it, but my girlfriend is a columnist in the fashion area of our magazine, and also the one that sent you this package, so I get to pick.”

The blossoming love between the tech enthusiast, sci-fi lover, cameraman Jason and Hyoyeon, a fashionable woman with love for Louis Vuitton more than life itself, will never be understood by her. But, in comparison, Jason does dress slightly better than her, and he plays around with patterns and colors more than she does. “I’ll let you as long as you pick something nice.”

His fingers wrap around the last piece of clothing, a violet dress that screams ‘90’s diva’. Fitted all around, with a few shining spots under the faux lights of the hotel room (is it nighttime already? She wonders), the straps show support to the delicate, yet there, neckline, length supposed to reach a little bit under the middle of her thighs. “I know mad shit about dresses, but this one looks like it could make you look good—”

“And like I’d want to show my boobs to the entire country in a live interview.” She concludes, deep frown only highlighted when she realizes how her arms are crossed over her chest. “Hyoyeon always wants to get me in dresses, but I swear to God—” Still, plastered on Jason’s face, is a look that tells her to wear it. “I haven’t even shaved my legs and I’m not going to wear something that will make me look bad.”

“You’ve never tried a dress like this.” Jason says. “Besides, don’t you think it’s pretty?”

“It is,” The mumble she gives out is cut short when her hand reaches forward to feel the fabric. Soft, tight, it looks like it’d give a nice shape, too. “Should I just go for it?”

“If Hyoyeon picked it, I’m sure no one is going to think it’s a bad look.” The cameraman conquers, reaching inside the box to point out different dresses. “And the rest are even more revealing.”

“What’s with Hyoyeon and having me wear revealing dresses?”

“Ask her, not me.” Jason points out, tossing the dress towards her way before she sighs.

“If this dress doesn’t work out, I’m wearing a t-shirt and some leggings.”

“It’ll work out.”

She doesn’t know if she wants him to tell her that about the interview or the dress, but with her mind preoccupied with other matters, her hands hook around the dress, moving to the bathroom to try it on and forget about the pressure of her interview program for the slightest bit.

###

The energy is buzzing, even for everyone who watches through a screen. Translated into absolute delight; a night of recognition and love to the most given and talented of actors, actresses and performers, all given to a red carpet. If someone dared to squint and look at her, they’d see just how confident she is, despite the dress that has her shying away with her body language. One arm crossed over her chest, taking leverage on the elbow that crooks up to hold the microphone up to the actors and actresses that come over to her; legs crossed, some would think her heels must be killing her in the position she is, but the choice made by Hyoyeon in what shoes consist of is not necessarily uncomfortable. If anything, the breeze is what makes her feel most uneasy, as well as the weight of the jewelry falling from her earlobes, the necklace resting in between her collarbones and down her chest. Of course, not to forget the tightness of the dress, just a little bit too revealing for her liking.

Glitter in everyone’s gazes. Shining. Rich. Everyone on there is dressed to utmost perfection, pride on their faces from the hard work, earned through recording, shooting, scripting, producing, acting and the words are told by themselves. The invitees drop one by one, specially in the order that she had studied—the sources of her magazine are rarely wrong, after all. The camera is pointed at her, but most of the time concentrating on the celebrity ahead of them. The questions flow from her lips elegantly, smartly, at one point she really thinks she is just simply having fun, jitters of happiness fluttering up her stomach and bringing a smile to her face.

This is what hard work looks like. Rather, the conclusion of it.

Thunder is not what breaks the atmosphere of tranquility, for the afternoon is too heated to change weathers so suddenly, but the shouts and screams of overexcited fans could have made her fall out of pure surprise. Scanning the red carpet, in between the masses of photographers going crazy to take pictures of this one celebrity, her eyes meet the person that seemed to have destroyed the afternoon—and night—for other fellow performers.

An angel in disguise, some would call him, with that serious look on the expression of the man now standing on the red carpet. The white suit on his body is fitted, put exactly to the width of his shoulders, to fit the length of his long legs and make him look like the epitome of a daydream. She can already imagine the magazines going crazy about this one outfit on this…unknown celebrity. This…whoever this is.

No companion, she notices. The black-haired angel moves further in front of the cameras, now approaching interviewers one by one, but she can’t still find a name for him. Of course, he has to be known—the cheers for him say so much about it, of fame and overrated-ness, but the name never comes up to her mind, or it never reads in her mental image of the list of invites.

Who, out of the invitees, would have such a face? Such physique, that she can’t find words in the tip of her tongue, can’t speak like the skilled journalist she is.

That comma hairstyle frames his oval-shaped face perfectly, as if made for him. His eyes, leaned upwards, are the most powerful point of his face, paired with straight eyebrows that, in one way or another, give him an air of mightiness. His nose, short, small, as if crafted by an artist—and those lips, that had little to no importance for her, until he gave a smile to the interviewer next to her, moving closer and closer to her spot.

And who the fuck is this guy?!

What can she even ask him?

Taking Jason by the shoulder, and thankful that they are on commercial break, she leans over to talk to him away from the microphone. Better, it is, to avoid mistakes. “Who is this guy?”

“Kim Dongyoung. Duh.” Jason says in a hushed whisper, earning a glare from her and a scrunch of her nose.

“Who the hell is Kim Dongyoung?”

Not enough time is given to her when cheers get closer to where she is and once, she turns, the sight of the unknown celebrity has her swallowing harshly. Throughout her two years of her professional journalistic career, she has never been the type to embark in small, fast conversation in interviews. Not even for the written ones. In the depths of her brain, asking for something simplistic just speaks wonders about her research skills, but in this one occasion, she’s left stranded, looking ahead at the man who shares a smile with her before looking towards the camera—

“We’re on air.”

With numb fingers, her microphone goes forward for Dongyoung to speak. She has one of her own, practically pressed to the side of her face. Much to her distaste, however, her shaking motions must have caught him off guard, immensely so now that his lip is hit by the microphone, that precious gummy grin of his long forgotten. “Oh, sorry.” She speaks fast, as quickly as she can without making it suspicious. “Welcome, Kim Dongyoung. It’s a pleasure to have you on our show.”

Dongyoung, whose face is now filled with seriousness, tries to give a tight-lipped smile as he raises his hand to shush the waves of fans cheering for him. “The pleasure is mine. I’m a huge fan.”

Oh. Oh, fuck, he shouldn’t have said that. This is a clear sign that he wants a nice interview, one that cannot be made up from the ignorance of her brain. Since when was he invited?! “So are we.” Lying through her teeth seems like the fitted option as of now. One look at his brown eyes has her breath caught on her throat, her free hand twisting behind her back. “Dongyoung, who designed your suit?”

…This is not the kind of journalist she is, much less the kind of interviewer she desires to be, and the stare Dongyoung gives to his body is brief before parting his lips to answer, equally as monotone as her voice: “Prada.” His fingers toy with the edge of his white blazer, making her speak into her microphone.

“It looks good.”

“Thank you. This night is very special for me, so me and my team had been working to put this look together for so long.”

“So…” A trailing voice, uncertain eyes, an actor like him must have noticed the tightness of her movements, the sweat pooling by her forehead, the absolute fear of fucking this up. Her mind, however, going a million miles per hour, tries to think of movies or shows that he has been in. “That’s nice, actually. Yeah, pretty nice. It’s rare to see someone like you without a companion, is anyone going to join you soon?”

Dongyoung’s eyebrows turn into a frown, body visibly tensing the more he straightens his back, as if wanting to pull away from her. One stare into his group of fans has her realizing that they’ve fallen quiet, much like the actor in front of her. This is the moment she feels as though her walls are crumbling down, knees shaking and failing to control the weight on her heels, wanting nothing more than to erase herself out of existence. For a second. A brief one. “Not really. I—Uh, I’m in a moment of my life where I consider I should be judged by my talent, not who I’m accompanied by.”

“Of course,” And then, it clicks. That name…that name sounds similar to one she had read, perhaps she could come up with something— “In the movie Homme Fatale, you were bound to mix the historical genre with comedy? What were the hardships of mixing the comedic relief of your character along with such a serious matter—?”

In the blink of an eye, Dongyoung leans over the microphone. Face vacant of that liveliness that represented him at the beginning of the interview, lips quirking up in a sarcastic smile that barely lasts when he says. “Well, I wouldn’t know, because that’s a movie my brother was in. Not me.”

Shit, Kim Gong Myung, not Kim Dongyoung— “Ah, yeah, my bad,” A brief chuckle leaves her lips, staring towards the camera before resting her hand against her forehead. “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s alright.” Dongyoung says, looking over to the side where his manager is making signs for him to pull away as soon as possible, simply giving a curt nod. “Thanks for the support to my brother, either way.”

“I—”

“Everyone, have a nice night.” The speech is given to the camera, a wave of his hand and soon after, he’s gone into the masses of people, leaving her with her heart racing rapidly when—thankfully—another commercial break resurfaces. Fear, all coming from embarrassment, the tears that threaten to appear on her eyes are blown away by Jason. Quite literally. The man that supports her through everything is blowing soft gushes of air on her eyes while she looks up to stop the crying.

“Don’t cry. Don’t cry. You still have other interviews to do—”

“I’m going to fuck it up. Let’s just cut it right here.” Her voice breaks, long gone that posture of a journalist she had, and it takes a few movements of her hands to blow air at her eyes to stop the tears. Though, the shaking continues to be there. “I didn’t even know who he was.”

“How didn’t you—? You know what? Whatever. It happens. You just need to move on and pretend nothing happened.”

Though, there are matters in life that are meant to be lessons, and with her nose still sniffling away the embarrassment from before, she continues on with this huge lesson of life. Mistakes are made by everyone, just that not a lot of people end up doing them on live TV. It will be alright, as long as not that many people were tuning it, it is going to be a forgettable interview.

…Or, she hopes the twenty-five thousand viewers think the same way.

###

You know, for someone who didn’t give two shits about multiplication back in elementary school, it has become a huge karma in her life. Twenty-five thousand views on a livestream of a red carpet had turned into one hundred thousand views on a YouTube video, soon after reaching the one-million-views milestone. At this point, five days after the incident, she is terrified of even looking at her phone, much less searching her name up on YouTube to see the amount of views on her worst, most memorable interview.

Her bet goes on five million views, but she may lose her money at this point.

Not to say that she had not looked at the video of her imminent death, the moment her soul left her body and dissipated into the limbo, a hell so much worse than Dante’s inferno; because, in retrospect, she has, a bunch of times on the day after the red carpet. Her pride teared apart just a little bit more when she saw the expressions on Dongyoung’s face, lips parted in an uncomfortable smile, eyes widened when her words ruined the moment a little bit more. His body tensed, broad shoulders moving uncontrollably at one point, needing to find a way to get out of there as soon as possible. His image could have been tainted by this, perhaps his expressions would be laughed at on the internet once the initial shock passes by, but he would never lose as much as she did. Her job, to be exact, coming from the text her boss had sent her three days ago.

This is what people fail to express after putting celebrities on a pedestal. That they, on the long run, could be the cause of someone’s destruction with the power they have. Dongyoung, though looking like an angel that night, had destroyed her entire career in the blink of an eye, like a wrecking ball that overtook everything in her life. The world hated to see one of the most beloved actors not be recognized by someone who did their best on an interview with someone they didn’t even know, and as always, journalists are placed on the villain role. It’s fitted for them. It’s fitted for her.

It’s the reason why, even as of now, seated in front of Hyoyeon and Jason, there are people looking at her. Young fans, to be exact, perhaps teenagers, going crazy over the fact that actor Kim Dongyoung had an awkward moment once in his life.

What about her?

What about her job?

The clicking of cameras is what has her sighing, stabbing more of the greasy, soy-sauce coated noodles in front of her, not caring that they are steaming when she plops them inside her mouth with a devastated sigh soon after. It’s even more pathetic that, once she pays for this meal, it will mean a negative sign in her savings, which she should be taking into consideration for paying her rent. Who would even want her as a journalist anymore? After all, she embarrassed the ‘it-boy’ of acting in public television.

The first person to react is Hyoyeon, already dragging her seat with a loud shriek before sticking her chest forward at the group of teenagers harassing them with pictures. “They better not bother you in here. You’ve barely eaten the past few days and I’m going to kick their asses if they make you feel any worse.” But Hyoyeon doesn’t realize that being protected by the ‘mom-friend’ of the group is even more degrading. Once back on her seat, with her left hand resting on top of Jason’s thigh under the table, Hyoyeon’s eyes look for hers, but she doesn’t relent. “Don’t pay attention to them—”

“How can I not? I get death threats in the mail, Hyoyeon. People hate me around the entire country.” She points out, watching the noodles swirl on her plate, leaving imprints of sauce on the white ceramic. “It’s not my fault I just didn’t know who Kim Dongyoung was. Sorry, I’m not one of the women that gets their panties wet while watching one of his movies. I haven’t even watched any of them.”

Jason, as dumbly charming as he is, speaks from his spot, fixing the thick bottle-lenses glasses from falling from the bridge of his nose. “You actually should. Dongyoung is an expert in mystery movies. I haven’t watched any actor do it like him—ouch.”

A sharp pinch on his thigh from his girlfriend must be what cut his sentence short, having Hyoyeon give her a faint smile. “They’re not that good, honey. If he has not made a statement to the public after that awkward interview, that means he’s not a good person.”

Does it? Lately, she has been questioning that endlessly. Maybe, she should have really studied more—let the confidence slide and grip onto some nervousness. Perhaps, Dongyoung was equally as uncomfortable as her. Not because she didn’t recognize him, but because she had asked him exactly what would have hurt him at the time— “I get him, though. He just got out a break-up scandal, I’m sure his team is telling him to let the wolves eat me alive and then, he’s off the hook.”

Hyoyeon, now even more interested, picks a nice amount of noodles up with her chopsticks before speaking up once again. “About that…Yuno was the one to write an article about Dongyoung’s break-up in our magazine, and the sources say that he’s the one who cheated. Though, it has always seemed fishy to me.”

The adoration in Jason’s face is clear when he nods at his girlfriend. “Yeah, I also read over it. It is told that he cheated, but it’s never said with who or why or when or how.”

“Guys, he’s a celebrity.” She cuts the chase, the past few days making her hyperaware of her surroundings, of the reality she has lived and the world that she had tried to push herself into. “Celebrities are like that. They have everything but they always want more. I’m not surprised.” Though, part of her mind had always wanted to treat celebrities more than an image. Thinking individuals, able to feel passion and love for what they do, humans just like her that are excited about cinematography, art, speaking, and anything of the like. Wrong, she had been.

“True…” Jason mumbles, lips puckered up when he hears another shutter of the cameras, now widening his eyes towards the group of teenagers.

“Hey!” Hyoyeon calls out loudly, ready to scold the teenagers when she rests her hand on top of the woman’s.

“Let them.” Must be the loss speaking, the tiredness of her brain after so much turmoil. Dongyoung is probably somewhere in his mansion, watching the pictures that are released of her, or reading over his next script and his prepared answers for interviews. Once Hyoyeon is seated again, not forgetting to send a glare to the other people by the restaurant, she speaks. “I may move to Argentina at this point. Just run away, become some newspaper girl there, not stay here and wait for one of his fans to kill me.”

“Don’t say that,” Jason, the voice of reasoning, the person that had been there with her when everything happened, speaks softly. The delusion she feels tears at her, hopelessness shown in her unkempt hair—she hasn’t washed it, hasn’t brushed it, much less has she put on a drop of makeup. She doesn’t feel like it, all she feels like doing is standing up and stomp over all the judgements, running far, far away from the articles made by her own people. “Just…try for other magazines. Your talent is phenomenal, you understand movies like no other, and have studied cinematography for long enough. I’m sure a lot of people would want you with them.”

Reminiscent of the reason why she wanted to become a journalist, she wonders if that’s the case. A young girl, she had been, watching fairytales on television and enjoying the craft of the characters, their quirks and perks, the lines that made them memorable forever engraved in her brain. Movies moved her to different parts of the world, brought back feelings that she had never known, and that’s the magic of a good performer. Actors bend or make the movie. “…Maybe—”

“Besides, you don’t have enough money to go to Argentina.”

“Jason!” Hyoyeon scowls, getting a faint, shameful grin from her boyfriend.

“It’s the truth—”

Watching the noodles in her plate, she thinks she needs to fight for this. For the meals she needs to eat, for the apartment she wants to keep, for the lifestyle that she has given herself through her hard work, the name that she has made only to have it torn apart. There is a reason to exist, there will always be, and if her existence annoyed someone once, it’s not her problem. “You know what? Argentina can wait.”

###

The light swirls in the thin air. Bright, matching the stars in the posters around the office. People are going from one edge of the room to other, shoes that are far too expensive for however much these journalists get paid, holding big stacks of paper on their hands of articles that may never be released, at least not as honestly as they should. Journalists are, sometimes, fiction authors. They need to make a reality so fantastic that books such as the Iliad would be ashamed of their mythology history. To gain interest, there needs to be a narrative, but nothing about this place or the many others she has gone to has caught her attention.

White are the walls of the seventeenth place she has gone to in the past two weeks, all of which have served her to miss her past job equally as much. The posters are of different artists; from Elvis Presley to local bands that she has no idea about, to some actors that she can’t even look at without feeling pressured. Her hands, clampy at this point, hold onto her resume for dear life, seated on the uncomfortable metal seats in front of the boss’ office. Too occupied, the boss seems to be, chattering and laughing loudly and casting the sound towards the outside, whatever celebrity that is there with her making it much too obvious that they are sharing a pop-able bottle of champagne, enough to make the interview that much more…interesting.

That, or whoever this is just wants good traction, and to be on the journalist’s side always.

The coffee machine by her side works, but no matter how many times she presses the button that reads ‘latte’, she gets the same Americano as always. The bitter taste has already woken her up, but not in the best of mindsets, looking down at her resume and her goals, all of which had been absolutely destroyed. No one looked at her as just a fellow journalist anymore, she was ‘Doyoung’s enemy’, the one interviewer that hated him so much that she had compared him to his brother, and had asked about a companion when he had gotten out of a longtime relationship.

Come to think of it, she sounds like the devil with a microphone in hand, and this all happens when asking the questions that everyone else asks. What works for everyone, maybe, just doesn’t work for her.

And she can’t even get a free latte, as it seems, because this fucking coffee machine only knows what an Americano is—

“Oh, Dongyoung, you really have a way with words.” The laughter of the boss in question has her looking up. Slowly, almost as if she’s in a thriller movie and needs the monster to disappear before she fully looks at it. Her life is not a movie, quite clearly, so she ends up making direct eye-contact with the man that had stomped on her life, danced a flamenco song, and left it in shambles. Dongyoung, with his hair still parted perfectly, now looks more casual. Gray hoodie on top of a black t-shirt, ripped jeans that show those legs that she had checked out on the red carpet, but the mere sight of him has her standing up.

The owner of the magazine in question may have noticed the struggle of both people in the same room. Dongyoung, whose face gets filled with recognition, his smile changing to a frown as rapidly as it changes to a look of pity. And she, of course, is the one that can’t hide the absolute fear she feels at that moment. Fear and hatred, mind her, because all she needed was a statement from him to fix her reputation. “I—” She starts, not finding the words in her to say anything else, because the owner of the magazine now seems to be drenched in shame. If anything, she may start apologizing to Doyoung for the mere presence of the journalist. “Here’s my resume, but I know you won’t call me.”

Her rushed steps are only heightened when she hears someone following her, looking over her shoulder by the time her name is called. Dongyoung’s hand is lifted in the air, as if to catch her attention, but the troubled stance inside of herself settles a fire alarm in her brain, making her rush down the set of stairs instead of taking the elevator. The ceramic glides against her sneakers easily, running and running down the endless number of stairs while Dongyoung speaks.

“Hey, wait up! I need to talk to you!”

“Don’t you dare get close to me!” And it’s even more of a surprise when Dongyoung’s long legs are able to skip two or three stairs per step, leaving her at disadvantage no matter how fast she tries to move. “What do you want? Do you need to ridicule me more? Isn’t it enough that half the country hates me because of you?” This exact mindset is what has her stopping, because this man, this man in front of her, breathing rapidly after rushing behind her, is the one that had made her life lose meaning, lose the North that had characterized her for so many years, the only passion that she ever had lost in time and essence because of his mere existence.

“I’m so sorry you’ve been getting hate.” But he doesn’t know that there’s nothing she hates more than that pitiful look on his face, eyes glistening, eyebrows turned downwards, lips pressed in a sly pout, absentminded at that. “I didn’t mean for it to get viral, but you should’ve denied the interview if you didn’t know who I was. You literally made a fool of me on air and—”

“Of you?!” Now, without a job, she can treat a celebrity exactly like who they are. Human beings, just like her, just like the one man in front of her who feels remorse because his image was slightly tainted. “You only care about your image? Every show on TV has been making fun of my mistakes. Fans take pictures of me and ask me why I even did that to you…” Her voice lowers, headache thumping on her temples the more she looks at him. “And you dare to tell me I made a fool of you on TV? No one will hate you, you’re the victim here, I’m left as some villain—”

“I want to mend it, just let me speak!” Dongyoung tells her, moving to stand in front of the stairs when she tries to walk away from him once again. Now closer, she gets to see the droplets of sweat on his collarbones, the rosiness of his lips when he talks softly. “I’ve been in scandals, with my ex, at least. The public will always see what the celebrity wants them to see, I just need you to play along with me and in some months, you’ll have your job back.”

