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#thinking about the endless beauty in the cycle of people reading something and going Oh and writing something that someone else reads

jewfrogs · 3 years

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thinking about how the whole history of human writing is about inspiration and allusion and intertext we write things for each other and because of each other and we always have. every text connected to others like the vast system of tree roots in a forest. history is a web we weave ourselves into when we write

#oh translations of catullus 51 were really in it now #thinking about the endless beauty in the cycle of people reading something and going Oh and writing something that someone else reads #every story is about other stories #ribbits

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kachuuyaa · 3 years

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— ELYSIAN’S FUGITIVES.

06072021 ; g.i oneshot , gn!reader , bsd!reader

genre ; angsty fluff ig i dunno???

includes ; WISP!CHUUYA MAKES HIS APPEARANCE :D mentions of death, gore, gods, chuuya being cute (He Squeaks!) chuuya and reader meant to be REAL, literally just a first meeting between aether n you Italics is Japanese

synopsis ; The punishment from the gods is to be sent to Elysian, then banished into a never-ending cycle of paranoia.

author's notes ; U FINALLY MEET AETHER. wisp!chuuya is the best thing I have ever written ever I was mentally squealing because oh my oiguoidsp[';][][21P]2;\.,sdmNXK

You couldn’t count the days you have roamed Teyvat, it has been too long since then. For 60 years (it was 60 years, wasn’t it? You don’t remember anymore), you have not crossed any country’s border, only listening to their seemingly endless musings. You have never been out in the sea, tensity and uneasiness forming in the pit of your stomach whenever so. However, being isolated from the land the gods rule upon, has earned you a title. Your name is being whispered as a warning or a legend like a scripture formed with the wind. Some were afraid of you, while some respected you. It was pathetic, really, how desperate these people were compared to those in Yokohama. There was no point in dwelling in the past, now, was there? Despite receiving unwanted attention by passersby, you paid no attention to those who whispered your name like a mantra, spouting vile, vulgar assumptions about you. You realized-- quickly-- that they only think for themselves, not for the benefit of others. Wouldn’t that be the source of their demise? Well, you don’t linger on trivial topics for too long, it’s only fair for you to care only about yourself in a world you don’t belong in (you know you belong here now, yet you felt as if Elysian was better than this place they call home).

You have heard of the outlander who caught the wind, saving a foreign nation he seemed to have been in once, only, and you have let the news flow from one ear to another. Who were you to care? No one should catch your attention in a world full of insatiable people. Each step made the grass crunch, making your way to the foot of Dragonspine. Chuuya followed suit, and he settled himself on your head. You figured out that he could shapeshift, probably his punishment as well, yet so far, he has only shifted into a bird and a wisp. His wisp form wasn’t as elegant as you may think, a small, hooded figure encased in smoke-colored clothing, resembling the coat he used to wear. On top, there was a small black X-shaped symbol in the middle of his chest. Around his small form were orange particles, that remind you vividly of Chuuya's ability. A little hat, one you were familiar with, was situated on top of his small head. It was the hat he was wearing during his time as a mafioso, you deduced as such. The tiny creature lets out small squeaks of content, nuzzling itself on your head; seems like he thought it was a good pillow. A chuckle of amusement escapes your lips, turning your head around to watch the scenery in front of you. Dragonspine was one of your favorite places to visit during your free time, snow piling on top of another, making the white mountain as beautiful as it is. However, you do not venture into Dragonspine, not wanting to risk your life for creatures who seem to always take your time.

As much as you hate to admit it, you have most likely killed more hilichurls than you ever killed back in Yokohama. The songs of relentless, snow-covered winds never fail to make your unease and worry falter, even for a moment. The glacial scenery of the mountain attracted your attention, especially your first visit here. A few snowflakes settled themselves on your face, melting due to the heat emitting from your body. If you had the chance, should you tell your friends about the scenery, they would love it too, wouldn't they? You know they would, however, how would you know so? They’re gone, and so is your attachment to anything but Chuuya. “Do you like the scenery, Chuchu?” soft taps on your head were his response, indicating that he was displeased with the nickname you gave him. He agreed nonetheless, sitting on the palm of your hand. He squirmed, looking for a more comfortable position, and stilled after a while.