“You don’t mean it—”

“I mean it. I’ll get you back in your magazine if you just stop insulting me and let me tell you my plan. Well, the one I came up with just a few minutes ago when I saw you in front of that office.” Dongyoung rushes to get his words out, eyelashes softly fluttering on top of his cheekbones, catching her full attention when she gives a step back and crosses her arms over her t-shirt cladded body.

“What do you have in mind?” Though, the resentment in her tone has not subsided in any way, glaring at him as if all the pain her mind has gone through for the past few weeks could be thrown his way in the form of baggage.

“My personal assistant left the job after my scandal with my ex, so…I need a personal assistant.”

“I’m a journalist, Dongyoung. I may not have looked like a good one in your eyes, but I’ve done some pretty good articles—”

“Let me speak.”

“You just say nonsense.”

“Well, fuck, look who is talking. You confused me with my brother.” Her lips get sealed by those words, looking over to the side simply not to smack his face away from her trip down the stairs. “Normally, personal assistants tend to appear in pictures taken by the paparazzi, or in ‘behind-the-scenes’ videos, or even in the background of interviews, but no one pays attention to them. They are the closest to celebrities, almost like a confidante, and still people don’t care…” His voice trails, certainty shown in his expressive features, lips quirking up in a small smile when he says: “If people saw you in pictures with me, in videos, in whatever it is that you can get on, as my personal assistant, they’d think we just ended up becoming friends even after the interview. If I forgive you, the world forgives you.”

Tucking a strand of her hair behind her ear, suddenly interested in his words, the rational part of her decides to intervene. “Why can’t you just make a statement saying you forgive me and I’ll be off to my old job sooner?”

“Because people won’t see a growth. If they see us acting closer, like we’re friends and you’ve grown to know me, they’ll think that we truly changed from the first time we met. Besides, not to sound like a stuck-up asshole, but…my friends get good opportunities in this business.”

A scoff leaves her lips, shaking her head at him. “How long would I be your personal assistant for?”

“…Until people eat up that we’re friends, I guess.”

Her eyes are starting to hurt from the migraine that creeps up on her, rubbing them furiously to the point she sees stars behind her vision. Or maybe, it’s the radiant smile he gives her, gummy as always, pleading her in that awkward and expressive way of his to just let him mend things. “Well…it’s either this or starving in Argentina. Deal.” With an extended hand, she grips his. The skin is soft, clear as day that he hasn’t worked a day in his life, and the coldness of his rings caresses the crevices on her dermis. Her other hand looks for her phone, however, eager to start a job that actually pays rent. “Give me your number and I’ll get on working.”

Dongyoung takes the phone in between his hands, speaking while he looks down. “A—Argentina? You were going to Argentina?”

“It’s sarcasm.” She replies, making him look up before nodding once.

“Ah…I see…”

And he expects someone to believe that they’ve become friends and gotten over the initial shock of the interview?

He better put that supposed acting skill to good use, then.

###

“Oh, my Goodness, you’re the new personal assistant, right?!”

Upon entering the set, the least she would have expected is to hear the overexcited tone of a male. Her eyes that had been inspecting the place, from the high ceilings, the tremendously bright lights, to the flooring with the decorations in wooden and darkened tones for what seems to be a police department, are suddenly settling on paying attention to the person before her. A little bit over thirty, rounded cheeks with freckles falling along them, his height serves to make him look taller, that buff body of his different from his sweet-looking face.

Oh, but she knows him, and a nod from her is enough for the cables in her brain to connect in images of revindication. The manager that had called out for Dongyoung in that red carpet, that’s who this man is, though his clothing was a lot posher at the time she saw him, his hair far more styled than the straight cut that it is right now. “Sweet.” He adds, perhaps unfamiliar with the amount of hate she has gotten, or far more interested, to the point of being blinded by the news, by the fact that there is someone new on the team. “I couldn’t wait for the day I’d stop being his manager and his personal assistant. I’m glad it happened sooner than later.” He speaks in a rushed manner, moving somewhere and leaving her stranded, not until he turns on his heels and points for her to follow him. “You’re coming, you know?”

Still, far too interested in the sights around her, she follows after him. Dongyoung had not texted her until a week later, after informing his team and sending a contract her way, one that had been read by one of her lawyer friends and approved thanks to her lack of employment. Nonetheless, his comment was brief once he did talk to her—to meet him on Monday, at nine in the morning, in the set for his newest series. A crime TV show, at that, something so unlike him and yet, extremely fitting for his thriller and mysterious ways in acting.

“I’m Moon Sujin. Dongyoung’s manager, by the way. Well aware of who you are, too.” The lively man says with a big smile on his face, as if it could never disappear from his features. Good for him, she thinks. “His idea was…interesting, once he told me, but I read over your resume and I think you’d be intelligent enough to be his personal assistant.”

He says it as if this is supposed to be more difficult than majoring on something, than following a career on journalism, than writing article over article based on facts. A smile graces her features when they enter the small cafeteria by the set. New electronics, to be expected, are there, glistening in gray colors and almost too pristine looking until Sujin opens the door of the refrigerator, getting out what seems to be some breakfast. “I think I can manage. Being some celebrity’s personal assistant shouldn’t be so difficult.”

“Dongyoung is nice, don’t get me wrong. But he’s picky.” Sujin says, fingers working on placing the meals on the containers in a plate before settling them inside the microwave. The minutes read two, to be exact. “Loves his sleep more than one would think. Oh, he doesn’t like messing up his free time, so he likes to have everything scheduled out. You got here a little early, that’s good, because he likes his breakfast to be at nine before his real schedule starts at nine fifteen.”

Of course. Of course, Kim Dongyoung just had to be picky and selective over anything else. At this point, a little voice, faint in the distance of her brain, is telling her that he probably picked her as his personal assistant just to make her life even harder to deal with. “…What if I don’t do stuff how he wants me to?”

“He’d probably get a bit pissed. Though, it’s not that scary, to be honest.” Sujin’s happy tone is starting to get to her nerves, much more when he gets the food out soon after. “So, typical breakfast for Dongyoung.”

“Alright, shoot. Is it crème brulé or something?”

Sujin pushes the plate towards her hands, the heat of it connecting to her skin and making her hiss. A bag is placed over her shoulders, her arm lifting up just so he can slot it around her body. “His breakfast has to be full, because sometimes he eats lunch late, depends on how the recording or the schedule goes. He likes to have sandwiches, but since he doesn’t like the cheese to be cold, I heat them up. I’ll make sure to send you the recipe of the type of sandwiches he likes, it’s his mom’s recipe.” The image of Dongyoung being picky about sandwiches brings a groan from the depths of her soul, looking to the side to see the black bag now resting against her waist. “Those are the cold things he likes to eat. He doesn’t like green vegetables on their own, so I make them into a smoothie. I’ll also send you the recipe. Uh…he likes his fruits sliced, make sure they don’t get too brown, and it should be fine.”

“Wha—? Why?” She asks, lifting her eyebrows in complete trigger at the fact that this is the angel that the country adored, that had made her seem like the worst person alive. “…Can’t he just eat normal sandwiches? Why do they have to be his mom’s recipe?”

Knowing more than she ever could, clear from his features when he sighs candidly, he leans his weight against the refrigerator. “He’s homesick.”

He’s not the only one. What would he feel if he was in her position, ignoring every call from her family members after the incident with the interview? She’s too ashamed to tell them that she’s struggling with money, to start with. “Yeah, so?”

“So, he likes to feel like he’s home through his food.”

“I can see that much. Anything else that he may need? Do I have to do a dance when I deliver his food?” That sarcasm, typical of her now that she is out of the journalism world, has Sujin chuckling.

At least, he does get sarcasm. Unlike some actor—

“He’ll tell you what he wants. He’s a man of routine, so you’ll see the pattern with each day that you spend with him.” Sujin answers, slipping away from the refrigerator before moving towards the door, opening it wide for her. “The cheese’s getting cold. Go to the end of this hallway, turn right and read over the names of the dressing rooms. The one has a paper that says ‘Kim Dongyoung’ is where you’ll find him.”

Difficult. Oh, it is extremely difficult just to stand there and watch Sujin say all these things with so much certainty, a daily routine to be exact. There is a reason as to why that personal assistant left, after all. Closing her eyes, she steps away from the cafeteria and looks at the hallway ahead. Empty, the faint chatter from outside is everything that can be heard after Sujin’s footsteps are too far away for her to hear. The gray walls and white lights lead the way the more she follows after Sujin’s instructions, name after name on the door suddenly coming to the halting conclusion of Kim Dongyoung. A nightmare, this is what this needs to be and if she pinches herself another time and doesn’t wake up, she might actually lose it—

The first problem of the day surfaces when she realizes she can’t actually open the door, both hands resting under the plate, and if she puts it down, he may actually not eat it, saying it’s germ-filled or something. Once again, patience overtakes her, thinking of this as a job that will help her pay rent, get her journalist reputation back and then, forget about the existence of actor Kim Dongyoung. With this mindset, one of her hands lets go of the plate to balance it on only one, opening the door with one swift twist of the gold doorknob, not having enough time to gush at the decorations of Dongyoung’s clearly expensive dressing room.

“Morning, Dongyoung. I brought you your food and met your manager—” Once she opens the door fully and looks away from the plate on her hands, she feels her throat going dry and her plate almost slipping from her fingertips. There he is, the heartthrob of the mystery genre, leaning over his vanity and reaching for a graphic t-shirt, fingers dumbly wrapped around it when he stares at her with a surprised expression on his features. It is at this exact moment that she forgets the normal mannerism of knocking before entering any place.

Dongyoung’s torso is highlighted by the golden lights of the vanity, a thin silver chain glistening under the light. His broad shoulders look soft in texture, trailing down to his subtly toned abdomen and the pair of leather pants that hug his long legs. There is a leather jacket on top of the vanity, maybe it is meant to match with that, but the more she looks at his features—the elegant, soft makeup that covered his handsome face in more glow, the less she wants to stay there for a second longer.

“Oh shit, sorry, my bad!” She exclaims far too quickly, hand coming in contact with the doorknob once again and twisting it just in time to close the door behind her, back leaning against the material before slowly dragging herself down on it, just a little bit, not enough to rest her weight against the floor.

The reality is, there is a reason as to why women—and men—go crazy for Kim Dongyoung and if his shirtless body is anything to go by, she may understand it, but she doesn’t want to be one of those people. The least she wanted was to work for him, and there she is, standing outside and waiting for Earth to eat her alive along with the imminent awkwardness that just has to linger in between the two. She is a journalist, she knows how to speak to people without stuttering, but what is it about Dongyoung and herself that makes her act, sound and talk so irrationally and stupidly?

Not only did she compare him to his brother—or confuse him, really—, not recognize him, asked him—unknowingly—about his ex…but now she had also invaded his privacy and seen him shirtless.

Getting dressed, rather.

The door opens with softness, almost as if he expects her to give up on the job right then and there, and she may have had it not been for that pitiful look on his features thrown her way. His face softens at the sight of her, sighing deeply when he opens the door wider, enough for her to catch a glimpse of the dressing room. Big mirrors, a few seats, a TV and a leather couch. Some hats for his character, probably a police officer according to the rumors Hyoyeon had gotten from the magazine she worked for.

Her eyes automatically trail down to his chest, seeing it cladded on that shirt he was trying to put on in the first place, and the leather jacket does match the pants. “Knock next time, will you? And don’t look at me as if you’ve seen a ghost.” Dongyoung comments, tilting his head to the side before pointing to the dressing room. “Did Sujin send my food with you?”

The door closes the moment she steps inside, all thanks to Dongyoung who moves towards the vanity after taking the plate from her hands. Her fingers hook around the strap of her bag, settling it down on the vanity beside his food to get his green smoothie out, as well as his container filled with fruits; apples, pears, watermelon and some strawberries, as it seems. “He did. I only had gotten here when he was already so happy about me being your assistant.”

“He’s my manager, but he can’t stand some ordering around.” Dongyoung’s answer is cut short when he stabs the lid of his smoothie with his straw, putting it up to his lips before giving it a sip. His face clearly shows that he really doesn’t like green vegetables, scrunching up at his nose and parting his lips in a silent gag.

With the silence settling around them, she decides to speak up on the only thing that has been going through her head for the past few minutes. “I’m sorry for not knocking and for walking in on you changing.” Though, she looks anywhere else but his eyes when she admits so.

“No worries.” Dongyoung swats the matter away softly before taking a bite of his sandwich. Awkward, once again, Dongyoung has to clear his throat to catch her attention and have her looking at him. “I need you to do some things for me today, though.”

“What would that be?” She asks, already looking for her phone to write down what she has to do, only to hear Dongyoung chuckling. “What?”

“Do you type fast?”

“Of course, I’m a journalist. Why?”

“Because I ask for a lot of things.” Dongyoung confesses, thinking of it as the best of comedies when he laughs at her, head thrown back and eyes closed tightly before breathing out softly.

“You’re such a celebrity.”

“And you’re such a whiner.” Dongyoung retorts back, looking at her from the corner of his eye before muffling his own voice with his sandwich. “First, I would like for you to go pick up my dog from the hairdresser in a bit. Also, I already ordered lunch ahead and you have to pick it up, as well. There’s a car for my personal assistant, by the way, I’ll give you the keys in a second.” Oh, and the job comes with more and more perks…everything sounds absolutely delightful, so much so than the more she types, the more she feels like writing at the end: Kim Dongyoung is a privileged asshole with a nice face and damn me, a nice body. “Uh…you forgot my scripts, by the way, but it’s okay, I snatched them away from Sujin before I came here.”

“Y—Your scripts?” She asks, quirking one of her eyebrows up to see Dongyoung getting something out of the drawers of the vanity before settling it down on it with a loud thump. “Jesus Christ—”

A folder, as thick as a textbook, is now seated on top of the white ceramic. “This is my folder of scripts. I’m working on a historical film later this year, so I’ve been reading that. There’s this show, so I have all the scripts for the next fifteen episodes here. I also have some variety shows to attend to and they, also, have scripts. Without counting some comedy film I’ve already done, but Sujin has forgotten to get that out of this folder.” Dongyoung comments, the amount of projects under his belt enough to make her head wonder how in the world he is able to remember so many characters, all those words— “Most actors don’t ask for this, but I’m afraid I’ll forget my lines so I ask my personal assistant to bring it along everywhere. It may be a heavy folder, but it has my entire life in it.”

That, she can understand. Though, she’s more of a technological woman if anything, but for how hard she studied the questions for her latest interview, only to be ruined by him, she could understand his fear of forgetting one of his lines. “I’ll carry it.” She answers, already reaching for it and resting the plastic against her chest. “So, dog, lunch, scripts. What else?”

“Cancel the dinner I was supposed to have with my acting committee today. I’m not feeling it and I’m also busy with shooting, so send an email.” Jotting that down on her phone, now with the weight of that folder on her arms, she is surprised when she watches Dongyoung stand up from his seat, standing in front of her with a smile. “And I’ll give you until two to be back here. That should be enough.”

“Dongyoung, do you know I am technically not a personal assistant and that I’m doing this to get my career back?”

He gives her an ashamed smile, his teeth shown in it when he whispers a small: “I’m sorry. I’ll give you until five past two?” The thought alone has her wanting to rub her temples, but with the weight of a two-year-old in the shape of a folder now on her arms, she doesn’t think she can even muster to do such thing. “Listen, I know I sound like an asshole, but all these things are important things. We’ll have fun along the way.”

His face says it all. Dongyoung, outside of acting, can’t hide his expressions on what he feels. Remorse, as if he’s a child that broke a vase and now wants to glue it back together. She may give him the benefit of the doubt but only because— “I’m sure your dog will make me feel better once I got pick them up.”

“…And I ordered lunch for both of us, so it shouldn’t be that bad being my personal assistant.” Dongyoung says, looking down at his phone before rushing towards the door. “I have to go. Recording should have started by now.” She is about to comment on his food, for he’s only taking his green smoothie with him, but once she turns to look at his plate, it’s empty. The sandwich is long gone, along with the fruits.

Maybe, she should pay more attention to the job instead of arguing with him.

“Good luck?” She asks, though it’s meant to be an affirmation. While walking alongside him on the hallway, Dongyoung lets out a chuckle, taking a sip of that disgusting smoothie.

“Thank you. You, too.”

###

With her back directly pressed to the backrest of the couch, her legs part non-elegantly, head leaned back, a rough sigh leaving her nostrils. Granted, Dongyoung’s household is as equally as comfortable as the first time she was there, nine days ago to be exact, and while it’s nine at night—the usual time in which Dongyoung is back home, has eaten, and can finally spare her the benefit of going back home—the chattering around the mansion’s living room is enough to make her feel tired, as well as interested.

From the ceiling to the floor, the big windows in Dongyoung’s household show the stars, casting down on the extremely clean piano in front of it. The living room, however, departs from that elegant spot into something more leaned back. The interior designer definitely made a study of Dongyoung’s personality—gray and whites, a few blacks, so elegant that it almost hurts the eyes, but has the essence of a young guy, spacious enough for him to bring anyone he wants, for party-goers to get far too close in this place because they want to, not because they need to, and while she often gawks at the new spots she gets to discover of Dongyoung’s glass home, crafted at the excellence of him, his friends don’t seem to mind.

If she really studies them from up close, there is no reason why they would care. Johnny’s wrist is perfectly wrapped by a Rolex, holding a flute glass up to his lips to take a sip of his drink, sharing that enormous couch with her and another man and not being even remotely close to each other. The other man in question, Jungwoo, sports that new unreleased Gucci collection that Hyoyeon had not stopped talking about all over his body. Wealth, both of them just exude privilege.

Though, both of them have clicking links in her mind, more than Dongyoung ever did before their dramatic interview. Johnny can be seen with one-liners in movies, matched with upbeat tunes that are meant to accelerate the heart, more often than not cladded in clothing that shows his hard work on the gym, the stunts he does enough to gain him some recognition. An actor, just like Dongyoung, just for more of a different genre—action. The way he holds himself shows his pride in his craft, though that does not make him unapproachable, a smirk had plastered on his face the moment he met her not too long ago.

Jungwoo, she is more of a fan of. Not necessarily as much of a fan of him as her ex-editor, Sungmin, was, but she has watched all his movies. The rom-com actor, the one that has anyone muffling their screams into their pillows, wishing that they had someone that loved them. The sincerity in his tone has the watcher falling in the traps of his plush lips, delving into the intense romances that he is put in, and his eyes are the trappers of his movies, matching him into any possible desirable character. Looking at him is even more difficult when she is reminiscent of her past relationship, for she had watched too many of his movies in hopes of seeking that warmth that seemed to lack back in the day.

Her name is called into the thin air, dreaming cut to a short and bursting her out of her bubble when she realizes that there may have been a possibility that she was halfway into passing out on Dongyoung’s couch until Johnny called her. Opening her eyes groggily, she looks at the man with a movement of her head before he smiles. “I’m your biggest fan, you know?”

“Fan?!” Dongyoung and her ask in unison, turning to look at each other just in time to catch their states. Dongyoung is sprawled on the couch across from them, drinking from his own flute glass while he speaks to his friends. His legs are parted, one of top of the headrest, the other caressing the ground, one hand placed on top of his abdomen, body cladded on a casual outfit. “Sorry.” He utters, looking at her for a brief second before she returns her gaze to Johnny.

“You have to be joking.” She says with a half-smile, only to have Jungwoo shaking his head from the other end of the couch.

“He’s not. We had the best laugh with your interview.” Jungwoo says excitedly in that soft tone of his, her smile dropping and making her cheeks deflate almost immediately. Sometimes, she even forgets about the interview that happened a little bit over a month ago. Perhaps, it’s the self-protection system inside her brain that is trying to make her feel better, or it simply is starting to become irrelevant to her. A mistake, one of too many.

Though, this hurts her, leaving her with a short mumble that says: “I see…”

“Guys, don’t say that.” Dongyoung points out, a lift on his tone when he sits up on his couch. “She was taking it seriously. It’s mean of you to tell her that it was funny—”

“Because of your face, asshole.” Johnny interrupts him, searching for something on his phone as he smiles to himself. “You just made it difficult for her, but thanks to that moment we got the best pictures from Dongyoung. We have been using it in the group-chat endlessly.” The screen of his phone is turned towards her, cropped images of the funniest facial expressions from Dongyoung made for everyone to see.

“We admire you. You really made Dongyoung uncomfortable.” Jungwoo says, that little glint of mischief in his eyes unexpected from him. Once he takes the last sip of his glass, cheeks tinted thanks to his tipsiness, he rests his hands on his knees. “Ever since his girlfriend broke up with him, we haven’t been able to have a good laugh with him. The moment that interview happened; we saw some expression on Dongyoung’s face that looked…alive, for the first time in a while, at least.”

But, what a way to be alive. The moment she saw him on the red carpet, she would have thought of Dongyoung to be the happiest man in the world, and for her to step over it thanks to ignorance had made her feel a bit guilty. She had ruined his night, just like how he had ruined hers. “Damn, thanks, I guess?” She scratches the back of her head, looking towards Dongyoung who seems to be ready to argue.

“I was not acting as if I was dead. I was just going through a scandal—”

“A fake scandal, at that.” Johnny answers, making her turn to him. The image of Hyoyeon talking about Dongyoung’s scandal appears inside her brain. Dongyoung had supposedly cheated, putting him as the bad man of the relationship, though there was little to no information about it. Would asking be wrong…?

Dongyoung leans back on his couch, the leather rustling when he rolls his eyes. “It doesn’t matter anymore. Tabloids blew it out of proportion.”

“Did they?” She asks, too softly that she thinks she was the only one who heard it, but Dongyoung opens his eyes just in time to look at her.

“You may think they didn’t because I’m a celebrity and you’re a journalist, but most of your people really just want a story out there, so they create anything—”

“I know, but I’m not like that.” She says, trying to clear her name because, most likely, those men in the room only knew her as that one woman that had gone viral for embarrassing Kim Dongyoung. Or disrespecting him, rather. Her love for journalism goes past gossip. “Gossip exists for a reason, and most of the time my people—like you said—write articles and our bosses tell us to make it more interesting. I was actually against that. I’m a cinematography-based interviewer and journalist. I am more worried about your talent than I could ever be about who you were with.”

Dongyoung frowns at that, seemingly interested in what she is saying, as if a weight was lifted off his shoulders. “Then…why did you ask who was my companion in the red carpet? Weren’t you trying to get me to talk about my break-up?”

“No. Dongyoung, I was not trying to compare you to your brother or get you to talk about your ex. I just didn’t know who you were. Entirely. Nothing. Zero. I had to ask the common stuff.” She replies, biting the inside of her cheek before she hears Johnny whistling from beside her.

“You want to know the details about Dongyoung’s break up, though?”

Dongyoung’s face stops showing a small smile, thrown her way to be exact, when he hears those words. Taking the few droplets of alcohol inside his flute glass, he throws it Johnny’s way and it clings to his face, thankfully not landing inside his eyes. “Do not dare paint me in a bad light in front of my personal assistant.”

“…And our hero.” Jungwoo corrects, bringing a smile up her features before she stands up.

“Actually, to spare Dongyoung the headache if you drunkenly confess something to me, I’m just going to go home.” She pulls the fabric of her t-shirt down, moving away from the couch and going over to where Dongyoung is seated. Her hand reaches forward to pat his head, a way of showing him to be weary of how much he drinks. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Be careful, okay?”

“I will. Good night.”

“Good night.” She tells him, moving towards the set of stairs that lead to the excellently protected door with, like, a hundred codes, but not before throwing a wave of her hand over her shoulder. “It was a pleasure to meet you, guys!”

“Same!” She hears Johnny say, but her mind is too occupied in connecting the dots of the story that is Dongyoung and his ex. It’s none of her business, it shouldn’t be, to pry on personal information has never been like herself. Gossip is not part of her, actually, but that curiousness that overtakes her only comes because of Dongyoung. He seems serious, in most occasions, easy to tease and to anger, but overall…he’s inoffensive. Nothing about him screams cheater, though faces can be seen but souls can never be discovered. That thought lingers inside her head, for his friends find it funny and Dongyoung seems ashamed of it.

…Do they think it’s fun that he cheated?

Or did he really cheat?

Johnny did say it was fake—

The crisp air of the night touches her skin, moving towards the car in a hassle, wanting to get out of there as soon as possible. Celebrities are the same—they are heartless beings, looking for more and more to take, and he shouldn’t be any different. If anything, he’s the most celebrity-esque person to ever exist. In some way or another, she’ll get a confirmation that the angel-faced actor is nothing more than a cheater.

###

“Hello, class.” The person in front of her, an instructor at that, extends their hands freely, landing all fingers together in a curve as a way of relaxation. A deep breath in that she is supposed to mimic—if Dongyoung doing the same action by her side is anything to go by—is given by the yoga instructor, spreading her fingertips once again. “Today, we’re doing friendship yoga. This will strengthen professional bonds along with friendships.”

The trails of sleepiness cling to her eyelids, shown in her body with how relaxed it was before the yoga instructor spoke up about whatever ‘friendship yoga’ is supposed to mean. For such an early morning in Dongyoung’s free day, the least she would expect him to do is yoga. His sleep is almost a sacred thing for him, if not the only thing that he will ever love more than anyone, so for him to wake up early when there are no recordings and to invite her to join him along the way seems suspicious. Enough for her to stop rubbing at her eyes, staring at Dongyoung inside his own personal gym with fire beneath her eyes, burning with the rampant hatred she feels for him right at that moment.

“What?” She utters in a whisper, nearing him, now realizing the exact reason why he had asked her to come in comfortable clothing. Wearing an oversized shirt and sweatpants, Dongyoung seems to get ready, but her most comfortable outfit is, surprisingly but also not at all, a pair of leggings and a t-shirt. “…You never told me we were doing yoga. We—You have friends to do this with!”

“We’re always arguing, so I thought doing something together would help us…stop arguing. Let everything go, you know?” While the excuse makes sense, much more when her sleepy state has her looking at Dongyoung for a second longer, collarbones peaking from his white t-shirt and making her stare down momentarily, reminiscent of the time she saw him without that white fabric on top of him, it still doesn’t settle well with her. The yoga instructor in front of her, however, sporting a relaxed smile on her features, seems to find the situation funny, if the smile is anything to go by. “Do it for me, please?”

“…I get a little bit more of money at the end of this month.”

“Wow, is spending time with me really that tedious? Enough for you to ask for more payment in your salary?”

“Dongyoung, I don’t need friendship yoga. We just need to—”

Her voice is cut to a halt when she feels someone’s hands resting on top of her shoulders, kneading the muscles there only to feel the tightness hurting to the most profound particles of her being. Her eyes widen in surprise, hearing the soft hum of the instructor, Duri, who starts to talk after rubbing at her trapezius. “You need to let go of this pent-up tension you have with you. It’s only dragging feelings of negativity towards your soul. You have the same issue as Dongyoung, too explosive…” The slow tone of her voice has her sighing, pulling away from her with a tug before standing in front of Dongyoung.

“I don’t have any problem, because I’m doing this and then, I’m getting out of here.” Duri seems to be pleased by her answer, moving towards her laptop to hit the space bar, the Bluetooth speakers bathing the sun-lit gym in a soft, relaxing tune, mixed with the sounds of rain. Faux, at that, the day is as shiny as ever.

“I need you two to trust each other…place your hands together, mimic the motions of the other…”

Dongyoung splays his hands in front of her, extending her own fingertips to match the circular motions he is doing in the air, the warmth of his skin seeping into hers when she starts talking: “Where did you even find her? I didn’t know you practiced yoga.”

“Jungwoo does, he recommended her to me once and I never called her again.” He whispers back, only to have her snorting out a laugh.

“And you’re getting me into this?”

“He said it would strengthen—”

“No talking, we’re relaxing…” Duri sighs the words out, making her straighten her back before the instructor’s fingers point towards the electric blue yoga mat on the flooring. “I need you to kneel there, in front of each other.”

By his sweet face, there is a look of annoyance, kneeling down at the same time that she does and looking her way. The sunrays lay on top of his tired expression, probably not getting enough hours of sleep just to strengthen whatever friendship they don’t have. If getting him to drink his greens, picking up his dog and spending time with him at almost every hour of the day is friendship…then, she has a new concept of it.

“Closer.” Duri instructs, almost gasping when Dongyoung moves closer to her, his face looking ahead at her when his chest presses to hers. The expanse of his body clouds her, vision becoming blurry when inspecting his face to the point she has to look to the side. “Now, grab each other’s arms around the elbow area and lean back slowly. This will show that you trust each other…and it will also release any remorse inside of you.” The dramatic punctuation of the word release has her pressing her lips together, reaching for Dongyoung’s skinny arms and gripping them in between her fingertips, leaning back by the time she feels the muscles of his abdomen pressing against hers.

His chuckle is drowned by the music, much more when he says—and sarcasm has finally made a way to his voice—. “This is so relaxing, Duri.”

“Release that hate. Come on.” Duri, taking it far too seriously because it’s her job, would probably lose her cool if she saw the expression on her face, but a minute or so pass by before she asks them to go back in position. “Now, sit down on the mat.”

Following after her instructions, she looks over her shoulder to talk to Duri. “…What do we do after?”

“Rest your feet against the other’s. Place your legs up high, without bending your knees.”

“I don’t think I can do that.” Dongyoung mutters, pressing her feet to hers before she lifts them up in a hassle, straightening her legs to the point Dongyoung’s feet slip away from their position against hers and she ends up resting hers against his calves. “Oh shit, wait, I can’t extend my legs that much—”

“Ooh, I’m more athletic than Kim Dongyoung? Who would have thought?”

“I don’t put my legs up in the air all the time!” Dongyoung complains, placing his legs down before pushing at her shoulder, almost making her lose her balance, but she retaliates soon enough, pushing at his shoulder as well.

With a frown on her features, though playful, she answers his comment: “And you mean to tell me I do?!”

“That’s—That’s not what I said!” The blush on his features is funny, making her push her lips together when Duri rests her hands against Dongyoung’s shoulders, leaning him back on his mat without saying much. Her annoyance levels must be higher than Dongyoung’s mansion itself.

“Please, try not to raise your voice, we’re in a moment of relaxation…” This is serious for Duri, enough to have the smile erasing from her features when Duri pulls away from Dongyoung, now laying down on the mat, to look at her. “We’ll do some carrying yoga positions. Dongyoung will be under you, his feet supporting your weight by your center,” Duri’s hands place themselves on top of her own abdomen, showing exactly where they should be located. One look to Dongyoung’s face shows the same mortified expression that must be on hers, the closeness in between the two unbearable when they are face to face. Eyes widened, lips parted, they can barely speak when Duri continues explaining. “And you’ll get to do several positions of your own. Extending your back, your legs. This will make you trust him. Jungwoo told me Dongyoung trusts you a lot with his life, so you need to trust him as well.”

The rumor that goes around Duri’s lips brings confusion to her. Dongyoung trusts her, that much should be knowledgeable but still, it surprises her. He trusts her enough to carry one of his oldest cars around when working, to listen to what his friends say and to be around him, even when she’s a journalist. He trusts her enough to let paparazzi take pictures of the two together, never thinking about it twice. These thoughts go through her brain when she stands in front of Doyoung’s extended legs, her fingers slotting in between his when his feet prop themselves on her abdomen.

“Do you trust me?” She asks, and soon after Dongyoung lifts her up in the air. From the position, the air is knocked out of her lungs, Dongyoung’s legs wobbling a bit before he gains his balance again. Her fingers tighten around his, looking at his expression while he bites down on his bottom lip to keep his strength.

“I do,” He huffs out, finally learning how to find his equilibrium, looking up at Duri to wait for more instructions, but when the woman starts speaking, something seems to bite at his curiousness. “Do you trust me?”

“…I don’t know.” She utters softly, the air in between them cut by Duri’s voice.

“You’ll trail your feet down her thighs and she’ll have to straighten her back. The only way to keep that position is if she wraps her calves around your legs and you two keep the equilibrium. Once you do, let go of her hands.”

Why can’t she trust Dongyoung? Is it because she feels like she knows so much about him that she doesn’t know him? She knows his daily routines; that he brushes his teeth far more than he should, that he simply can’t stand that green smoothie that Sujin keeps making, and that he calls his mother in the middle of the day to ask how she’s doing. He’s sharp, but he’s not prickly—he’ll never hurt anyone he loves, practically beaming the moment he talks to his family. She knows he is irregular with his exercising, that he rolls his eyes at whatever Johnny says but that he inherently listens. There is so much she acknowledges about him, but there are plenty of things in his story that are inconclusive, as if, in a way, he doesn’t trust her as much as he claims to say.

She straightens her back, but immediately loses her balance even when Dongyoung feet are propped on her thighs. “Do this properly, you got us in this position!” She tells him, a little bit enraged at the faux relaxing music, at herself, at Dongyoung for even thinking that this was going to unite them, but she gets a scowl from him.

“If I put my feet any further up your thighs, I’m going to end up tying your tubes.” The comment has her closing her eyes as if not to laugh, the seriousness of the situation cut short when she wraps her calves around his own legs, hands shaking while they hold onto his. “I’m sorry I got you into this. For making you lose your job, for having your as my personal assistant and for making you do questionable yoga.”

She leans forward, not sure if she wants to let go of his hands at this moment, because it feels warm and safe. Warmth, safety, two things that she would have never compared Dongyoung to, but now looking at him from above, she sees the peaceful on his gaze. Part of her knows that he never meant it, for all of this to happen, it took two to dance into this mess that they are now in. “I’d trust you more if—” A gasp leaves her lips when Dongyoung lets go of her hands, mixed with the squeal she lets out when she extends her arms to keep her balance. “If you just opened up to me more.”

“I feel like I know nothing about you, as well.” Dongyoung complains, her eyes trailing down to look at his extended hands, just in case she falls. Would he do the same if something went wrong now that they are a team? “M—Maybe it was a bad idea to try to get to know you more through yoga.”

She chuckles at that, for the first time feeling like she is not tied to Dongyoung simply because of her job. This thread of lines around her chest, all burning into her skin, hurting her in prickly grips, lets go with a liberating force. “It was not the conventional method, but I think it’s…fun.”

“I think so, too.” The sound of Duri pushing the space bar on her laptop is the only thing that is heard after she turns the music off. The tall woman places her hands on top of her hips, one leg jolted forward to show her distaste. “So, are you going to actually pay attention and have fun or should I just tell Jungwoo that his plans of having you two become friends are pointless?”

Jungwoo, the man that had called her his hero. Of course, this couldn’t have been only Dongyoung’s idea.

Speaking of the man himself, his legs give in finally, bolting her body forward until his legs are resting on each side of her body, parted, and her elbows dig into his chest uncomfortably, stealing a breath away from him. Dongyoung’s ears are closed in pain, rubbing at his thighs when he speaks to Duri. “Yeah, Duri, I’m sorry…but I don’t think neither of us are fitted for this.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll just pick my stuff up and go.” Duri’s relaxed tone says before taking her by the arm, dragging her up and away from Dongyoung in a matter of seconds. “If I were you, I wouldn’t trust him. There’s a saying about men with weak knees; they never support anybody.”

Dongyoung frowns at that, two lines forming on top of his nose when he sits up on the yoga mat. “Well, it’s not always I have to support my personal assistant on my feet, thank you very much.”

Absentmindedly, he had done something. In the depths of her soul, she feels as though Dongyoung is not much of an enigmatic, well-prepared, immaculately logical villain that waits for the right moment to stab her in the back. He is, just like he said that time by the stairs, simply trying to mend a mistake he made.

But now, at the beginning of their day together as personal assistant and actor, the uncertainty of it all falls on the fact that she doesn’t know if that makes her feel better or worse.

###

The security system beeps after she inserts the code, opening the door with her free hand, the other holding the container that includes Dongyoung’s food, ready for another day or recording. This time around for his movie, just a clarification that her phone brightened her mind with once she had woken up, alarm sounding like the shrilling touch of nails against a whiteboard. Once the door closes behind her, she basks in the mere silence of the dimly lit room—big windows, this mansion may have, but with Dongyoung using black curtains to keep his privacy to the highest amount, the place looks as if it was the doom when he is not awake, bathed in the glow of his security system only.

The more she walks into the place, up the stairs carefully and into the living room, her fingers trail over the curtains and pull them slightly, the welcomed sight of the Sun bringing warmth to her body. This routine of the past two months has been liberating in a way—different, like an intern in some magazine that works immensely different from the other ones, but refreshing in its outcome. Walking up another set of stairs, the playroom is the first thing she sees—too many videogames that she’d rather skip looking, she has already been threatened by her own thoughts to simply skip work and play there for a while. You know, just for fun.

Though, fun it is to work with Dongyoung. Watching a new sight of an actor such as himself, too well-prepared and obsessed with following the script, is something any journalist would wish for. Sometimes, when they do get to his mansion to share dinner—just like they do with lunch—, she swears she sees him opening up more. Not about his past, itself, but about his beliefs. What he finds right, wrong, annoying, interesting. What movie he likes, her opinion on it taken into consideration, and the films will even be played in the background if they have time.

Opening the door to Dongyoung’s room, not knocking after he told her that he’s a, through and through, heavy sleeper long ago, the same darkness has her sighing. Her fingers touch around the place to find any kind of surface; whether it is his desk or his vanity. Much to her delight, his desk comes in contact with her hands, feeling his laptop and his phone on top of it. Once the bag is settled down softly, the curtains are pulled in a hassle, trying to make as much as noise possible to wake up Dongyoung.

Or annoy him, God only knows what she wants.

…But maybe, it’s to annoy him.

For someone whose color-scheme around his mansion is white, gray, more shades of white and some black, his bedroom seems to be livelier. Brown shades, some beiges, some darker, all around the decorations, from the cushions on his bed to the blanket thrown over his body, fluffy enough to make his slim body disappear on the king-sized bed. The wood of the desks looks rich, barely even rough under her fingertips, sturdy for the amount of pictures he has around it, as well as some of those expensive matters that he keeps lying around—some jewelry, a ring that he always likes wearing without meaning at all, and his laptop that could very well have android qualities and speak to her one of these days with how expensive it is.

“Morning, morning, Dongyoung. We have a movie shoot today, and Sujin said you have to be there early because paparazzi are already crowding the street and you’d get there late if you don’t wake up now.” She speaks, voice quick when she goes over the first bit of his day, the patter of his dog’s paws making her smile softly as she picks the white poodle toy dog from the floor, lifting her up until she is resting on her waist. “Dongyoung, I said good morning. Even your daughter is asking for you—”

When she pulls the covers away from his body, she doesn’t expect him to let out the noise he makes. A soft, guttural moan that falls in the back of his throat. Resting on his abdomen, arms sprawled on top of his pillows, Dongyoung’s cheek is squished against the material, barely opening one eye to look at her. The worst part is that she feels her heart pick up when he closes his eyes again, giving her a smile in the softest but slowest of matters when he realizes it is her.

Once his body twists, the sleeve of his tank top falls off, showcasing his shoulder for her to look at before clearing her throat. Dongyoung reaches forward, patting all over her body blindly, patting around her arm and knee. “Where’s the booze button? I need to shut you up for, like, five more minutes.”

“You don’t have five more minutes.” The hardest part is to not concentrate on Dongyoung. She excels at it in most occasions, rushing through everything just to not stay there for too long and hence, not being able to look at how absolutely breathtaking Dongyoung is even early in the morning, void of any trace of makeup, hair done a mess.

He sighs, rubbing at his eyes and extending his limbs with a soft gush of breath escaping his lips. “Can’t you just be pretty and not tell me anything once?”

“That’s not my job.” She tells him, putting his dog down before moving towards where he is. Kneeling beside the bed, she runs her fingertips through Dongyoung’s hair until he is smiling once again, utterly pleased by her ministrations. That is until she tugs at the strands, bringing that beautiful frown out of him. “My job is to get you out of your bed so you can have millions of women around the country dying for you, so…wake up.”

When she stands up, Dongyoung gives one final turn on his bed, finally sitting up just in time for her to look at the way he runs his fingers through his achy scalp, yawning softly and extending his arms over his head. He may not be regular on the gym, but his physique has always been quite artistic to her. As if, in a way, he’d never realize just how some sculptures could envy the beauty that he holds. “Joke’s on you.” Dongyoung says, ignored by her when she moves towards the door and opens it quickly, Dongyoung’s dog—Mio—following after her.

“Why?”

“You’re still pretty even when you’re talking shit endlessly.” The comment falls on deaf ears. An actor like him, who probably saw women of the highest of calibers every day, could never consider the interviewer obsessed with t-shirts and leggings as a pretty woman. A normal man? Probably, the type to have a nine-to-five job and probably two women liking him, not someone like…Kim Dongyoung, the country’s heartthrob.

For, uncertainty will always be a dress she wears around him, and it has been settled by her to always hate the garment. “…Just s—shut up.” She fails on keeping her stutter in when she shuts the door behind her, and she swears she hears Dongyoung chuckling to himself.