Memories of the past have always plagued your mind, reminding you that you were alone, again. Despite the copious memories you have stored away, none will bring you back to the place you have regarded as your home. For once, you have felt safe, all the while knowing death follows you wherever you go. Death was the dark, hollow cloak you wore while walking the path of dread in your past life, hands coated with the blood of another, and your eyes held the burden you were forced to carry until the day you died. The amount of blood was enough to shatter the dreams children told you to believe in, you were holding on the thinnest thread, one soaked with blood, your blood, reminding you how much you have suffered and how you made others weak, on their knees, while keeping a straight face as you watch the life draining from their faces. You have learned that life was unfair, gods turning a blind eye to the generation you were put in, leading the people to be self-reliant, causing resentment and disrespect to be aimed at those who call themselves “gods”.

Did they even exist? You have heard, and read, tell of what the gods and goddesses have done to provide, to give, and to sacrifice. Did they give up? Were they satisfied with what they have gotten? Has their insatiable lust for approval and desire to fulfill their selfish, carnal desires quenched? Did they only long for what they have desired, using their power to prove themselves better among the world of mortals? Were they not the selfless, kind gods described in the books of old? Nevertheless, you had no respect for the divine. You only had yourself to depend on since the start. You controlled your own death, knowing that when you died, it was time. You could have stopped yourself from fading, though, but you were tired, you let it happen. And though you know that your death will be remembered, not in the history books, but in the Port Mafia, you will be forever remembered.

59 years have passed. There is no time to dwell in the past, all you have is the memories you swear to protect. Your fight with immortality has been futile, leaving you to bask in your own presence for 59 years. That is until Chuuya finally found you. And you? You found him. It wasn’t expected for you to know who he was, a mere spirit cursed by gods above to wander a world he was unfamiliar with. He was stripped of Arahabaki, leaving him with only his outermost ability, “For The Tainted Sorrow”. He didn’t mind, as well, Arahabaki resides within him, giving him a sense of dread, and leaving him with his identity that he can’t seem to solve. Arahabaki has forever stained him as blood stained your hands, giving him scars that will never leave him. In that life, and in the next. He had you, sweet, malevolent, outstanding you. Though he never voiced it out, he felt, well, complete, to say the least. And while feeling detached from not being completely human has affected him far too much, you were there to make him feel-- what did you make him feel, really? He can’t decipher his own feelings as his own identity. In all the years he has roamed this world as an insignificant wisp of the wind, he found himself tangled in another adventure with the “most insufferable partner aside from Dazai”.

Your footsteps were carried by the wind, walking to the City of Mondstadt, again, Chuuya on your shoulder, scanning the area for any enemies or the like. You were currently looking for food, choosing to shop in Mondstadt instead of catching wildlife. Each step has your coat moving from one side to another, boots making the grass crunch in every step. “Ne, Chuuya, do you want to buy pancakes from Mond?” you whispered, voice soft, only for Chuuya to hear. Said wisp only nods its small head, his little hood moving ever so slightly while he nods. Deciding that it would be best for him to rest, you put him in your breast pocket, his little head poking just a bit. Chuuya softly squeaked, nuzzling on the fabric, and opted to rest despite his unsaid protests. But before you could set foot onto the City Of Freedom, a high-pitched voice prevented you from doing so. “Hey!” they said, you whipped your head to the direction you heard it from, spotting a seemingly young-looking traveler, and a floating pixie-- wait.

Isn’t he the honorary knight? You thought to yourself, unconsciously cupping the pocket Chuuya resides in, feeling him squirm when he came in contact with your gloved palm. Instead of giving them a response, you simply stared at them, eyes glimmering with amusement. “Hi.” a simple, short greeting. Although you would prefer to ask the traveler some questions, that wouldn’t be necessary. You were able to decipher every detail easily, too easily, in fact. Aether, however, wasn’t fazed. He was well aware of how they described you, and how notorious you were due to appearance. Scoffing at the assumptions, he looked forward to meeting you. Perhaps he will look forward to his endeavors with you by his side, no? A star sent from Elysian would only brighten the mortal world, cursed with divine power and lonesome memories.

However, you did not know that a simple greeting exchanged on your first day of the meeting would bloom into something much more.

Ah, it seems that the show is starting once again, a different chapter, a different genre.