The more she spends days with Dongyoung, the more she realizes just how different they are, and no matter how much he tries to integrate her into his world, she’ll never match. The darkness of his mansion is not for her, much less is it the coding system. The van is a little bit too much and the shutters of cameras when the two of them get out of the automobile makes her squint her eyes, while he is looking ahead as if the blinding lights don’t bother him. Dongyoung talks to her as if there are not hundreds of people around them, as if the paparazzi could not hear what they are saying, and she has to pretend like she is not bothered about the people that step on her feet or that point their cameras more at her because: the scandal of having her, that one interviewer that everyone thought Dongyoung hated, around him is just too much to bear, too beautiful to grasp.

But this is what this is. A scandal, a call for attention, nothing more, nothing less. Dongyoung would never be seen, even when dead, around someone like her in a normal setting—with an average outcome, a love for cinematography and journalism. Dongyoung is seen around actors, dating models and actresses, be-friending those who are around his net-worth, not because he needs it…but because that’s his line of work. Those are all the people he knows.

And had she not committed such a mistake, he would have never given her the time of the day, much less would have become friends with her. They would have been kept separated, sufficiently close for an interview, but never enough to have everyone shooting pictures of them looking for answers.

He doesn’t realize it, either, when she walks a little bit quicker just to get away from the cameras. They have enough pictures, hopefully his plan works soon and she can have her job back…because spending more time with Dongyoung will only bring her closer to this feeling she can’t quite explain, that tightness around her heart that only keeps her at ease when he is around.

###

“Hey!” Dongyoung calls out for her, typical, much more when he’s about to shoot. Seated by the makeup artists, she looks up from her phone to see Dongyoung waving at her, right in front of the cameras with a faint smile on his features. The set today looks different—a bed, dimly lit, with red covers and what seems to be a mess around it. One of the most difficult scenes for the actors, and even for her to watch. “Care to help me practice my lines?”

Her eyebrows shoot up, laughing at Dongyoung straight to his face. Absentmindedly, her fingers point at her chest, settling her phone down in the process. “Me? I’m your personal assistant, not your co-star. Let me be.”

“Come on, the actress hasn’t gotten here and I want to see if I can say things well.” Dongyoung utters, the reason as to why the makeup artists behind her sigh dreamily. The Dongyoung effect, maybe, or maybe she just keeps that sigh to herself whenever the man smiles at her a little too sincerely. “I’ll give you my script, you’ll play the prostitute.”

Those words make her halter her steps even when she has already stood up from her seat, scoffing at his words right after he says them: “Way to go, I’ll be the hooker.” Though, she snatches the script away from his hands. The lights of the set feel even harsher in that spot, the camera pointed directly at her, making her freeze in fear. A soft breath leaves her lips, barely audible and shaky, ripping through her chest while she tries not to remember the last time she was in front of a camera. It all went badly; clammy hands, stuttered words, blank spaces in her brain. “The cameras are not going to be on, right?”

“No, no, they will not.” Dongyoung tells her, looking at her face for any signs of discomfort before calling the cameraman. “Hey, care to point it another way while she helps me practice?”

His realization, sharp and intelligent, has her lessening the tension on her muscles when she looks down at the script at hand. There it is, the hooker character that she is supposed to play. “Tell me this is not the sex scene, please.”

Dongyoung laughs at her words, wholeheartedly, one hand brought to his chest when he lets the sound live in a free manner in such a filled and cramped space. “Pre-sex scene. Why? Want to help me out with the other one?”

Groaning, she tilts her head back, covering her face with the script. “It’s already difficult for me to have to watch you shooting that softcore sex scene. I don’t need you reminding me that I’ll be here for it.”

“Whatever,” He mumbles, taking his seat on top of the bed before pointing at his script with his hand. “Read the first line. It’s yours.”

This may be serious for him. To be under the lights must not be difficult for him, much less in front of a camera. Her confidence, now further deflated with the death of her job, becomes even lower the moment she reads the first line. Acting is just that; the unity of words, scene, camera-work and storyline to make everything function as if it was part of real life, a story to be told, but when she reads over the first scene, perhaps expertly played by the real actress, but not like herself, the words die down on the tip of her tongue. “Aren’t you—?” She cuts herself short, shaking her head. “I can’t do it.”

Dongyoung looks around at that, crossing his arms over his chest when saying: “It’s just a line.” But it’s definitely not a line that she’d say in front of people, much less when she remembers that someone is going to say this line to Dongyoung’s character, while dressed in that leather jacket that will always have a spot in her heart—even more so now that they added badges to it. This is just a line, part of what the character has to say, and the image of Dongyoung kissing this character—the first one in the season, is enough to have her blood boiling, just the slightest bit. Enough for it to be noticeable to her, at least. “…Why is it so difficult? We’re just acting.”

“Ugh, you’re insufferable,” She says, looking down at the blurring script when she reads out. “Aren’t you supposed to be the officer here? Go ahead, handcuff me—” Once she reads over the line, she tosses the script at his chest, watching him laugh with glee and bringing a grin up and out of her. “How do you expect me to say that line?! The only thing that needed to be added there to make it even more cringe-worthy is something along the lines of ‘daddy’, like what the hell is this?!”

Even someone from the production team seems to be laughing at her reaction, and Dongyoung has very well spread his body on top of the bed while laughing. “It’s not supposed to be sexual yet, oh my God—!”

His fingers hook around the script, resting it on top of her thigh just as he hears her speak. Adoration is written on his features, perhaps enjoying too much the fact that he gets to fluster her. “Yeah, what is it supposed to be?”

“A legit handcuffing scene. You’re on the wrong page. I realized when you picked up the script, but I let your mind reel whichever way you wanted it to go.” Dongyoung answers, giving her just enough time to launch her fists forward and hit his chest softly, his ribcage vibrating with every ounce of his laughter. “You’re so dirty without letting anyone know.”

“Shut up. I thought it was something else.” She answers, only to have Dongyoung wiggling his eyebrows.

“Oh, I know.” He answers, soon after patting the spot beside him before she takes it, looking into his concentrated eyes while he moves to the right page. “You don’t have to act them out…or say the entire sentence, you can just say the initiation and make sure that I say mine properly, word by word.”

This is the part of him that people never evaluate; that, had she known of him at the time, she would have loved to interview and question the time they met. He’s given to his work, entranced in the worlds of bringing a character to life, make it his, but also differentiate himself from the person that he is in front of the camera. The few undone buttons of his shirt under the leather jacket are not enough to take her gaze away from his concentrated eyes when he says line after line, perfectly, his hours of studying the script coming to a good conclusion for this show. Once it launches, people are going to fall in love for his character…but, who knows? Her problem may not fall on the character, per say, but on Kim Dongyoung himself.

###

May the laughter never die down, she hopes. May his always remain loud and clear, with a gummy smile paired in between even when she doesn’t get a front row sight of it just like now. Duri would have been proud of them if she saw them, time after her class, limbs interlocking with one another while they toss and torn on the flooring. His punches are soft against her face, and she lands some kicks on his side in this play-fighting thing that has been going around for the slightest of whiles. After all, when Dongyoung said ‘fight me’, she loved to take the literacy of it and turn it into a reality.

But not a lot of people get to see this—the raw side of Dongyoung, the one that shows just how ticklish he is, or that one moment of the night in which his retainers are on and he looks a thousand times less…celebrity-like. Gorgeous beyond explanation, he will always be, but this sight of him as she lands a soft punch on his gut, one that has him faking a gasp, is one that she doesn’t want anyone else to see.

Hyoyeon questions her reality at times, and Sujin turns a blind eye into the situation. Her take on it? She doesn’t want to conceptualize it. Days without Dongyoung are rare, but how can they not be when he calls her just for everything and anything. She doesn’t want to think of the fact that play-fighting with him feels as though she is fighting with herself, because she would love to be able to wrap her arms around him and simply hold him close for eternity. For once, she’d like for him to laugh with her and never again feel like she shouldn’t get too close. This flutter in her soul makes her think if this is as endless as it feels, or it’s just a matter of time before magazines start calling for her and she has to leave.

Now, seated beside Dongyoung and tickling his sides, the sound of his laughter is addictive, so much so that she feels egotistic simply holding him here. With her. People love to think that they have become friends, that he has forgiven her, but no one would ever dare to look too close. Hyoyeon and Jason may be right, questioning her intentions of ever wanting to go back to interviewing when she has been so happy there, with Dongyoung, attending him but also having attending her.

Making sure she eats.

Always sending her a goodnight text.

Boosting her confidence with little comments here and there.

When she stops, Dongyoung is still laughing, but he may not realize that she is smiling—but not enjoying this moment as much. Journalism will always be her one lover, but…this she feels has been dead long before, only to be brought alive for him. This sense of passion for something else that isn’t cinematography, instead of looking for movies to live a life of her own, she has…a story. A story that initiates, develops and ends.

“D—Did I punch you for real?” Dongyoung asks, bottom lip stuck in between his teeth when he asks her such thing, and she wants nothing more than to punch some sense into him. For him to fire her so she doesn’t have to look at him for longer and wonder what it would be like if famous actor Kim Dongyoung fell for her. If, for once, she would be as confident as she was back then and ask him the questions she has always wanted to unthread from its confines.

What happened with your last relationship?

Why does everyone think you cheated, Dongyoung?

…If you did, would you do it again?

Has your nice-guy image only been a glimpse of my imagination?

“No,” She answers, patting his abdomen just by the time she stands up, pointing towards the kitchen with a soft shrug of her shoulders. “I just got hungry. Maybe, we should be eating instead of playing around like that.”

“Come on, don’t be boring.” Dongyoung points out, reaching for a strand of her hair and pulling it softly. “You were the one that started the physical fight. I’m more of a debate guy myself.”

Though, she can only give him a short chuckle, hoping that he doesn’t realize that she already knows the matter…knows him for the person he is daily, and yet fears ever knowing him more, because these glimpses of his life have been enough to have her falling in love.

And he’ll never fall for someone like her.

###

Movement will always be a strange matter to her; how electricity deals even with the slightest of glides of her fingertips against the fabric of his tie, rubbing the soft and delicate material in between them before tying it snugly. Some movements can’t be felt, like the one that her heart is doing to go unnoticed by him, and the faint buzz of the elevator that holds them up and towards Dongyoung’s interview. The brown walls, dim golden lights, will never do justice to the man in front of her, always so polished when cladded on a suit, never close enough for her to remember everything about him.

Dongyoung holds beauty in him, he must know this, or at least she hopes he does. In him, even in the most intricate parts of his personality that he never gets to enjoy, and a word will never be told about this to him out loud, much less when she is talking about other things to him. Like, let’s say, how he needs to talk in this interview—how to avoid questions, how not to, how to answer some of the most difficult ones perfectly, how to probably become one of the wittiest celebrities nowadays. While voicing out the turning gears inside her head that are telling her, begging her, to compliment him is as difficult as it can get, speaking about journalism and interviews…not so much.

“What do I do if they ask about you? What do I say?” Dongyoung asks, this elevator going far too slow or the skyscraper just has too many floors. His eyes are what captivate her first when she finds herself still holding onto his tie, the elevator not powerful enough to move her out of her spot there, in front of him.

Everything with him feels like it shouldn’t electrify her this much, that it shouldn’t feel as though her hands are cramping and her heart drops to the pit of her stomach. As if, for some odd reason of the complexities in the chemistry of the human body, she can’t help but smile in most occasions when around him. “You just say we’re friends,” She tells him, tugging at the tie on his neck and hearing a breath getting caught in his throat. “And that I have to do your ties when you loosen them because you’re a poor excuse of a celebrity.”

Dongyoung frowns at that, pressing his index finger to her forehead in a teasing manner, making sure to rub it on the skin and bring a chuckle out of her. “You’re my assistant, you have to do something.”

“Oh, I do something.” But, one simple glance at him already feels like he is pulling her closer and closer to the depths of the masses that fall for him. For this image that Dongyoung has that exudes comfort, that screams romanticism in the oddest of ways—the type of man that will probably most likely prefer to stab his tongue with a fork than to say something remotely cheesy, but on the long run…will probably sneak in something romantic.

“Like what?” He prompts, still staring at her and her hands surprise her when they glide down to rest on the fabric of his black blazer, matching his hair, parted exactly how she met him—how she likes it, really.

“…Like trying to forget that you look this good right now.” She whispers, fingertips splaying across his heart, as if hoping to hear a heartbeat equally as rushed as hers. She can’t feel him, but her eyes can make out the figure of him when his eyes widen for a fraction of a second, lips parting ever so slightly just when his eyes glide to look at her features, everything around her face that can have the lights on top of them glistening even more on his brown irises.

“Is that so?” Dongyoung asks, face growing closer to hers when his eyes connect to her lips, his tongue slotting out to lick at his. “Because I have an image in my head I can’t really forget, and it’s all your fault.”

That breathlessness that characterizes her when around him makes its presence known when she breaths out the question: “What is that image you’re talking about?”

“You, the afternoon we met.”

Her fingers push together, suddenly hyperaware of where she is. The numbers on the elevator get closer to their floor, she is far too close to him, and she’s there because of that damned afternoon, not because of anything else— “Yeah, I don’t think you’ll ever forget that, I embarrassed us—”

Dongyoung’s fingers spread around her waist, thumb coming in contact with her ribcage, soft caresses of the digit against the fabric of her t-shirt. So unkempt, yet in her most natural stance. “It’s not about that. Why don’t you ever let me speak?”

“…Because you always say something stupid.”

“Either way,” Dongyoung rolls his eyes, a small smile appearing on his features. The elevator keeps buzzing in the background, softly, almost not perceivable if it was not for the overdrive of the adoring nature that blooms inside her chest when around him. “I never got the chance to tell you that you looked like a dream that time around. That violet dress…” His voice trails, his thumb pressing down on her skin softly, stopping his ministrations as if to ground himself. His body is close, close enough for the warmth of him to radiate over her, abdomens pressed together, and if she looks at him close enough, she swears she can see a blush under all that makeup. “All I kept thinking about was you in that dress the entire night.”

“Yeah, and also our interview.” She replies, breathy enough that the laughter that follows soon after dies down when she realizes the closeness of him. A thick gulp of her own is enough to showcase just how affected she is—thanks to his existence itself, to the way they met, to the situation in which they are in, in which she can feel every movement of his lungs against hers, back dipped to be closer to him, wanting to wrap her cold fingertips on the back of his suit, trailing down his shoulders, give him that one kiss that he seems to silently be begging for.

“Also, our interview.” Dongyoung replies. “Though, no matter how cringe-worthy it was, it got us to meet.”

“I’m glad it happened.” The situation falls on her like a bucket of cold water, because she was glad it happened. As in, Dongyoung had brought so much joy into her life that, in a way, it was meant to happen to her that said interview went wrongly.

“Huh, what did you say?” Dongyoung questions, one of his big smiles on his face and just when she is about to return it, the sound of the elevator doors opening dings rather too loudly, like the shatter of glass against the flooring as Sujin speaks in a cheery tone.

“Dongyoung, people are already waiting for you!”

Nothing would hurt more than the slip of his fingertips on her waist, like the sigh that left his lips when their bodies were no longer pushed together, when the pure magnetism of him is enough to make her feel powerless only she sees him slipping away from her. Not for long, however, because she needs to follow after Sujin and Dongyoung when the manager’s fingers reach for her wrist, dragging her away from the elevator that welcomed a sense of realization. Dongyoung had been equally as captivated with her as she had been with him the time they met. Or so she wants to believe.

###

After-parties are, to put it simply, the culprit of most of the scandals that celebrities get involved in. There are too many secrets to be discovered when being a journalist in the middle of an after-party event, but since the title just simply stands as her degree and not her occupation currently, she has to act as Dongyoung’s personal assistant only. Standing near the bar with him, a bottle of beer brought up to his lips while they converse about this and that, she finds herself leaning away from the gossip her eyes could capture—and could possibly confirm to Hyoyeon for a premise—to instead concentrate on him. What’s new? She doesn’t know, but it always feels as though watching him is a refreshing moment each time. Different, Dongyoung will always be different from the rest, and in the best of ways.

The buttons of his white shirt are opened, giving a glimpse of the necklace around his neck, that one ring he likes shining far too brightly when resting against the freezing cold bottle of beer. After hiding away from the world for the season finale, barely doing so much as eating if she doesn’t pressure him to do so. As it seems, now that the first season is recorded and will eventually be released to the world, Dongyoung has some time to enjoy a cold treat, though the tiredness in his features is far too much for her to bear. Still beautiful, yet endlessly tired, enough to have him complaining about it every once in a while.

At least, he voices out his concerns.

Dongyoung’s eyes widen momentarily while he is speaking, something behind of her making him widen his eyes and this is enough to be denoted with how expressive he is. Maybe, he’s a good actor—but he’s not good enough to lie to her. His body grows uncomfortable at that moment, leaning forward to where he is as if to cage her from whatever is behind her, a protection of sorts that she despises the moment she sees the tight-lipped smile he gives her.

Whoever Kim Dongyoung is, whether a character or not, he always tries to shelter her. Guilt may be the reason why he does this, but she has never been made of glass. The journalism world is not easy; it’s all about competition, about stepping over someone and getting that one column in the magazine—Dongyoung, though sweet, could never protect her for long enough. Even then, when the ache of her mistake at the interview had subsided, there is still hate thrown her way, fingers pointing at her lying ways, as if she’s some gold-digger that is trying to cling to him. Nothing will ever be sunshine and rainbows, and this is what shatters her about him, what keeps her away from falling fundamentally into his arms, even when it’s not reciprocated.

Dongyoung will hide anything just to protect her.

Once she turns, the body of a woman she recognizes fully is the first thing she sees. Too far away for her to fully see the smile on this woman’s face, but it’s there, a wave sent her way that has Dongyoung scoffing beside her. His ex, that infamous ex that she had little to no information about, at least no more than what she knew as a journalist. His co-star three years ago in some movie that he was part of, the romance on the screen showcased into his real life and turning everything around for him. The scandal—with not enough details, as well—consisted on Dongyoung cheating on her, the cause of their break-up.

And she’s tired of Dongyoung, in a way, of this protective band that he keeps around him in case someone gets too close. There has been enough time for them to meet, for her to talk about past experiences with him over dinner, for them to share enough words that she doesn’t think there could ever be enough time to express just how close they had gotten. At least, on her part. Just now, it downs on her the reason as to why it’s so difficult to trust Dongyoung, why the world will always feel too artificial when around him—

He is just mending a scandal, but he never speaks about the reason why the scandal happened on the first place.

The actress is gorgeous; typical as typical can get. Long hair cascading in waves, beautiful eyes enticed by her elongated eyelashes, the redness of her lips could be caused by the drink on her hand, but not enough information about Jo Seoyeon will ever be enough for her to get interested on anything she does. What keeps clouding her brain in uncertainty right now is Dongyoung, now fully aware that she has looked at his ex.

“Did you really cheat on her?” Cutting the chase, the confidence that had once took over her when on interviews resurfaces simply to ask that question, but she’s not asking as an interviewer—she’s asking from the point of view of a person that likes Dongyoung, that has seen him at his best and worst in the past few months, and needs the answer of a part of the situation that had wrapped her up with him, on the first place.

Dongyoung’s eyes grow cold at that, the inside of his cheek bitten expertly when he places his bottle of beer down on the pristine and black counter by the bar. “No, of course not,” He complains, a tilt to his voice that comes with a raspy tone. All thanks to the drink, his first one of the night; he seems to have grown unused to the alcohol. “Do you really think I would—?”

“That’s the thing Dongyoung, one thing is what I think and the other one is what you plan to tell me.” She replies, biting down on her bottom lip to stop herself, but this is not enough to water the rampant fire inside of her. “Because—you’ve been telling the world, the paparazzi, the country, everyone that we are friends and sometimes, I really do think that we are friends—that is, until I realize that you keep things hidden from me.”

“You’re going to think I’m a pussy.” Dongyoung squints his eyes, looking at her after he babbles that nonsense her way. Truthfully, maybe he is ignorant to the advances he has in her heart, that almost absolutely nothing about him could make her think he’s a coward—only this, this hiding he does is cowardly enough for her to point it out.

“I’m not the kind to call you a pussy,” She quirks an eyebrow. “You know what you could be a pussy for? Not talking about this. Whatever happened needs to be sorted out, not with the world, but with yourself—”

“That I got cheated on? That’s what you want to know?” The strain on his voice could very well belong to one of his most dramatic scenes, but the edge of his tone is so much like Dongyoung that she knows she has hit a nerve. More than hit, stepped on it repeatedly, like hitting an elbow but instead of a hit it’s a whole fracture. His chest rises and falls, looking into her eyes as he speaks. “That her team did everything and anything to put me as the bad guy, gaining me a whole lot of backlash? I had two scandals all in less than a month, and I didn’t even defend myself for neither of them. I was scared. Is that what you want to hear?”

“If it’s the truth, it’s exactly what I want to hear from you.” She bites back, placing one hand over his back and surprisingly, he doesn’t pull away. “What really happened?”