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rqnvindr · 3 years

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special delivery

pairing: delivery boy!albedo x gn!reader

genre: fluff, humor, pinch of suggestiveness

w.c: 1.5k

synopsis: it was getting harder and harder to resist the beautiful boy who always delivered your pizzas. especially when he notices the way you look at him, ever the observant one...

a/n: happy birthday chae !! @albehoe i’m glad we met and i enjoy all of our talks in the server! welcome to being 19; hope you enjoy this little gift i put together for you hehe

the doorbell finally rings, snapping you out of mindlessly scrolling on your phone. you grab your wallet and hop off the couch, more than ready to receive your pizza order for dinner.

you open the door and your brain immediately shuts down.

a young man, around the same age as you, stands before you and greets you with the most princely “good evening” ever. and if his voice wasn’t already enough to melt you, the red and black uniform looked like it was made just for him, complimenting his perfect skin and hair. that, along with his sparkling eyes was enough to convince you that he couldn’t possibly be real. you resist the urge to pinch yourself to check if you were dreaming.

“for (y/n), correct?” albedo, as you read on his name pin, snaps you out of your trance with his dreamy voice. it sounded even better when he said your name.

“yes.” you hand him the required amount of cash and take the box, brushing fingers ever so slightly. you offer the boy a smile, to which he nods in response.

albedo waves a gloved hand as he walks off of your porch. “have a good day.”

“thank you.” it sounded like the most appropriate choice of words at first, but you mentally curse yourself after he gets into the car and drives off.

you should’ve asked for his number, dammit. or at least told him to have a good day too.

what was supposed to be a perfect treat of an evening ended with you chastising yourself all throughout your meal.

this was your chance. you were going to order another pizza at the end of this week and hope that albedo would be your delivery boy again. you would at least try to remember to make more conversation with him this time, before leading up to hinting that you wanted to get to know him better.

you take a deep breath on the awaited day, when you answer the door. to your luck, it’s the exact same platinum-haired, blue-eyed mystery of a man who stole your heart within seconds.

“oh! good to see you again!” you sound a little too excited, and albedo appears perfectly unfazed.

“good afternoon. that’ll be $10.” he holds up a packet when you hand him the fee, and you raise an eyebrow. “i also got you a free sample of our newest secret sauce. it’s not supposed to be out until next month, but i’m conducting some research for my university and wanted to get a head start on people’s opinions on the taste, the texture, if they could perhaps recognize any of the ingredients used to make it..” he clears his throat. “anyways, since you’re such a dedicated customer you’re the first on the list. let me know what you think next time.”

“ah.” you lightly giggle at his rambling. he seemed very passionate about whatever field he was studying and determined to flesh out the best results for his research. you were the one who was nervous about keeping a conversation going when he seemed more than capable of doing so, as long as it was something he was acutely interested in.

and most importantly: he planned on meeting you again. there would be a next time.

“may i ask what your major is?”

“i’m a chemistry major. i was originally planning on doing biology, the study of life, but there is just as much essence of life in chemical reactions. taking two or more things to form a new substance...the embodiment of the life cycle itself.”

you nod, feeling nearly as fascinated in his studies as he appears to be. you would love to hear more about it, perhaps sitting across from him at a cafe, dressed casually out of his work clothes...

“excuse me. i do not wish to take up too much of your time. enjoy your pizza.”

“wait.” you call out, a fleeting sense of courage rising up, only for it to collapse once more when you catch yourself staring directly into albedo’s eyes. an endless ocean of curious orbs, their intensity making you feel seen right through, inside and out.

“um, actually never mind. sorry, have a nice day!” albedo nods, scratching the back of his neck as he heads off.

being unfathomably nervous and having a crush on someone farther than they appear was not a good mix.

you open the cabinet, ready to do some spring cleaning. your hand slips, accidentally knocking over an empty container. before you can pick it up, you notice a white packet that had been hidden underneath.

right. the sauce.

you hadn’t forgotten about it. you simply put it aside to try it out later with another food, just for a little adventure. but there was never any time to cook anything that would possibly go with an unknown condiment.

or more like, no one to cook with.

you grab your phone and dial the number that you’ve pretty much memorized by now. you bite your lip while listening to the other line ring.

“hello, thank you for calling favonius pizza co. this is albedo, how may i help you?”

“hi, albedo.” surely he’ll recognize your voice when he promised a next time, after all.

“oh, (y/n)? will it be the usual?” your stomach flutters from the way he perks up while saying your name.

“no, but i’m so glad it’s you answering the phone. i actually wanted to talk to you regarding the sauce. um, do you mind maybe coming over when you get off from work and i can show you exactly what i wish to convey?”

this doesn’t feel right. asking someone you’ve only met twice over into your own house, just for the sake of your silly crush that led to silly little fantasies in your head-

“sounds good. it’s been really difficult gathering feedback from other customers, due to the lack of communication. and it also works out that i can see you in person so i don’t have to take up too much time during my shift. i’ll be there in an hour and a half or so.”

you stop gaping, realizing you have to confirm your meeting. “okay! take care and i’ll see you then!”

“bye.” with that, albedo hangs up.

you rush to set up the ingredients for your cooking, date, perhaps, with albedo. even if he didn’t think of you the same way that you did, you would always cherish him agreeing to spend time with you.

an hour passes by and he’s already promptly ringing the doorbell. you can’t help but feel your knees grow weak at the sight of him in his gray hoodie and light colored jeans, his hair uncovered without the cap. and his eyes glimmer differently, adding to the new feeling his casual attire grants the sight of albedo outside of work.

“hi! the kitchens right this way!” albedo takes off his shoes and follows you to the adjacent area, right to the counter.

“you seem to have gathered more than just the sauce. and you also didn’t order a pizza either.” he remarks placing a hand under his chin.

“that’s because i wanted us to cook together and for you to see my reaction to it with other food. that’d add more variety to your results y’know?”

albedo continues to inspect the ingredients you had laid out for the chicken nuggets, picking up a jar of seasoning to smell it. “you’re definitely more invested in this than i expected you’d be.” he chuckles, the deep vibrations of his chest sending shivers down your spine.

“we shouldn’t have much of a problem if we’re doing this together, even though i’m not really the best at cooking. however there is one other thing i’ve realized...” albedo puts the jar down, turning to face you. he possesses the same observational look that he gave you the last time he delivered, and walks closer to you. the closing gap effectively cages you on the counter, your chests brushing against each other, making your breath hitch.

“(y/n),” he hums. “were you really ordering pizza the last time? or were you ordering me, instead?”

you want to reply, but any form of coherent speech dissipates in your throat. he’s so close, and normally you’d be embarrassed if someone was able to figure you out like this, yet you only found his curiosity and the way he pried into things even more attractive. especially if he had that kind of attitude towards you.

a sigh escapes your lips and you place a hand on his shoulder. “i like you albedo. and yes, i did only order pizza just because i wanted an excuse to see you. i’m sorry if i made you uncomfortable, and if you don’t feel the same way feel free to leave and never speak to me again. i mean that.”

albedo remains silent for a few seconds before blinking slowly and shyly taking your hand.

“i’m not going anywhere. people who care about my work...are important to me. and i do admire your directness.” he lightly strokes your skin.

“perhaps i should give you what you asked for in your special delivery then, hm?” albedo chuckles. you giggle while playing with his fingers.

feeling a little bit bold, you press your lips to his digits, causing him to short circuit on the inside at your touch.

“i shall enjoy it then.” you whisper.

#genshin impact #genshin impact x reader #genshin impact fluff #genshin impact scenarios #genshin impact imagines #albedo #albedo x reader #albedo fluff #albedo imagines #albedo scenarios

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littlemisspascal · 3 years

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Death and an Angel part 4

Death!Din and Cupid F!Reader

Summary: When you and Din arrive at the village in Sorgan, you both learn that the universe is full of surprises.

Rating: G

Word Count: 3,300

Warnings: Fluffy fluff, angsty angst, pining (so...much...pining...)

Author Note: All the love and thanks to everyone who reads, likes, reblogs, and comments on this series! Seriously, the support is beyond words. I wanted to go ahead and spoil it now that Winta does not make an appearance. I love that little girl in the episode, but I just couldn’t get her to fit in this segment. Maybe she’ll appear later on in the future, I honestly don’t know how my brain works.

Also, fun fact, this will be my 100th post 😱🥳

Links to Part 1 and Part 3 and Part 5

Photo Inspiration: (I love black and white photos if you can’t tell by now...)

Sorgan is a beautiful planet, covered in massive forests and several freshwater lakes filled with krill. There is a tiny, farming village that isolates itself in the midst of Sorgan’s swampy region which is where you hope to find Omera. Rumor has it she’d fallen in love with the community five years ago and bound her nurturing powers to the planet, shielding them against the harshness of famine and plague. Her powers also prohibited other immortals from teleporting directly into the village, even if they meant no harm, thus forcing you and Din to walk the five-mile-long road from the common house to the village boundary line.