“I—I was travelling for…for some movie.” Dongyoung indicates, hand lifting up to swat into the air as if the memory is worthless. “Got to her mansion to surprise her, saw her with a guy, made sure to tell her just how much of a scumbag she is, left. Next thing I knew, I was on all tabloids painted as a cheater, without proof, but people seem to believe her because she’s so nice, and so small, and so sweet.” His eyes roll at that, running his fingers through his hair and rubbing at his scalp. “I had to own it, what else could I do?”

To imagine Dongyoung in such a situation—happy, ready to enter the household of a loved one, and to have his hopes crushed by the sight of his girlfriend cheating on him makes her blood boil. Skin to skin, soul to soul, whichever way the cheating was, it had destroyed him romantically and…professionally. “You could have given your side of the story, Dongyoung. Just because you’re a guy…you shouldn’t be targeted as the cheater.”

“Ah, but I was. If I complained, I’d only be seen as a liar…” Dongyoung says, looking over to the side when the bottle of beer lifts up to his lips, taking a swig before sighing heavily. “I’m sorry I never told you. I thought you’d be pointing fingers at me because you’re a journalist, you’d probably believe the tabloids more. Dongyoung, can’t keep his dick in his pants, cheated on his girlfriend.”

Her fingers reach forward until her arm is wrapped around his shoulder, bringing him closer as if to, for once, shelter him as well. Being in the eye of the paparazzi while going through a break-up, betrayal mixing with anger, must have taken such a huge toll on him that it could have turned him into a bitter, rotten man. “I know you...all I need is some honesty for me to know whether you did or did not do something. If we’re friends, you need to open up to me.”

Dongyoung smiles at that, the edge of his bottle of beer resting in between his lips when they meet gazes. “I’m sorry if I was not entirely honest—”

“Ah, I wasn’t entirely honest either.”

“How so?” Dongyoung’s smile drops, her own appearing on her face when she nudges his side, his own hand coming to rest at her waist when she whispers.

“That I prefer Jungwoo’s movies over yours.” The comment is supposed to cut the ice that is now falling into droplets of water in between them, comfort settled into the once enemies as Dongyoung chuckles at her words.

“Hey, me too.” He answers, as always filling her with laughter absentmindedly. One look at him is enough to satiate this feeling inside her, craving for more of him but settling for what’s closer…to have him as a friend.

###

The harsh tug on her shoulder should be a clear indicator of who is touching her, too harsh and with hands too calloused, though that can only be felt through the slots of the gloves on this person’s hands. The kitchen is packed by four people now; Sujin, who is already placing a green smoothie on Dongyoung’s hands, the actor himself and this person, who speaks her name in a soft tone.

“Ouch, hello to you too, Youngha.” The mumble that lips her lips has Dongyoung laughing from the other side of the room. His chauffeur, a person that she has gotten to know quite too well, goes by the name of Youngha and while everything about her screams ruggedness, there is some kind of sweet nature deep in her soul. Though, her strength is something else, she should probably consider leaving Dongyoung stranded with the chauffeur project and simply dedicate her life to professional boxing.

“Is my boy over there bothering you too much?” The woman over her forties say, ruffling her hair when she looks ahead at the man already making a face to the smoothie wrapped by his long fingertips. Sujin is already talking to him about the lengths of his day, and she should really be paying more attention—but in her defense, she is paying attention to him. Dongyoung, cladded in a black shirt and sweatpants, his weight pushed forward slightly thanks to his leaning-back posture on the counter, arms more prominent, the muscles in them defining themselves softly. His hair is falling in bangs over his forehead today, dreamy beyond relief, one of his legs crossed over the other and elongating them even more.

She does deserve an award, for standing him and for not accidentally confessing to him. “He’s been treating me fine, but you know…he’s always bothering me either way. Too picky.” She answers, watching as Dongyoung takes big bites of the sandwich in between his fingertips. The recipe is aced by her hands by now.

“I know,” Youngha answers, pointing at her phone resting on the table. “It’s vibrating. I think you’re getting a call.”

Ever since she got the password to the shared business e-mail for Dongyoung, she has kept her phone silent. Too many emails, which she doesn’t really feel like answering most of the time, and she shouldn’t in the first place, either. However, the screen illuminates with a contact name that she’d never thought she’d see again when she lifts the device up to her face, jumping out of her seat when she voices out her concerns.

“It’s my ex-boss, oh my God!” Though, she picks up immediately, eager to know that Dongyoung’s plan may have worked for something, three months after its start. The button to put her on speaker is glided by her fingertip, watching as Dongyoung nears her with an astounded expression on his face, lips settled in an ‘o’ shape and eyebrows joined together when she speaks onto the phone. “Hello, Mr. Han. Why do I get the pleasure to receive your call?”

The joyous sound of a coo from her elderly ex-boss has her smiling, much more when she says: “Ah, my darling columnist, you don’t know how much I’ve missed you.” Enough now that Dongyoung has hired her as his personal assistant, that her name is more known and her face is more recognized. People know of her now, of course Mr. Han would miss her. “How have you been? I’ve seen you around Kim Dongyoung nowadays.”

“I’ve been good. Thank you for asking.” She answers. “How are the children?”

Dongyoung sighs audibly at the sound of the woman’s voice. “Lovely. They have been asking about you nonstop.”

“Is that so? I thought they didn’t even know about my existence.”

“They do now!” Mr. Han laughs joyfully, dramatically, just like any other woman that has lived her life through gossip. Not to be misunderstood, Mr. Han has been around the scene since the sixties, practically tuning the entire journalism scene into its own axis to make it her own. “By the way, honey, I won’t take any more time from you…do you think you could meet up with me one of these days? I was reading over your denied articles and I can’t believe I passed these gems by.”

This is what Dongyoung had promised at the beginning of their plan—his friends will always get great opportunities. The image of her white desk, her old laptop, the pencils and pens she kept on some holder nearby in her office is enticing enough for her to part her lips to speak, but one glance up has her seeing Dongyoung’s angry expression. His hands snatch her phone away from her hands, her eyebrows raising in anger when she tries to go over the counter to snatch the phone away from him.

“Hi, Mr. Han, it’s very nice to hear from you. It’s Kim Dongyoung here.” Before Mr. Han could say any more of her hypocritical greetings, Dongyoung continues speaking. “I’d love for you to keep talking with my friend, but after firing her on the spot without even considering how it would ruin her economically…I don’t think you even deserve a columnist like her with you. All you’re doing right now is bringing someone popular along with you, even though when she was only known as a journalist, not as my friend, you could not give two fucks about her.” The sincerity in him is to be expected, but her eyes widen frantically as she tries to get him to stop, hands colliding against his forearm to have him release her phone.

“Dongyoung, shut up—!”

“Ah, Kim Dongyoung, you have some attitude to you.” Mr. Han scolds him in that tutted tone of her, as if she’s trying to play the situation off lightly.

“She doesn’t need you or your magazine. I’d give her a magazine of her own if she asked me to. Just…don’t go around and pretend like now she’s such a worthy journalist for you, when you never cared for her.” Dongyoung answers, pressing his finger against the red button on her phone to end the call.

The air feels dense, one last smack landing on his chest when she realizes exactly what he had done. That one opportunity to get her job back, exactly what he intended to have happening on the first place, is suddenly thrown into the trash, leaving her in the turmoil of being Dongyoung’s personal assistant for…however long he wants. “Dongyoung, you don’t get to have choices in my life like that.” She says, tucking a strand of her hair behind her ear

Dongyoung, now breathing rapidly, leans over the counter until they are face to face. “I meant it. When I said I’d get you your journalism job back, when I said I’d give you your own magazine if you wanted to…just give me time. I don’t need you taking any job, much less one that never appreciated you, just because you want to get away from me.”

“It’s not about getting away from you, you know this.” Her voice is soft, understanding the caring nature under his actions, before sighing deeply. “It’s about…I’m not a personal assistant, Dongyoung, I love journalism and I don’t want to have this job forever. I want you as a friend, I just don’t want to leave my passion behind, either.”

“And you won’t,” Dongyoung says, his eyes skimming over her features before sighing deeply. “I can promise you that much.”

Sujin points at his watch, the tapping of his fingernail against the glass sounding softly around the kitchen. “Dongyoung, we have things to do. Leave the drama for later.”

His eyes, filled with guilt, give her his utmost sincerity when he says: “Just give me a little bit more time.”

###  

Two days is all it takes to have Dongyoung texting her to meet him at the dressing room. This time around, however, the set is different—his historical movie is going to start its recordings soon, at least the ones that can be done in the city currently, and the dressing room is in some field instead of a set with a ceiling itself. The rush is still there, however, opening the doors of the moving dressing room in a hassle just to see over three women working on Dongyoung’s makeup, hair and that gorgeous outfit that makes him look as if he was taken out of the 1600’s.

The extensions on his black hair are a look that she isn’t sure if she likes, but the delicacy of his features when she moves towards him, getting a good glimpse of the makeup being patted to his face, is something she will never be able to forget. His hand comes forward even when his eyes are closed, patting around the surfaces until he gets to her knee, touching it softly.

“Dongyoung, did you just text me to touch my knee? You said it was an emergency.” She replies quickly, earning well-deserved laughter from Dongyoung as he opens his eyes. The gold eyeshadow could barely seen had it not been for the bright lights of the vanity illuminating them for her, or maybe she just noticed because her intent is always on Dongyoung.

“I wish it was for that,” Dongyoung replies, reaching for his phone and unlocking it in a quickened manner. “I had a few calls with magazines I had interviews with. I’ve been calling the entire morning, which is why I had you away from here looking for my favorite vintage Versace jacket. Which I am guessing you didn’t find.” The playful tone of his voice has her cursing out loud, because he said it was necessary and she had been looking everywhere for that Versace jacket that he said was in his closet, but his closet is far too big for her to find something specific. “Because it’s actually here.”

“You fucking asshole—” She mumbles, half of her body resting on top of her vanity before nodding at him. “What was that for?”

Dongyoung turns the screen of his phone towards her then, having her squint to read the fine black letter of an email. God, she hates those. “I’ve been calling magazines and I had Sujin send me your resume, so I’ve been looking for a good position for you in some magazine, as an interviewer as well as a columnist. You’d have your own spot in cinematography in the magazine, will give you an editor and whatnot…I found you a job.” Those last few words are only heightened in excitement when her surprise is even bigger, watching the name of the magazine at the end of the e-mail that takes her in. That’s the biggest magazine on the whole country, over sixty years of absolute delight in the journalism field—

Her hand comes up to her mouth, fingers shaking when she realizes just exactly what Dongyoung had done. He had kept his promise, but not only that—he had given her more than he had initially promised. The sadness on his features is there, a little pout in his smile when, for some reason, she doesn’t even care about the makeup artists around him and latches herself into his arms, his own wrapping around her waist when she clings onto his shoulders. Hugs shouldn’t feel this good, this tight, like she’s letting go of him to go to something bigger, something better…something that was entirely planned by Dongyoung.

“Oh my God, I love you! How could you do this?” She asks, tears already prickling at her eyes by the time Dongyoung chuckles. He doesn’t realize that the first few words may mean something else, his fingers caressing at the skin of her waist, now uncovered because of the hug and the raise of her t-shirt.

“I know you wouldn’t be happy being my personal assistant forever, so I had to let go of you.” Dongyoung answers, making her sigh when she lets go of him and takes him by the cheeks. One of the makeup artists whines at her action, making her pull away with her hands lifted up in the air.

“Sorry.” She says, taking his phone from his hand and reading the e-mail again. “Oh shit, I’m really—”

“Yes, you’re going. You start in three days. They’re preparing your office.”

“My own personal office?”

“Your own personal office.” Dongyoung complies, patting his makeup artists’ hands away to push them away. “Come give me another hug, I’m going to miss you so much.” His voice is serious, his hands spreading just in time for her to go to his arms again and hug him as she will never see him again, which may not be the case at all, at least not from her part. His arms take her in securely, making her feel safe when he rests his chin against her shoulder, chuckling softly at her quivering form. “Don’t cry.”

But how can she not cry when the realization of being in love with Dongyoung downs on her with whiplash, leaving her dizzied and romanticizing him? “…I will miss you so much, too.”

###

“You did not.”

Eating with her group of friends once again, though from different magazines at this point, is more than she could have ever asked for. Months ago, she had that same meal of noodles practically bathed in soy sauce, wondering if she’d be able to pay for something like this again—and with the payment Dongyoung gave her as his personal assistant, along with her new salary as a journalist and interviewer in the country’s most prestigious magazine, she is more than thankful to have a meal with Jason and Hyoyeon once again. Spending a lot of time in the celebrity world seemed to have pulled her away from this.

Jason’s hair is now longer, not bleached anymore but in its natural black color, tied behind his head to show an undercut, probably something that Hyoyeon recommended for him to try. Hyoyeon, equally as gorgeous, not wears an engagement ring on the hand that holds Jason’s under the table, looking at her with nothing less than distaste after telling her the entire details of what Dongyoung had done, not forgetting the adventures that had gone through since the beginning of their job together as…coworkers?

Celebrity and personal assistant?

Friends?

Hyoyeon pats her fiancé’s thigh, absolutely mortified by what she said, her thin eyebrows drawn together in a frown. “You mean to tell me that a guy treats you like this and you still consider that he’s not into you?” She asks. Oh, of course, she must have slipped somewhere into the story how endlessly in love she is with Dongyoung, and how okay she is with the unrequited love as long as she continues to have him in her life. Warmth is necessary, and instead of going back to the snow, she’d rather have the sun and never reach it.

“Oh, he’s so into her.” Jason says, playing around with his chopsticks as if a set of drums is on the table. “You should’ve seen his face when he was approaching us for the interview. He couldn’t get his eyes off her.”

Reminiscent of that confession at the elevator, she twists on her seat and muffles her sigh with a bit of her food, munching on it as she speaks. No longer does she have to worry about people taking pictures of her without her consent, thankfully. “That’s because someone,” A pointed glare thrown towards Hyoyeon. “Gave me a dress that had half of my boobs slipping out.”

“Ah, you looked hot, come on. Even you know this.” Hyoyeon complains, taking one of the noodles on her plate and tossing it at her, landing on her hair before she swats it off. “Stop being childish and recognize that he is so into you.”

Though the image of waking up to Dongyoung in his king-sized bed, only to see his sculptured face and gummy grin early in the morning, is more than she could ever wish for and a desire that she has deep in her soul, it’s too…impossible. “He’s not. He probably likes actresses like his ex—”

“He likes you.” Jason says. “He gave you the best job ever, he has told you things he hasn’t told anyone, not to mention that all those pictures released of the two of you have him looking at you as if you’re the universe itself.”

Whoever has seen Dongyoung from up close knows that, if anything, she was the one that looked at him as if he held the entirety of the universe, never-ending, scary on its way but enticing in another, in his eyes. She plays around with her food, shaking her head at his words with a smile on her face. “He just sees me as a friend, that’s it. He’s a celebrity and—”

“You’ll never know until you ask him!” Hyoyeon points out, shaking the table when she lands a palm on it. “Listen, with you he wasn’t a celebrity, or the country’s most loved actor…he was himself with you.” Still, this gets no reaction our of her, the conversation has been going around it for long enough for her to convince herself that she is never going to tell him, too afraid of rejection. “…You cried when you left your job as his assistant.”

A gasp masks this. “I cried because he got me a job.”

Hyoyeon, always smart, shakes her head. “No, you cried because you were afraid that after leaving that job you weren’t going to see him again. And you fear this because you love him. Why don’t you want to just accept you love him and just tell him?”

The room falls silent, though it doesn’t, it just feels like it may have. The restaurant is still packed, with families feeding their youngest ones, couples spending time together, friends joining in laughter…and she’s there, feeling alone even when she’s accompanied, so thankful but still longing to see Dongyoung after weeks of working at a magazine. Texts are not enough, neither are videocalls, and meeting up with him has been almost impossible when he’s in France for the release of his latest movie, one that he recorded last year. “Ah, it doesn’t matter,” She tries to play off, swatting her hand as if it is nothing. “He’s in Paris, either way. He’s going to be having his movie released and he’s going to attend some red carpet, possibly a party after, and now that I’m not there…he may find someone.”

Jason widens his eyes at that, snapping his fingers at the idea that crosses his head. “Tell your magazine to have you interview him and his cast on the red carpet. It would gain lots of traction, which is good for the magazine, for your past scandal and he would get to see you.”

The idea of seeing Dongyoung again, on the red carpet, to make up for that one time in which she ruined it all, and to see him again, brings a flutter up her spine when she stops chewing on her food to say. “Should I?”

Now more excited than ever, Hyoyeon stands up from her spot, the chair dragging in the process when she claps her hands together. “Yes, yes, call your magazine! I already have the dress that you’re going to use in mind and oh my God, how many days do we have to prepare for this?”

“Four…if my magazine says yes…” Taken away by the narrative her friends propose, she follows after Hyoyeon’s steps, leaving Jason behind to pay. She’ll pay the half after. “Should I even do this?” Though her phone is already up her ear, and she may be even more eager than them to just see Dongyoung.

“Oh, not only you should,” Hyoyeon confidently says. “You will.”

###

With a new cameraman rushing behind her, not sufficiently comfortable with him yet to scream at him to hurry up like she would with Jason, the sole of her heels digs into her skin the more she runs into the red carpet, searching for that perfect spot that could capture the cast’s—and Dongyoung’s attention—. Nonetheless, the jetlag and the hours of last-minute studying had made her wake up late and without the help of either Jason or Hyoyeon to help her with that damned dress, she had gotten out of the hotel a little bit later than expected.

Exactly by the left corner of the red carpet, near where the limousines and cars would park when delivering the celebrities one by one, is where she ends up standing and only then does she realize just how heavy this necklace is on her neck, patting it with her fingers to make sure it stays there. Hyoyeon had made it sufficiently clear for her to know that this necklace is worth, at least, seven of her salaries and she should protect it with all her might. The leverage is well-welcomed, much more with the spurts of nervousness growing like flowers all over her body, but not enough to have her covering herself like the first time.

When Hyoyeon said she had the perfect dress, she meant it. Red, this time it’s the color of passion, like the one Dongyoung had both taken from her but given it back from her with her journalism job, the sleeves long even when they are trailing down her shoulders. The length is elegant, but it snatches her waist a little too harshly, leaving her with shortened breaths that capture themselves on her chest. Or…is that because she is genuinely nervous of seeing Dongyoung, not after years but after weeks of not meeting up with him, and to see the surprise on his features?

The most she hopes is for him to be happy, at least relieved to see her, for having her magazine send her there last minute had taken a toll on her. Playing on her hands is her career, one that could be absolutely destroyed if the expression on Dongyoung’s face is of distaste. That thought crosses her head over and over again, making her move backwards and forward with those heels, the straps digging on her skin like restraints, but not powerful enough to keep her in place.

When the cameras start flashing immediately, cheers being heard in the forms of screeches and shouts of his name, her heart picks up its pace so rapidly that she almost swore she had a mini heart attack then. Her hands, clammy like the first time, hold onto the microphone with tight fingertips as he nears the red carpet. His poses are simple, one hand resting on the pocket of his gray suit, the color of his tie in a color of orange—an odd combination, but it looks good, something that she would have never thought of him using, too much of a lover of black and white.

His hair is sleeked back, just how she likes it, and just when he nears the masses of interviewers, she steps forward. Calling his name comes easily, professionally, at least this interview is not live and that may be the reason why she is so confident. Dongyoung’s ears, as if perked up by her voice, check around the groups of journalists until he finds her. His eyes meet with hers, breathing heavily for a second longer than she imagined, a smile caressing his features when he rushes towards her, his arm extending to wrap around her shoulders, his other hand waving at the masses of people going crazy for him.

But even from up close, and not screaming, there is someone going crazy for him…not the man in the suit, but the man inside that soul. The man that had given everything to her in the form of friendship.

“Kim Dongyoung, it’s so nice to see you again. You look amazing this evening.” She comments into her microphone, earning a smile worth a million diamond rings from Dongyoung, who takes the microphone from her hands and speaks into it with glee.

“I’m so happy to see you here, you don’t know.” He pulls away for a moment, his eyes inspecting her body before chuckling at her. “Red, that’s a nice look on you.”

“Thank you. So, Dongyoung, your latest movie includes—”

The redemption tastes sweeter than she imagined, but the departure of the man after such a successful and full interview is what hurts the most. Dongyoung’s broad shoulders is the last thing she sees when he goes onto another interviewer, far enough until he is inside the place in which his movie is going to be broadcasted in. He’s a celebrity, and she’s just an interviewer…but there is a lingering memory there, not of being his personal assistant or his friend…but something else…

As if his eyes hold something that she doesn’t quite know how to express. Gratitude? Adoration? Respect?

From the expanse of the couch on her hotel room, bigger than the one she was in before the disastrous red carpet with Dongyoung when they first met, she gets to see the recap of her interview. Everything looks fine, but from up close and paying attention to it, putting that observational eye that journalists have into it…she does see glimpses of what Jason and Hyoyeon had been talking about. Dongyoung’s eyes never leave hers, nodding intently to her words, smiling so brightly that the flashes of the camera could never hurt him…because he’ll always shine brighter. His arm never left her shoulder until the interview was over and even then, Dongyoung’s eyes lingered on her a little bit longer.

But it couldn’t be. It couldn’t be that Dongyoung had some kind of interest in her, and it couldn’t be that when she hears a knock on her hotel door, standing up with a groan and opening it with a harsh pull, she sees him, out of all people, standing in front of a cheap hotel’s room with his hands interlocked in front of his body. Dongyoung nods as a greeting, leaving her more dumbfounded when his suit is long gone, just like her dress is, now changed for casual clothing and—

“Shouldn’t you be in some party?”

“I skipped it, but I also locked myself out of my hotel room accidentally. Had to call Sujin, he told me he had been texting you and also, I asked him for your hotel’s address so I could visit you.” Dongyoung explains in a monotone voice, moving his hands the more he delves into the story. Laughter is caught in her lips, shaking her head at his antics before opening the door wider.

“I’ll let you in.” She says, looking up and down his body when he enters. That typical black-on-black outfit choice of his will be the death of her. “What did you bring with you?”

Dongyoung’s fingers hook around the CD on his fingers, swaying it in front of her with glee. “It’s my favorite early 2000’s movie. I was hoping we could watch it.” He says, splaying himself on the couch with extended arms before waving his fingers at her, as if calling out for her to take the seat beside him. “You didn’t expect me to see you in that dress, and red, out of all colors…and not want to see you, right?” The question is muffled when she lays down by his side, taking his hand that is on the headrest and putting it over her shoulder before sighing.

“Only the dress?” She prompts, lifting an eyebrow at Dongyoung, who clearly matches the atmosphere of Paris. The jetlag, the hard work, the running…everything is worth it when she gets to see that gummy smile again.

“…And you. I missed you like crazy.”

“I missed you, too.”

The movie, though interesting enough to have her paying attention to the storyline, is not the main thing on her mind. The feeling of his body by her side is what keeps her tranced, watching the movie with him and a little bit over the one-hour mark when she starts to feel the aftereffects of being so close. Dongyoung is a pillar, a guard in a way, the one person that had taken her confidence with him and brought it back full force, mainly because he didn’t mean to snatch it away on the first place. Months ago, she would not have hesitated to put him in his place, but now she finds herself hesitating to get closer…to admit to him that she wants nothing more than to have him for herself and herself only.

Because she’s egotistic, but she’s naïve enough to not act upon it. It’s only when his hand trails down to her waist, grasping on the fabric of her t-shirt like he always does, that her gaze finally pulls away from the movie to look at him. The horrid lights of the hotel room don’t take away his beauty, looking at her with curiousness in his eyes the more he inspects her features, head tilted back just slightly before he nears her. The couch ruffles under his weight, sounds softly when he is looming over her just slightly.

The way he looks at her, brown eyes settling on her lips, is enough to take her breath away. Much more when those lips—one that she had never even paid attention to when they met—near hers until he is speaking so closely that a gush of his breath is oxygen for her lungs. “You know…I’m not good with words.” Dongyoung whispers, his other hand parting on her thigh until his fingers grab on it softly. “…Which is why I always compliment the dresses, and never the person that wears them.”

She chuckles, airily, albeit a bit scared of the situation…of him, swallowing her whole with the feelings she has for him. “What does that mean?”

Dongyoung looks down, rubbing his lips softly against hers, the shadow of a kiss falling on top of her skin, enough to have her puckering her own as if to reach him, but the contact is cut too soon. That does not mean he pulls away, however, because he doesn’t. “That all this time, from the beginning, I’ve been not going crazy for the dresses…but for you.”

This moment, she wants to treasure forever. This moment is the consequence of something that was once unintended, but has now all her intention when she says. “…You say that as if you didn’t know already that I was in love with you.”

Dongyoung’s lips trail from the corner of her lips, leaving soft and dreamy kisses on her cheeks, her jaw, down to kiss a small flower of growth on her neck before going up to her lips again. He laughs, actually, though too soft for it to be funny. “I didn’t know until you said so.”

“Everyone is in love with you…” She answers, craving for him to finally kiss her, but also fearing the conclusion of it. “How are you going to even add me into your life? Your fans are going to hate me again if I dare touch you as something more than your friend.”

“…Do you really think I care about that?”

“You may.”

“I don’t,” Dongyoung answers, pressing another fleeting kiss to her lips before sighing against them. “I care about you because I’m, also, in love with you and if I keep talking, I’m going to ruin the mood, so let me kiss you before I go insane—”

Just like how she had always dreamed of since the time her feelings for Dongyoung blossomed into something else—though, she may never know when that happened in all those months of being together daily—, her hands connect to his back when his lips finally lay down on hers. His mouth parts softly, jaw tightening the slightest when he takes his precious time into kissing her profoundly, like he wants to thread her soul with his and leave it there forever. In a way, she doesn’t think she’ll ever be able to forget the feeling of his chest to hers, his hand caressing her thigh, his grounding palm on her waist, tongue running over her bottom lip slowly before he takes the lead again. By the time her breathing is ragged, kissing him with more fervor just to keep him there—with her, in that moment in which he is not a huge celebrity but hers instead, she finally hears the echo of his words inside her head.

I’m, also, in love with you.

That means…Dongyoung loves her. It’s difficult to think about—an interviewer, who almost lost her entire career to him, loves him back.

His teeth are grazing against her bottom lip when she speaks in between a chuckle, grabbing his cheeks with her extended palms. “I hope this means you’re my boyfriend now, because if it isn’t…I’m going to kick you out.”

Dongyoung smiles, that cheery grin that she will never get enough of, when he presses a smooch to her lips before saying: “That was my intention all along.”

#doyoung scenarios #doyoung #nct scenarios #nct #kpop scenarios #writing #doyoung angst #doyoung fluff #doyoung au #nct fluff #nct angst #nct au #actor!doyoung #interviewer!au #meet messy!au #mannnn i'd love to hear opinions about this one!

[sapphicmsmarvel]

JJ: Booktube

premise: dating jj and being a booktuber. 

masterlist 

Lets ignore the fact that JJ would be fired without a doubt from the FBI if this stuff actually happened and her life would be threatened by criminals.

-She knew that you were really into books. 

-She just didn’t know how much. You two had met through tinder believe it or not, she was sick of being alone at night and didn’t want a fling. Luckily, you felt the same way and you two matched. 

-The team did know that she was on Tinder, but not that she had officially met someone. 

-Reid was sitting at a table on the plane, watching something on his laptop. But then she heard your voice, your upbeat, happy voice. She glanced back to see your bright and beautiful face holding a book. “What’re you watching?” JJ asked. Which grabbed the attention of Emily.

“A video on what books to read if you want to get into ‘young adult’ books.” Reid said, thoroughly focused on the beautiful woman on his screen. 

“She’s pretty.” Emily saw you. 

“She is.” Reid mumbled, blushing. 

“Who’s pretty?” Morgan said, leaning over the back of the seat, “oooh who’s the cute nerdy girl?” 

“A youtuber, and be nice.” JJ said crumpling a piece of paper and throwing it at him. 

“Her shirt literally says ‘Nerdy Bitch’, I think she knows she’s one. She's hot too.” 

-JJ quickly sent a picture of the screen to you. “My teammates think you’re pretty, have to say I agree.” 

“OMG, please tell me you aren’t watching my videos 😭” 

“I am now baby 😉” 

“FUCK.”

She huffed a small laugh at your response, then continued watching with Reid. 

-Little did she know you tweeted to your followers, “THE GIRL I’M DATING IS WATCHING MY YOUTUBE VIDEOS FOR THE FIRST TIME WITH HER COWORKERS. PLS KILL ME.” 

-When she came home from that case, she wanted to hear all about your job, which you happily told her and tried to ignore your embarrassment over how she found out. 

-Since then she has been a loyal subbie. 

-You met the team and they were all very shocked that it was you that they were watching on their computer screen. They also all subscribed, and you had to make Rossi and Hotch youtube accounts because they didn’t know how. 

-Your viewers knew of her, knew how you always called her “Rapunzel,” and she always called you, “Flynn” in response. 

-But because you explicitly said you won’t be showing her because she asked you not to, you got hate comments for respecting your girlfriends privacy. 

-When she came over one night, she saw all of the publishing houses boxes on your front step. She knocked on your door because she saw that your car was in the driveway. She got her key out of her pocket and opened your door. Then, she carefully put all the boxes into your foyer, as well as her overnight bag and shut the front door. 

-What she saw next warmed her heart, you had fallen asleep on the couch with a book on your chest. She saw your tripod and camera, she realized you were filming a timelapse for a reading vlog. She remembered you telling her that you were filming one this week. 

-She decided not to turn off the camera, instead, she gently took the book off your chest, placed a bookmark to mark your spot. Then she crawled on top of you. You were laying on your back, she laid her head in the crook of your neck, she giggled as she felt you wake up. You wrapped your arms around her, “hey baby.” You croaked. 

-You felt her whisper against your skin, “you left the camera on, thought I’d give a little show of affection for those subscribers who think I’m a bad girlfriend.” 

You sighed, “please tell me you haven’t been reading the comments.” “No, well, sometimes I do. Garcia sees them and gets mad.”

“So she’s the commenter, TheBlackQueen causing fights on my channel. Gotcha.”

JJ laughed, “oh god, I didn’t know she was doing that.”

“Don’t worry about it, I’ve been liking her comments, not deleting them.” 

JJ laughed at that, then you continued, “you want me to get up and turn off the camera? It should turn off in…” she didn’t have to open her eyes to know that you were looking at the red light on the camera and the clock on the wall behind it. “Oh jeez, five minutes maybe, it has a 40 minute timer before it automatically turns off.” 

“No,” JJ shook her head, “I really need to just stay here, Y/N.” 

“Okay.” 

-When the video was posted, she saw the comments on it. There was not a negative one, of course there were ones making a comment about why JJ was just showing herself on Y/N’s channel. 

-After that, she was slowly showing herself in your videos more. Handing you something, delivering a package to your little library in your home. 

-She made a lot of appearances in your moving vlogs for your channel because you two moved in together. The kids also made a brief appearance but very vague, you didn’t show their faces. 

-She was memed within your fanbase because of the faces she pulled while you were moving books, and her helping you move them, she was like “????” 

-When she knew she wanted to propose to you, her and Garcia watched a couple of YouTube videos to learn how to use your camera, then they devised a plan to vlog the engagement together. The ring picking, her talking to the camera and introducing herself. “Hey as you can tell I am not Y/N, I’m her girlfriend, as you guys know we’ve been together for some time but I’m gonna propose to her!” She cheered, then the team in the background were like “finally!” and cheering as well. 

Then she broke down the plan to them, “so, we’re gonna go to our favorite greenhouse in D.C. I shot some footage of picking her ring, which I’ll have her insert here,,,,gah I’m no good at this.”  Then she continued, “so we have a friend who’s hiring some professional photography, which is exciting.” She did a lil shimmy, then Prentiss popped in, “hey! This is a friend of theirs and the reason our friend is hiring photographers is because we’re gonna be sobbing too much to take good photos, as well as he’s rich as fuck” 

Everyone laughed at that. 

“And, well, we’re going tonight, so wish me luck!” JJ gave an awkward peace sign to the camera and turned it off. 

-She then handed the camera to Garcia who would hide and record the footage, the photographers that Rossi hired posed as regular ole pedestrians. The others hid in bathrooms, waiting for the text saying that JJ did it. 

-JJ almost spilled the beans that she was nervous on the way over there to you. That would’ve ruined it. 

-Luckily, the part of the greenhouse that you two had your first kiss in was empty. The fairy lights were lit inside, it looked beautiful.

-They had a flower there that the greenhouse called “the wishing lilly.” The owner of the greenhouse says that those lilies bring good luck, he wished on it then his wife was pregnant with twins, then he won the lottery and managed to build the greenhouse into something bigger. 

-Per as tradition, you both closed your eyes to make a wish, but she opened hers and got down on the ground, Garcia quietly followed you guys in with the other photographers.

“Y/N..” she trailed off, you opened your eyes to find her kneeling on the ground, your eyes instantly filled with tears as your hands went up to your mouth. “Y/N, you are the light of my life, the Flynn to my Rapunzel, will you do me the honor and be my wife?”

“Yes!” You nodded and cried. She quickly stood up and pulled you into her arms. 

-Garcia started crying and shaking, “yay!” You looked up to see her there.

“Oh my god, hi, there’s a lot of people in here.” You said seeing the two photographers and Garcia. 

“Rossi hired photographers. And the team is waiting for a text to come in and congratulate us.” JJ laughed and leaned up to kiss your head. 

“Oh god, I look like a mess!” You laughed, yet cried at the same time.

“We both do, baby. Welcome to marriage.” She slid the ring on your finger, just in time for photos to begin. 

-At the end of the video, you made an introduction part for the subbies to meet JJ. Filled with questions and such to know her. Briefly mentioning her sons as well. 

-After you two got engaged, you started filming fiance challenges, (my fiance picks my next read, my fiance tries to guess the plot of books based off their covers). Hell, you two even do some baking and cooking videos. 

-Your marriage blew up on booktube, you two were The Lady Lovers on booktube, as you had been labeled. You both loved that there were so many people resonating with your love. You shared a pre wedding video talking about the insecurities you both had, and a talk about discovering sexuality when you’re in your mid thirties after a divorce from a man and having two kids. And you, someone who’s never been in a serious relationship, giving your advice to people. 

-It was a big video and an emotional one. But it resonated with a lot of people which you both were glad for. 

-Then your wedding video came out and everyone lost their shit. People were sending in love, there was a lot of adorable footage from the wedding, people crying. 

-You even incorporated books into the wedding decor. 

-While your career was quite different then JJ’s, people saw you as a perfect fit. You stayed home all the time, writing, putting videos up, writing reviews and partnering with brands on your channel, you were able to be there for the boys when she couldn’t be. She was all over the country constantly, she made it a point that every night before bed she’d watch one of your videos, and it helped that you sent videos to her of Henry and Michael. 

-You were the calm to her storm, where her life was hectic and constantly on the move, she knew she always had a home waiting for her. 

#Jennifer Jareau #jennifer jareau x reader #jennifer jareau x you #aj cook #jj criminal minds #Criminal Minds #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds x you #criminal minds x y/n

[secretpajamas]

Undercover– a Marcus Pike fic

pairing: Agent Marcus Pike x female reader

genre: smut/humor/coworkers-to-lovers

rating: explicit

words: 3.7k

a/n: you don’t need to have seen The Mentalist to read this fic (but I do recommend watching Pedro’s episodes, he’s SO perfect in this role)! All you need to know is that Marcus Pike is an FBI agent working for the Art Theft department. Scroll down to the end to “content” if you want to know specific smut content before reading :)

–

So far, the operation had been a bust; you had hoped to catch the reclusive money-laundering gallery owner at the fundraiser event tonight, but he hadn’t shown. After conceding defeat, you and Agent Pike slipped into one of the roped-off side rooms in the museum to discuss a way forward.

You felt incredibly uncomfortable in your attire for the night: a silky slip of a dress that showed far more skin than you were accustomed to showing. But this was a “trendy” look, supposedly, and you were masquerading as art critics at this stupid event. Your FBI-issued handgun was concealed in a hidden panel in your purse and you hated not having it on your hip in your trusty uniform holster. You hated everything about this outfit. The fact that you had to youtube “how to apply an adhesive bra” just to wear this godforsaken dress tonight—

“You alright?” Pike asked, looking at you with a furrowed brow. You realized your face was scrunched up in a scowl, thinking about your goddamned flimsy bra, which had thankfully stayed on the whole night so far.

“Yeah,” you said, “just yearning for my uniform right now.”

“Tell me about it,” Pike said, gesturing to his outfit. “I’m wearing skinny jeans.”

It was decidedly not his style. You usually saw him in business casual or his FBI uniform. When you met on the weekends for coffee, he’d wear a leather jacket—and as far as you could tell, that was as adventurous as he got when it came to fashion. Skinny jeans? Not Marcus Pike, not in a million years. (But he did have nice legs, you had to admit.)

“So, our friend hasn’t shown,” you said, changing the subject to more pressing matters.

“I had a feeling,” Pike muttered. “Back to the drawing board, I guess.”

“Well, it was worth a shot,” you said with a sigh. “Let’s call it a night.”

Suddenly, Pike tensed, his face paling. You took a breath, about to ask him what was wrong, when he whispered harshly:

“Someone’s coming.”

You jumped when you heard it: footsteps sounding from the hallway where you came in. You whipped your head around, looking for another way out, but the only other exit was a door that read ‘EMERGENCY EXIT – ALARM WILL SOUND’.

Shit.

“I’m sorry about this,” Pike said in a rush, bracketing himself around you, effectively pinning you to the nearby wall, in between two paintings. “Just play along.”

“Sorry for wha—”

Then he kissed you.

Marcus Pike kissed you.

You froze. What the fuck was he doing? How was this supposed to help? What was this—

Your train of thought was interrupted by his thigh wedging its way between your legs, sending a jolt of pleasure up your spine and making a filthy noise tumble from your throat, unbidden.

“Good,” he whispered, mouthing kisses along your neck. “Louder.”

You moaned again at his words, not really understanding why. Just play along, he had said. Whatever the hell that meant.

Suddenly, a booming voice rang out. “This section is CLOSED!”

Pike jumped away from you. You snapped to attention, head whipping around to see a familiar face: one of the lackeys of the corrupt museum owner stood some distance away, a blinding flashlight trained on you. You’d seen this man on surveillance footage in your briefing this week. He was the muscle. Usually the very armed muscle. Shit.

“S-sorry,” Pike said, his voice suddenly meek, that of a geeky art critic and not a federal agent. He raised a hand to scratch the back of his head, making a big fuss of the movement, while the other hand subtly reached behind him, hovering near where his gun was covertly tucked in the back of his belt. “My girlfriend and I—”

“Section’s closed!” He barked, gesturing with his flashlight. “Get a room.”

You felt your stomach drop back into place. He just thinks we’re horny artists. Thank god.

“Sorry, sir,” Pike said, taking you by the hand and making a swift exit.

–

You didn’t speak a word to each other as you scurried out of the gallery and into the side street where Pike had parked. He rummaged in his jacket pocket for his keyfob and frantically pressed at it until his car’s headlights flashed up ahead. Once you were inside, you put your head in your hands and let out a huge breath you didn’t know you were holding.

“Holy shit,” you rasped.

Pike didn’t respond, just methodically put on his seatbelt, started the car, and drove away. At the next red light, Pike reached over and buckled you in. You were so out of it that you had forgot.

“Thanks,” you said, voice a little more steady than it was previously.

“I’m sorry about what happened back there,” he said, eyes on the road.

“Uh, me too? I thought we were done for,” you said. You thought you were going to get shot, but you didn’t dare say it.

Pike shook his head. “I mean, I’m sorry I kissed you. It wasn’t right.”

“What are you apologizing for? You saved our asses.”

“By assaulting you? Yeah, great job I did,” he said.

You rolled your eyes. “Oh, for fuck’s sake, you didn’t assault me, Pike. It was... surprising, but I wasn’t upset.” Quite the opposite, actually.

Pike gripped the steering wheel a little too tightly—you could hear the fake leather squeak against his hands. “Nevertheless, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” You sighed. “Seriously, I’m okay. Stop getting in your head.”

He didn’t seem totally convinced, but he didn’t protest any further. You sat in silence for the rest of the car ride.

–

“This is you,” Pike said when he turned onto your street, gesturing with his head towards your apartment building. It wasn’t much to look at, but it was in a considerably nicer neighborhood than your first DC apartment, that’s for sure.

“Indeed it is,” you confirmed.

Pike parked his car and turned off the ignition. He still looked like a kicked puppy—god, he wasn’t still worried about the kiss, was he?

Fuck it. You’d been working with the man for nearly two years now, and at this point, you considered him a good friend. You never felt judged when you confided in him.  Why not just be honest?

“I liked it,” you said, oddly calm.

Pike’s face scrunched up. “Huh?”

“The kiss,” you said, and now your heartbeat was starting to ratchet up. “I liked it.”

His eyes widened. “Oh,” he said, voice soft.

“Yeah,” you replied. “You can... do it for real, if you want.”

Pike looked at you silently, his gaze flickering from your eyes to your mouth.

The adrenaline from earlier in the night must have been fueling your courage, because you soldiered on. “Do you want to come in?”

–

Pike followed you wordlessly to your apartment, the tension so heavy in the air you thought you might suffocate. With shaking fingers, you managed to unlock the door and flick on the lights.

As soon as the door closed behind Pike, he held you by the waist and kissed you soundly.

“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that,” he said when he pulled away.

“We kissed like, an hour ago—”

“A real kiss,” he specified, bringing one hand to cup your cheek. He brushed his thumb along your lower lip like it was something precious. He kissed you again, just a soft press of lips, ever the gentleman. You thought about his thigh between your legs earlier that night and god, you wanted that again. You kissed him back, firm and insistent, curling your fingers in his hair.

When you gave his hair a gentle tug, his whole body seemed to shiver, and his kiss became more daring—his tongue in your mouth, his hands inching down, down, stopping just shy of your ass.

Suddenly, he pulled away from the kiss. “I should go,” he said—but the tone of his voice made you doubt that he wanted to leave.

“What’s the matter?” You asked.

“I’m moving too fast,” he said with a wistful smile.

“I’m the one who invited you in, Pike,” you said.

“Fair point,” he said. He let his hand rest on your waist again, his fingers stroking the silky material of your dress. “It’s just—I haven’t done this in a while. Not with someone I... care about.”

Oh. You knew what this was about. Teresa, the woman he was with just before he moved to DC. They were supposed to get married, but she left him for another man. You didn’t know much beyond that, but he had told you enough—that he felt he moved too fast and scared her away.

“If you want to stop now, I get it,” you said. “But I’m here to tell you I’m not going anywhere. I’ve waited two years, I can wait some more.”

You didn’t realize the weight of your words until after they left your mouth. Shit. He wasn’t supposed to know you’d had doe-eyes for him since the day you joined the Art Theft squad. You looked down at the floor, anywhere but his face right now.

“Two years?” He asked softly.

“Yeah,” you whispered.

“But—what about that guy you dated from Quantico?”

“He was a nice distraction,” you said.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” He asked.

You didn’t respond for a moment. Slowly, you looked back up from the floor to his face. His features were kind and reassuring. You took a deep breath. “Well, I’m saying it now,” you said.

He smiled. “Let’s make up for lost time, then,” he said, snaking his arm around your waist and pulling you in for another kiss.

–

After kissing you breathless, you lead him by the hand to your bedroom. He went with you eagerly, and when you sat on the edge of your bed, he followed suit.

You pushed at the lapels of his tweed jacket, getting it off his arms and onto the floor. He reached behind you, searching for your dress zipper. He found it, grinning triumphantly for a moment before pulling the zipper down. The dress fell off your shoulders, revealing—

Oh god, that fucking adhesive bra.

“I’m sorry,” Pike said, sounding utterly baffled, “What is this thing?”

You laughed. “You’re asking me? I had to consult the internet just to put the damn thing on.”

“How is it on?”

“Adhesive,” you said.

“Do you just... rip it off? Like a bandaid?” Pike said.

“I guess?” You replied, picking at it with your fingernail. A corner of it peeled off without much force. Damn, it was flimsy.

You peeled it off the rest of the way and chucked it across the room. “Good riddance.”

Pike laughed, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Here I was thinking skinny jeans were a pain,” he said.

“To be fair, those do look a little tight,” you said.

“They are. My dick hurts.” He winced, reaching down to adjust himself. “Too much information?”

You rolled your eyes. “My tits are out, Marcus, I think you’re good.”

At the mention of them, Pike was suddenly gazing at your breasts—as if he hadn’t realized he was allowed to look. He tentatively reached out and cupped one, stroking at it gently with his thumb. You sighed, arching your back. He ran his hand from your breast to your arm, where the strap of your dress had fallen. He dragged the strap down, and with a little wiggling from you, managed to get your dress on the floor, leaving you only in your underwear.

“You have way too many clothes on,” you said, working at the buttons of his shirt. He nodded, helping you get it unbuttoned the rest of the way before shrugging it off. Pike then reached for his jeans, sighing in relief as he popped the button of his fly and dragged the zipper down.

“These fucking jeans,” he grumbled, wriggling his hips back and forth as he peeled the denim off his legs. When he finally got them off, they took his socks with them. He kicked the heap of clothing into the corner, landing somewhere near your dress and that flimsy piece of foam masquerading as a woman’s foundational garment.

Now it was your turn to stare. From the plane of his chest, to his soft belly, to his straining hard-on in his gray boxer-briefs—he was beautiful, and you didn’t know what you wanted to touch first. The outline of his cock was the most tempting, though, and you slowly ran a hand up his thigh, stopping just short of where he was hard and aching.

“Please,” he said in a hushed tone, hitching his hips up just a little. You brushed your hand over his bulge, feather-light at first. Then you pressed a little more firmly, slowly dragging your palm against him. He groaned, hands gripping the bedcovers tightly.

Feeling bold, you got off the bed, kneeling in front of him. You tugged at the waistband of his boxers and he lifted his hips, letting you pull them down and off.

You delighted in the sight of his thick cock jutting up against his belly, the tip pink and glistening. God, you wanted him. You leaned forward and licked a hot stripe from root to tip, and the noise he made was so exquisite you could cry. Taking a light hold with your hand, you guided him into your mouth.

“Ah, fuck!” His hips jerked up off the bed, but you quickly held them down. You took him in as far as you could, and he moaned again—louder, more desperate. You found a rhythm, bobbing your head and hollowing your cheeks, your hand wrapped around what your mouth couldn’t reach. Pike offered a tentative hand to stroke your hair with reverence, his hips trembling with the effort not to move too roughly.

After a particularly sly maneuver with your tongue, Pike tensed and stilled your head with a gentle touch.

“If you don’t stop now,” he said between ragged breaths of air, “this’ll be over before it even starts.”

You pulled off of him slowly, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. “Sorry,” you said, your voice light and teasing.

“Don’t be,” he replied. “Fuck, that was good.”

You couldn’t help but feel a burst of pride at the praise from him.

Pike patted the bed next to him. “Get up here so I can return the favor.”

You crawled up the bed, heart hammering and head dizzy with excitement. He motioned for you to lie back and you did so, taking a deep breath to try and still your racing pulse.

Pike propped himself up on his elbows and slowly kissed a path down your thigh. Your cunt throbbed in anticipation and you bucked your hips up, desperately seeking sensation. He smiled at your eagerness and held your hip down with one hand. With the other, he pushed the sodden gusset of your panties to the side and slowly slid a thick finger inside of you.

You let out a needy sound, clenching around him as he added a second finger. You were so wet that the movement of his fingers made loud, slick noises that were absolutely obscene.

Pike kissed your thigh again. “Gorgeous,” he murmured against your skin. He then pulled his fingers out of you and you whined at the loss.

“Need to get these off,” Pike explained, hooking his fingers into the elastic of your underwear and pulling them down and off.

Pike’s face was between your thighs, now, and you sobbed at the first touch of his tongue to your clit. He slid his fingers back inside your cunt and the jolt of pleasure was like a lightning strike.

“Please,” you begged, not sure what you were asking, but needing it all the same, “please.”

You moaned loudly as he lapped at you ever-so-slowly with the flat of his tongue in time to the rhythm of his fingers. His unoccupied hand moved from your hip to your hand, lacing your fingers together. You squeezed his hand tightly as you found yourself already dancing dangerously close to the edge.

You started to grind your cunt against his tongue, needing the pressure just so, and he eagerly let you use his mouth for your pleasure. He alternated between licking and sucking on your clit, and you were so fucking close that you could hardly stand it.

Pike pulled his mouth off you for a moment. You whined and tilted your hips up, trying to chase his tongue.

“Close?” He asked, keeping the rhythm of his fingers firm and steady inside of you.

You didn’t trust your mouth to form words, so you nodded vigorously. He got back to work, faster this time, relentless, and the heat in your belly coiled tighter and tighter until you were coming so hard you saw stars. Your thighs clamped like a vise around his head but he didn’t seem to care in the slightest, working you through your orgasm with his tongue and fingers.

You clenched around him through every aftershock. He pressed a final little kiss on your thigh before pulling his fingers out and wiping them on the sheets.

Gazing into his warm brown eyes, breathing with him in tandem, it took you a minute to realize something.

“Oh, fuck,” you said. “Condom.”

You wondered if you still had any in your bathroom cabinet from when you were still with your ex, but it had been a long time since you’d broken up. Shit.

Pike snapped to attention. “Yeah, um,” he started, hopping off the bed to retrieve his jacket, “think I have one in my wallet.”

He rummaged around in his jacket pocket, retrieving his wallet and rifling through it.

“Gotcha,” he proclaimed. He turned the foil packet around in his hands, looking for the expiration date. “And it’s still good.”

“Hallelujah,” you remarked, throwing your head back in relief. “Get over here.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Pike said, making his way back to you. He knelt on the bed as he ripped open the wrapper and rolled on the condom.

Settling between your legs, he took himself in hand and rubbed at your swollen cunt before easing himself inside. You gasped at the feeling of him fully seated inside you, the delicious stretch of it achingly perfect. After a moment, he ground his hips into yours, moving out barely an inch before rocking back in. You scratched at the expanse of his back and shoulders, hitching up your hips, urging him to move.

“You’re beautiful like this,” he whispered, fucking you slow and deep. You made keening little noises with every thrust, unable to help it. You felt so full.

Pike began to move faster, now, his kisses swallowing up your sobbing cries. The sweet ache in your belly was building up again, and the moment you thought you would tumble over the edge, he slowed his pace. You groaned in frustration, gyrating your hips, needing him to fuck you, damnit, but it felt too fucking good to complain.

When Pike slipped out of you, though, you definitely wanted to complain. However, all that came out was a petulant huff. He just chuckled and urged you to lie on your side. Slotting behind you, he guided himself back inside of you before wrapping his arms around you, holding you close to his chest. The new angle was heaven and you writhed in his arms, feeling him absolutely everywhere.

He snaked a hand down to rub your clit while he fucked you, faster now. You cried out and grasped at his arms for something to ground you, something to keep you connected to reality, because this felt so fucking good it very well could have been a dream.

“I’m—P-Pike—Marcus, I’m gonna—” You found yourself babbling, barely coherent.

“I’ve got you,” he said, the low rumble of his voice warm in your ear as he worked at your swollen little clit. That was it; you were shaking apart, trembling as he fucked you through your orgasm. The muscles of your cunt fluttered around him, every nerve in your body on fire.

Pike’s movements were becoming more erratic. Every thrust was harder than the last, and he moved his hand to grasp at your hip as he rutted into you frantically. You squeezed down on his cock, wanting to push him over the edge.

“Fuck, fuck!” He lasted a few more desperate thrusts before he was coming, too, biting into the skin of your shoulder and holding you tightly to him.

You both stayed there for a while, breathing heavily, all fucked-out and blissful. You nestled closer into him and he hummed into your shoulder.

“Be right back,” Pike mumbled, holding himself at the base and easing his cock out of you. You sighed at the feeling of emptiness—part of you wished he could just stay there all night.

As you stretched out on your bed, he shuffled off into your bathroom. You heard the tap run for a moment before he returned, condom off—presumably in the trash—and a damp washcloth in hand.

The press of the cool washcloth felt good on your hot and throbbing cunt; he then wiped down your thighs, where an embarrassing amount of your slick had dribbled down.

“Thank you,” you murmured as you looked up at him. He kissed your cheek.

It was bugging you, and you couldn’t help but ask. “You tied the condom off and threw it out, right?”

Pike raised an eyebrow. “Yes?” He said. “What, did Quantico not tie them off first?”

“Worse,” you grumbled, “he flushed them.”

Pike snorted. “That’s a new one on me.”

“Had to call a goddamn plumber,” you continued.

“Please tell me at least the sex was good.”

“It was awful,” you groaned. “You should have kissed me sooner.”

“Sorry,” he said. “I’ll make up for it.”

“You better, Agent Pike,” you teased before giving him a peck on the lips.

He was having none of that; he pulled you in for a proper kiss. “I will,” he said, “I promise.”

–

a/n: well, it turns out I’m eternally a sucker for the undercover-as-a-couple trope.

original prompt from @lannister-slings-and-arrows​! Thank you my dear :)

And in case you’re curious: Marcus Pike gets called Agent Pike way more often than he gets called Marcus in the show, so that’s what I went with here. And FYI, Quantico is the county in Virginia where the FBI training academy is. Just a fun little detail.

content: surprise kiss (“fakeout makeout”), oral sex (m and f), missionary, cuddle-fucking (spoon-fucking? side-fucking? whatever you’d like to call it lol)

#marcus pike #marcus pike x reader #pedro pascal #pedro pascal fanfiction #agent marcus pike

[equalseleventhirds]

quick disclaimer before fic: this is not meant to excuse or absolve melanie and georgie of outing jon; what they did was wrong and they should not have done it. instead it is an... examination of a character who is Maybe working some things out but, due to Internalized Issues, is harshly rejecting it both for herself and other people. (i’m aware i wrote something with the exact same FUCKING premise back when i was in the sh*rl*ck fandom dear god don’t read that linked fic it is from a deeply shameful time of fandom i only linked it as proof i did the same thing before. almost like i’m still working through the same stuff via writing fanfiction. hm.) (further discussion on THAT in post-fic notes; i wanted to keep it under the cut for personal reasons.)

furthermore: warning for discussion of sex (but not explicit depictions of sex), characters experiencing aphobia both internalized and not, mention of sexism wrt jobs, characters outing other characters without their consent (more than once, and more than just jon), and mention of consensual but unwanted sex (as in, consent was given, but the consenter did not enjoy it, and consented due to expectations).

- - -

It starts with: “I don’t, I, I usually can’t—Lately. I mean. Lately I can’t.” Melanie shuts her eyes so she won’t have to see Georgie, her hand on the sheets, judgment questions in her eyes. “Since I got—shot. It’s more difficult, is all.”

“Melanie—”

“You can still try,” she says, the words falling too fast, too panicked. “If you want, sometimes other people—and it’s fine! I’m always, it’s fine to try. Sometimes I do. I just might not. You know.”

“You might not orgasm,” Georgie finishes for her. It’s hard to tell how she’s feeling about it—until her fingers brush Melanie’s chin, turning her face up.

Reluctantly, Melanie opens her eyes, and then she’s glad she did. Because Georgie’s smiling, not a mocking smile, gentle. And they said this was just, just casual, just between friends (there’s too much going on with ghosts and the Institute and Georgie’s ex sleeping on her couch when he isn’t being kidnapped for it to be more than that), but Melanie’s glad Georgie is smiling.

“Hey, it’s okay,” Georgie says. She’s sitting up now, not lying almost-not-quite between Melanie’s legs anymore. She looks gorgeous, naked and cross-legged on that horrible mattress with a microfiber sheet wrapped around her shoulders, and Melanie wants to curl up in the sheet with her and eat the leftover pizza from earlier and fall asleep together with grease on their hands.

No. Focus. “It’s okay,” Georgie says again, gentler. “If you can’t right now. If you don’t want to. You certainly gave me a lovely orgasm—”

“—or three—”

“—yes, thank you, and if you’d rather just call it there, I’m not pushing it. As long as you enjoyed yourself.” She frowns, suddenly, glancing down at Melanie’s hands. “You… did enjoy yourself? I hope we didn’t—”

“I did!” She always does, when it’s other people coming, when she gets to be touching warm skin and watching someone fall apart. It’s… nice. “It’s just, you know. I got shot.”

(And isn’t that a convenient excuse, she sneers in her own head, and it sounds like Toni refusing to come back to the team, it sounds like the most sarcastic videos about her breakdown, it sounds like Elias. Isn’t it convenient that now you can blame your little problem on blood flow, or nerve endings, or stress. Never mind that you didn’t have those excuses a year ago. Or two years. Or back when you had a real girlfriend, and you always said yes but she got tired before—)

Georgie tucks a strand of hair behind Melanie’s ear. “Okay, good. If we, you know, try this again sometime? If you’re feeling better? Then I can try.” She stops, licks her lips, watches Melanie’s expression. “Or I can… not try, if you’d still prefer that. Later. You know. If.”

“I’m not—” And she’s rushing again, always rushing, she doesn’t even know if she and Georgie will ever—

“No, I know! It’s fine! But like—Look, this isn’t exactly new for me, you know? If that’s something you want. Something you don’t want. Or I, I’m saying it’s not a problem, if you do or don’t want me to make you come in the future, or even if you don’t want to have sex at all, I mean, when we were dating Jon didn’t—”

That’s where Georgie stops, as if talking about Jon is too much, as if she hasn’t been speaking Melanie’s secret insecurities out loud in bed like it’s something they can talk about, as if all of this hasn’t already been too much and too terrifying already.

Melanie stands up, grabs the comforter as a makeshift cloak (because Georgie has the sheet, and suddenly she isn’t sure she wants to share the sheet with her). “Right.”

“I’m just—I have a friend. Who you might talk to, if you wanted to talk about this.”

She steps away from the bed, towards the door. “Sure. Pizza? I’m hungry.”

-

The problem is, Melanie doesn’t much like Jon. He was such a dick about the Youtube thing, and about her statement, and about Sasha. And even though she knows (sort of) that part of it hadn’t been his fault, she still isn’t going to talk over her disinterest in sex with him. It’s mortifying. Even if he wasn’t her boss. And Georgie’s ex. And currently out of the Archives, anyway.

But she wants to talk to somebody, about Georgie’s words running around and around and around her head, about the sheer panic mixing with almost-relief and then the visceral no no no churning low in her stomach that had made it a struggle just to choke down her pizza. She wants to ask someone is this normal, am I allowed, is it even enough to be halfway to ‘not at all’ or should I just suck it up. She wants to talk that out desperately.

It’s just… she doesn’t have many friends left, after her whole fall from Youtube ghost hunter grace. She’s not going to ask Georgie about it, any more than Jon, although for pretty much the opposite reason. Who’s left? Her shiny new coworkers? Tim, who seethes and hates everything and everyone in the Archives? Martin, who’s still upset that Jon so much as spoke to her while he was on the run? Basira?

-

When Melanie met Sasha—the real Sasha, the one apparently no one but her even remembers—she’d been the only woman in the Archives. And Melanie had chatted with her about haunted pubs, and maximizing SEO, and how to talk to people who’d seen a white dog while they were drunk and thought it was a ghost. And about their jobs, of course, which led to both of them scoffing about the sexist bullshit of academia and how someone like Sasha could be just an assistant and the only woman on her team.

And then Elias hired Melanie to replace… the thing that replaced Sasha. Hired another woman to replace the only woman. You learn to see patterns from the kind of person who might say diversity the same way as toilet plunger: something necessary, but distasteful. Melanie was filling a role he needed filled, and she could live with that.

And then Basira.

Who wasn’t there because she wanted to be, of course, but was still there. Was still another woman in the boy’s club of terror they’d apparently signed on for. Could maybe, maybe, be someone Melanie could connect with. Someone she could talk to.

Maybe.

-

“Do you know if he and Jon ever…?”

“No clue, and not interested!” She’s laughing, about to just dismiss it out of hand, but… maybe. She can feel the questions she never asked Georgie, the words sharpening their claws on the edges of her mind. The no, not me, not allowed sinking in her gut.

“Although…” Make it light. Make it interesting. Make it about someone else. How to hook an audience without having a public breakdown and becoming a— “According to Georgie, Jon… doesn’t.”

It feels wrong as soon as she says it. Like she’s dirty. Like she’s lying. Like a thousand eyes are looking at her, watching her, waiting for more. Make it a story. Engage your audience. Like it’s 2013 in a convention hotel room and Pete just told everyone Don’t worry, Mel likes girls actually, and even though they were all fine about it that moment of sharpshock terror in her throat as they all looked—

“Like, at all?”

The one thing she never learned was how to stop talking. “Yeah.”

“Yeah, that does explain some stuff.”

And that’s… it, really. That does explain some stuff. Jon is a dick, has always been a dick, overfocused on work and not on other people, and that does explain some stuff. Right. Yes. Like her last girlfriend had told her, about all you do is work, I can’t even get you off. An explanation, just like she always knew it would be.

It doesn’t really matter. She has a boss to go kill.

-

“I think,” she says, slow, like every word is being dragged out of her, “that I might not like. Sex. As much as, you know, people do.”

“You’re a person,” her therapist says, firm, and she has to bite back a sarcastic laugh.

“Right. ‘Course.”

- - -

post-fic notes: i myself personally have previously identified as: heteroromantic gray-ace, heteroromantic ace, aroace, aro gray-ace, aro bi, bi, arospec bi, aro bi again, and aro bi but sex ambivalent. part of that has been natural progression and change; part of that was bcos some people i considered friends got very into aphobic discourse, and i internalized a lot of what they said. in recent months i have been examining my sex ambivalence (sometimes repulsion) and considering what that means about whether or not i am on the ace spectrum. i’m still thinking about these things. i’m still, deep down inside, afraid of the aphobic people i respected and cared about hearing about this.

in part i wrote this to work through some of My Own Shit regarding this. in part i wrote this bcos i will get my grubby little aspec hands (bcos regardless of anything else, i am aspec, whether that’s ace or aro) on every character i can. yes, even the ones who did an objectively shitty thing to jon, the one canonical ace character. bcos sometimes people (like me) internalize things and make mistakes.

#absolutely not beta'd or britpicked or even edited much #i needed to get this out and now it's late but i'm WORKING THROUGH SOME STUFF #uhhhh ambiguous ending about melanie's like! decisions! identity! feelings! #ambiguous if she or georgie EVER talk to JON #nothing is resolved! nothing is fucking good and light and happy! it's all MESSY #it's also so long i'm so sorry but melanie spent a lot of time looking at georgie and then a lot in emotional turmoil so like #what can ya do. #anyway. fuck it. posting a thing. #fanfiction #algie writes things #the magnus archives #hopefully i have rambled long enough this doesn't get maintagged sry if it does ignore me i needed this for ME #and i guess like. i do want other ppl to read it. but i do not want to maintag it. u kno how it is. #NOW WITH EDITING

[x-gotham-rogues]

If Jonathan was to join the Batfamily, how would that work out?

Suddenly, I can’t stop thinking about this idea.

Also, a few thousand words of this post got deleted when I tried to save but my computer froze and decided to say goodbye to all that work. Hours upon hours, wasted. I feel like shit. Just a teensy bit.

Here’s to always writing on Google Docs before copy and pasting on tumblr from now on.

This stuff happens around Year One, so the Batfam is currently only Bruce, Dick and Alfred

Let’s just assume Jonathan gets kidnapped/forcibly adopted into the family by Bruce right before he got to kill anyone because I cannot recall whatever detailed prequel I had written for this idea

All I do remember is that there was some sort of emotional blackmail going on that kept Jonathan from running away and trying to kill someone again

Month by month, Bruce and Dick try to 1) chip at Jonathan’s walls, 2) make sure Jonathan doesn’t find out about them being Batman and Robin, and 3) make Jonathan healthy again because the man looks like he is going to crumble the second he gets poked

Because of the whole ‘forcing Jonathan to stay at Wayne Manor’, Jonathan’s obsession with fear never really gets developed all that much

Don’t get me wrong, it’s still there, he’s just not a crazy mad scientist anymore

BOOKS, however

Everyone, Jonathan Crane’s got a new drug, and it ain’t fear toxin

Wayne Manor’s library is far larger than Keeny Manor’s library

There are so many more subjects, so many more stories, so much more stuff Keeny Manor didn’t have because of the heavy superstition like Edgar Allan Poe, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Oscar Wilde, Shakespeare, etc.

Jon is 1001% addicted

At times, Alfred would have to act like an annoyed parent because Jonathan is just so reluctant to stop reading

Like, where was all this absolute gold when he was a kid!?

Meals are very awkward because Jonathan doesn’t understand people at all, Dick’s still kind of doubtful of Jonathan, and Bruce is also just a tad bit paranoid

But also, whenever Jonathan eats Alfred’s cooking, his eyes light up because as a kid and teen he was fed slop from his great granny, and even as an adult he was rather poor and hardly ate because of his obsession with fear-based revenge, so he appreciates any bit of good food he gets

One morning when he explains to Dick that he’s never eaten bacon before, Dick laughs, takes a look at Jonathan’s face, realises he was being serious and practically drags Jonathan around the whole day eating junk food

Bruce was a bit disappointed at Dick but lets Jonathan finish his ice cream cone

At some point, Bruce decides that if wants to unlock Jonathan’s backstory, he’s going to have to do more research

With Bruce spending more time down at the Batcave doing research and Jonathan still holing up in the library, Dick’s bored as all Hell

That’s... not a good thing

He tries to rope Jonathan into some chaos, but Jonathan’s never been the type to cause mischief

Plus he’s too busy reading

Dick sees that he’s definitely not going to get anywhere trying to get this fully grown adult who might possibly be even older than Bruce to break some shit with him

So he sits down and plays a popular indie game his friends have been recommending to him; a certain game called ‘Five Nights at Freddy’s’

(Yes, I am aware this doesn’t fit into the timeline, let a person have some fun)

Bruce couldn’t hear him down in the Batcave, but Jonathan hears Dick’s scream loud and clear

He runs to wherever Dick was playing the game and sees Dick just staring at the screen

Jonathan raises an eyebrow and asks what happened

“The... the power went out... I was so-! 5AM. IT WAS 5AM WHEN THE POWER WENT OUT. THERE WAS PROBABLY LIKE A MINUTE LEFT. I WAS SO CLOSE! ARGGGHHH!”

Gone was the shocked face, replaced with one of unadulterated rage

“Why is Night 4 so hard?! Can’t you have waited one minute Freddy? ONE!?”

Should he... leave? Was Richard talking to him?? What was he supposed to do???

Eventually, Alfred finds Jonathan awkwardly doing nothing and tells him he could go back to the library, but the game was a horror game and he thinks Jonathan may have an interest in it

Jonathan, worried for the sanity of the boy in front of him, agrees to watch him play

Dick tries to rage quit multiple times, but then Jonathan would try his hand at the game and Dick keeps telling him he’s doing something wrong and takes back the controller

In an unexpected turn of events, Jonathan gets super invested in the plot

Soon enough, both Dick and Jonathan are heatedly discussing FNAF’s possible canon, and Dick mentions that there’s more games

Upon this revelation, Jonathan half demands half pleads to play the others and so they do

Sister Location did have some triggers, but Dick helped Jon get through them

Bruce came up from the Batcave to find Dick and Jonathan shouting about someone named ‘Afton’

When Bruce asked about it, he fully expected it to be either one of Dick’s friends or maybe Jonathan’s old coworkers, boy was he wrong

He’s glad the two are getting along (easier to get Jonathan to open up), but now he has to deal with two horror nerds

Yes, Jonathan has converted Dick into a horror junkie

Yes, Dick has converted Jonathan into a game theorist

(I kind of want to give them a YouTube channel but that might be stretching it a bit)

Eventually, Jonathan tells them his entire tragic backstory, including details they didn’t already know, like great granny Keeny’s abuse other than starvation

When Dick privately asks Bruce why he decided to do this in the first place, Bruce confesses that during the first fight between Scarecrow and Batman + Robin, he felt like he and Jonathan were far too similar for his own liking and that seeing someone so similar to him nearly kill drives him just a bit crazy, so he needed to prove to himself that even if he goes down the wrong path he could reform

Jonathan hears this

He’s really mad at first, but just decides he doesn’t have the energy for it (honestly, mood, but relatable) and lets it go

Then simultaneously realises that these two people are Batman and Robin

And smacks himself mentally because just look at their body sizes, their entire dynamic, of-fucking-course they’re Batman and Robin

He doesn’t confront them for a while

But when he does and they ask him how he knows, he says, “You’re just really loud.”

Bruce gets worried about Jon lashing out and Dick is upset because he considers Jon a friend (aww)

But Jonathan just brushes it off like it’s nothing and explains that he’s glad they stopped him early into his criminal career, otherwise he might’ve gone down a road he couldn’t come back from

And that he was glad he got to stay with them and be considered their friend

Bruce gives this tiny smile, Alfred pats Jon on the back and Dick straight-up tackles him into a bone-crushing hug

So Jonathan is now officially in the Batfamily

Dick convinces Bruce to give Jon a costume and teach him to fight

So Gotham gets a new vigilante named Crow

Though his targets always seem to be those who harm children or those who use their money for corrupt purposes

Ending on a happy note! I don’t know what this is, to be honest, but if you did make it to the end, I hope you liked it!

#Jonathan Crane #Scarecrow #The Scarecrow #well not anymore #he's Crow now #Bruce Wayne #Batman #Dick Grayson #Robin #Alfred Pennyworth #Batfamily #what if headcanons #what if #imagine #AU #dc #Crow AU #batfam Jon

[regrettablewritings]

How They Spend the Quarantine (Tadashi Hamada, Lucifer Morningstar, Dewey Finn, Wade Wilson, Harley Quinn, & Benoit Blanc)

Just a fun (?? is that even responsible to say?) little thing I’ve been thinking about while slogging through this neverending hellscape of an extended lockdown.

Tadashi Hamada

When San Fransokyo was ordered to go into a lockdown, there were mixed feelings.

At first, Tadashi had a hint of optimism that this would mean more time to work on his prospective projects . . . But then he quickly realized that his projects mostly required tools and space offered by the campus. He could technically make do at home, but it wouldn’t quite be the same considering the garage was considered Hiro’s space.

Somberly had to clean out his lab and take whatever he could home.

Cue the rest of the group (sans Fred and Hiro) griping that at least his style of science could travel well enough to be somewhat continued off of university grounds.

Helps do delivery for The Lucky Cat. It helps him get out the house, and it’s simply helpful altogether.

Uses Baymax frequently to make sure everyone down to Mochi is sanitized, and nobody’s running a fever.

Nearly as frequent a sanitizer as Aunt Cass.

He starts most days prepared to be productive, only to stop and poke fun at Hiro, who’s almost always got his eyes trained on a video game.

Tadashi realizes three hours later that he, too, has been playing the game as Player 2.

Learned how to make facial masks with Aunt Cass. He already knew how to sew a little but frankly, making the masks made him realize he could have a new hobby on his hands. He’s currently trying to figure out how to make Mochi a little vest . . .

Lucifer Morningstar

B o r e d. A s. F u c k.

At first, he thinks everyone being forced to go home would work in his favor -- surely some rule-breakers would sneak out and try to bunk up with the Devil, right?

Well . . . Kinda? Once Chloe found out and scolded him about it, the idea died real fast. Plus, he realized he wasn’t quite fond of the possibility of being around someone who could pop up with a disgusting human sickness at any point during their time with him. Smearing their snot all over, coughing into his Egyptian cotton sheets . . . Nope, never mind, he is perfectly content having the penthouse to himself, thank you very much!

Except he’s not.

The poor bastard is going crazy by himself -- he’s just not used to being without some kind of company!

“At least in Hell, you could tell there were people around you based on the screaming!” he’d whine at his phone during his hourly video chat with Chloe.

Oh yes: The video chats. He tries to make them hourly with anyone he can get a hold of (namely, his long-suffering detective) but this clearly never plays out as he would like for it to: If he had it his way, everyone would respond in an instant and let him bounce mainly one-sided conversations off of them -- basically, what he did before all this went down.

What usually winds up happening is he gets hung up on or nobody answers him at all out of sheer annoyance over his clinginess.

Ironically, he’s not exactly crazy about when Amenadiel initiates those “family calls”. He insists it’s healthy and normal for them to do this and even calls Luci out on the hypocrisy, but let’s face it: Lucifer finds it obnoxiously gushy and weird.

He works his way into Linda’s video appointment books to help him cope with his boredom and admitted need for interactions. She doesn’t mind offering him counsel, but once Lucifer starts attempting to butt in during others’ appointment calls, it becomes an issue.

Has, at some point, gotten buzzed down in Lux and streamed himself attempting to pole dance. It drew quite a bit of attention.

He’s managed to gain a bit of a following and some companionship by streaming himself playing piano and singing. It’s not the same thing as having an actual audience, in his opinion, but it will have to do for now.

He’s never been one to binge with regards to TV shows or movies, but after the first week, he decided to binge watch every work action star Wesley Cabot was ever in.

Makes sure his staff still gets paid well. After all, he’s pretty well-off; there’s no need to make an innocent bartender’s life a living hell just because some other rich bastard fucked up, yeah?

Going off this, should he need to order to-go or anything, we already know he tends to tip as handsomely as he looks.

Dewey Finn

Kids were being sent to Horace Green on tuitions worth more than what some people saw in half a year -- of course the school was going to continue classes online!

While technically an afterschool instructor, the program is popular enough for parents to expect it to continue, and for Dewey to be kept on payroll.

Initially, he was pretty smug: He’s one if, if not, the youngest teacher-figure at Horace Green, so surely that means he’s more tech savvy than his older, stiffer coworkers, right? For once, he’s ahead of the curve!

Wrong: Figuring out Zoom was a headache, and then there was the realization of just how dependent his classes were on actual physical presence.

Plus, let’s be real: Dewey’s Internet connection was decent on its own, but craptastic when compared to those of his wealthier students. The lag is strong with this one.

Has definitely accidentally messed up the background on his screen. Somehow wound up with the Beetlejuice background and got so frustrated, he wound up keeping it there for two whole sessions.

In spite of the slight issues regarding lag, they pull through and try to resume lessons as best they can.

Tries to keep optimism by pointing out how this is a new form of entertainment they could be pioneers in.

Some days, it’s just going so wack or everyone’s so bleh that Dewey just assigns for them to watch a music documentary or something.

“Okay, kids, Mr. Finn’s hungover and clearly Summer is the only one who went to bed before 3am. So what I’m gonna have you do is watch . . . Prrrbbbb . . . Amadeus.” “How is Amadeus rock-related?” “It had a rock single, shut up. Anyway, we meet back next class and talk about what we saw, m’kay? M’kay. Over and out.”

Next class, he’s filled with dread as Summer produces an in-depth analysis of the relationship or lack thereof between character and the presence of talent as evidenced by Mozart’s abilities juxtaposed with his immature presentation and -- Dewey just can’t keep up. Sure, Summer, why not?

When he’s not busy teaching, however, he’s using the lockdown to work on some new material. Or just screwing around.

Otherwise, let’s be real, Big Boy’s living the high life in a place of his own: Playing video games (Animal Crossing, recently got back into Team Fortress 2, is trying to finally finish Ocarina of Time); eating a not very great diet; staying up late, napping at weird times; all in the name of quarantine.

If he orders delivery or to-go, he tips the best he can.

Wade Wilson

On one hand, murking never goes on lockdown. But on the other . . . He’s already technically not well, why risk that even with his mutation?

Oh, fuck I just remembered he lives at the X Mansion, never mind turn back turn back oh god give us free --

The situation is tense to say the least. There’s Wade, who’s sensible enough to know why the quarantine is in place . . . and then there’s everyone else, who knows Wade’s full of shit.

And by everyone, I “coincidentally” mean Colossus, Nega Sonic, Yukio, Domino, Cable, and Russ because the already small world of the sequel just got smaller by the fact that everyone is bound to a large but nonetheless single estate whose size has probably decreased from that of the First Class timeline.

You know those videos of the usual Quarantine Characters? Wade is somehow yet still unsurprisingly all of them, save for the frequent sanitizer. He raids the pantry frequently, sleeps at all hours, considers scooting a swivel chair down the halls exercise for the thighs, blasts video games, and so on.

Going back to the sanitizer thing, it’s not that he’s just not exactly known for being tidy. Colossus occasionally does drag him out of bed at a decidedly decent time (read: any time before 11am) to try and get him excited about cleaning up around the mansion, but it rarely ends well. At this point, the safest option is to just remind Wade to wash his hands for 20 seconds as necessary.

Has acquired a Switch and visits everyone’s island, often to bonk them on the head with a net or gift them with weird crap they don’t necessarily want. For the “friends” from Sister Margaret’s, he has somehow acquired their Dodo Codes. Nobody knows how he did this. 

Facetimes Dopinder frequently.

“Precious, you’re the beacon of light in this cold, cruel world.” “I miss you, too, DP --” “Sshshsh! I’m having a moment . . .” *weeps*

On the many occasions he orders delivery, he tips by giving the delivery person something expensive from the mansion that they can sell. Prof. X is loaded, after all. Plus, he more or less isn’t even present in this universe, it’s not like he’s gonna miss anything he can’t see/probably doesn’t even know exists in his house. The problem is, Colossus does exist and does notice and does care when things go missing. Leading to many a delivery person getting caught up in shenanigans at that weird school in the boonies that they either don’t get paid enough to deal with or couldn’t pay to make up.

“Oh, pawn shops are closed?” asks the man who looks like a skinned avocado if avocados had human skin. “Don’t worry, lemme hook you up -- I know some guys --” “DEADPOOOOOLLL!!” roars a Russian accent from inside the house. “WHERE IS THE BRONZE BUST OF THE PROFESSOR!?” The poor delivery person’s eyes widen as they realize that the odd cargo they’ve been presented with apparently holds some value of some kind. But before they can flee, the avocado man blurts, “Shit! Leave the pizza in the bushes, look me up on my Youtube page, byyyeeee!!”

In his defense, Wade does hold up his end of the deal. Much like the Dodo Codes, nobody knows what strings he pulled. They just accept it and move on.

Harley Quinn

Surprisingly compliant.

She’s crazy, not stupid: Staying at home may suck, but what sucks more is making things harder on people who may not fair so well. Besides, she’s spent time in a maximum security prison -- she can handle staying cooped up in her own home. At least home has TV, books, and snacks.

When she hears people are still going out without masks or plotting to have a protest, she strongly considers firing up the old Fun Gun and popping the next sign-carrying Karen she sees with a tit full of cadmium yellow powder.

Seriously, stay the fuck home and fuck up your own hair; this is the perfect time to make mistakes with your looks, it ain’t like you got anywhere to be or anyone to impress.

“STAY THE FUCK HOME, BITCH!” P O W!!! “JUST GO GREY ALREADY, WE ALL KNOW YOUR HAIR AIN’T THAT COLOR ANYMORE, YOU’RE THREE YEARS FROM BEING IN THE GODDAMN AGE-BRACKET!!!” P O W!!!!

Only leaves her new apartment to grab groceries and to take Bruce on a walk. She actually refuses to steal or cause a scene during this shitshow because she may be a bad guy, but she sure ain’t evil.

So far, there haven’t been complaints about the fact that she’s walking a hyena down a public street. Maybe it’s because there’s hardly anyone out? Maybe it’s because Gothamites just can’t be bothered to be fazed by it . . . Or maybe it’s because she made him a little mask for his snout.

“In this house, we wash our hands for at least 20 seconds, kid.”

Lets the forest reclaim the earth, so to speak. She was never really shaving anything for anyone but herself before, but now it just seems especially pointless.

Spends almost every day in a kigurumi. To give her a semblance of routine, she has a pink bear one she calls her “Sunday Suit.” She doesn’t know it’s not Sunday because the days just blur but Cass just doesn’t have the heart to tell her; she seemed so proud of herself . . .

Like everyone else, she’s gotten Animal Crossing. She’s trying to create an all-preppy island with a few exceptions (Astrid = Aesthetic, m’kay?)

Tips nicely when ordering delivery.

Benoit Blanc

As young and spry in nature as the gentleman sleuth would like to think of himself, he would really rather not test the dangers of the situation and go about all foolhardy -- he’s staying home!

In theory, it’s only logical and therefore perfectly fine. But in practice . . . God, he wishes he’d invested more in things to occupy himself with when home.

It wasn’t that Benoit was never home, he just never felt too much of a need to invest in a fancy entertainment center -- the fanciest he ever got was an iHome.

The beginning of the quarantine served as the perfect time for him to read over case files, catch up on paperwork, even catch up on some reading he’d been putting on hold since God knows when due to cases popping up left and right. But that dried up quicker than he’d assumed, and that’s when he was faced with what a man of his mind dreads the most: Boredom.

Finally caved and decided to hook up Amazon Fire.

Expected to use the one-month free trial on Netflix and be just fine but once the lockdown in his area got extended and he realized he wasn’t going to be able to catch up with Crazy Ex-Girlfriend at this rate, he caves even further and buys a subscription.

Fully delights at the influx of platforms uploading Broadway recordings; when The Show Must Go On put on Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dream Coat, followed by The Phantom of The Opera, it was a treat, I tell you!

Sanitizes often, despite hardly ever leaving his house besides to have a smoke or to go grab groceries. Honestly, it’s less about cleaning at this point so much as it is finding something to occupy his focus when he feels there’s nothing else to so.

Takes zinc after every meal to help lessen the intensity of any ailment that might hit him.

Definitely owns a facemask. There’s a good chance it’s from Marta or one of his relatives, and there’s another good chance the pattern is as flamboyant as his clothing. He’s delighted.

Benoit tries not to rely too much on delivery,  as he’d much rather just cook. On the rare occasion where tipping comes up, however, he gives as generously as he can.

Bonus: There’s a slight chance he might have acquired a companion to foster early on in the quarantine. Benoit hadn’t had a pet since childhood, a crime of which he was admittedly melancholic of his own involvement. However, his surprisingly busy lifestyle just wouldn’t suit a four-legged friend, now could it?

Well, now there’s time to. Besides, it would certainly ease the potential feeling of loneliness to have someone or something with whom he could interact with.

Admittedly, when shelters began encouraging people to invest time in taking home a companion, he’d been looking more for a comrade on the canine side of the spectrum -- but darn, if Duke wasn’t a handsome cat.

A lovely grey-and-white cat with eyes that matched his own, Duke has become the one Benoit monologues to (because in all honesty, the man is a performer at heart, in need of an audience to speak his mind to and portray a thought before). Plus, he doesn’t appear to mind it when Benoit finds himself belting out in tone-deaf notes to showtunes while washing the dishes: The mark of a true companion.

At this rate, he’s probably not going to keep fostering Duke when things calm down -- he’s probably going to just straight up adopt him.

Stay safe & healthy!

#just a dumb little thing #anyway stay safe and healthy #regrettablewritings #tadashi hamada imagine #lucifer morningstar imagine #dewey finn imagine #wade wilson imagine #harley quinn imagine #tadashi hamada #lucifer morning star #dewey finn #benoit blanc imagine #benoit blanc