Mud sticks to the bottom of your shoes and the humidity is absolutely murdering your hair, but you love the addictive burn of fresh air filling your lungs, the symphonic sounds of the wilderness encompassing you. Here on Sorgan, the positive attributes far outweigh the negative ones.

Din walks beside you, close enough your arm occasionally brushes against his vambrace, and you find yourself glancing at him out of your peripheral every few steps, dazzled by how the sunlight reflects off his armor. He catches your eye more than once, inclining his head to stare back while puffing out his chest, preening like the kriffing asshole he is. Each time you swiftly turn away with a burning face, hating how his smugness changes to amusement at your inability to hold his gaze, even with the impeding visor.

You string together creative expletives in your mind, each one meant to strengthen your resolve to ignore him. Except, like clockwork, your eyes helplessly drift back over again mere minutes later, dooming you to a continuous cycle of torment and embarrassment.

At least up until you’re less than a mile from your destination and Din abruptly halts without warning. “How will I know?”

You nearly slip as you whirl around to face him, worried at first but then confused when the question registers. “Know what?”

“If I’ve met my match,” he answers, the hand branded with his soulmate marking restlessly clenching and unclenching at his side. “How will I know it’s my soulmate?”

It’s a question you’re extremely familiar with. Maker knows exactly how many times you’ve been asked it throughout your years as a Cupid, but it’s got to be nearing a couple hundred thousand at least. And yet your usual go-to answer—a speech fed to you by your bosses about the perfect plan of the universe—doesn’t feel right to give him. He deserves your own honest opinion.

The first time you ever matched two individuals, you’d naively expected literal sparks to appear when they shook hands. Or a beam of light to shine down on them from above, an unmistakable sign from the universe they were meant to be together. So you were crushed when absolutely nothing noteworthy happened, only that neither one was able to look away from each other, eyes as wide as moons and full of awe. The same kind of awe usually reserved for watching sunsets and hearing a baby’s first cry of life.

You’d realized then the exact moment soulmates experienced their connection was not something externally witnessed by the eyes of the world. It was an internal sensation felt only by the two halves finally becoming whole.

“They’re called your soulmate for a reason, Din,” you say, slowly drawing closer. You’re not truly cognizant of your actions, only your voice, and perhaps that’s why you reach out to take a hold of his gloved hand, rubbing your thumb over his leather-covered knuckles. Distantly, as if looking through a foggy window, you’re aware of the way his whole body freezes at your touch, but still you hold on, still the words keep flowing from your lips.

“The moment you shake their hand, there will be no doubt. It’ll be instant. Like you’re tasting air for the first time after being trapped underwater. Everything will be clearer, colors brighter. Your whole world will crumble apart at their feet because all that matters now is them. And the only thought you’ll be able to think is, ‘It’s you. All this time I’ve been waiting for you.’”

Din sucks in a ragged breath. It’s only barely audible because of your closeness, but it’s also just loud enough to snap you out of your daze. “Angel,” he says hesitantly. It’s your turn to freeze when he leans in, helmet pressing softly against your forehead. “Have you ever—“

You jerk backwards, cutting Din off and releasing your grip on his hand all in the same movement. Panic is swelling in your chest and you can’t stop it, clothes suddenly feeling too constricting and you force yourself to remember why you’re here on Sorgan, the importance of the mission at stake.

“We need to keep moving,” you say, looking anywhere but Din’s direction. “I don’t think the village is that much further.”

Din watches you silently, no doubt trying to make sense of your agitated state. You feel exposed, torn open at the seams with all your insecurities on full display for him to pick apart and criticize.

In the end though, he only heaves a sigh, respectfully granting you time to begin the slow process of stitching yourself back up.

“Lead the way,” Din says, gesturing towards the path with a nod of his head. “I go where you go.”

The rest of the journey would have been completed in silence, if not for how Din’s unfinished question seemed to float alongside you in the breeze, echoing in your ears.

Have you ever...

~~~

The villagers are scared of your arrival at first, panicked to be in the presence of Death. Parents clutch at their children and the elderly are ushered into huts, as if they’ll be better protected by being kept out of Din’s field of vision.

“I promise you, we don’t mean any harm,” you say, but your words do little to reassure any of them.

A woman emerges from the crowd, the only one whose expression doesn’t bear a hint of fear. Segments of her dark hair are intricately braided while the rest flows unhindered over her shoulders, long enough to nearly reach her waist. Her features are delicate, but there is strength in how she carries herself as she marches right up to you and Din, shoulders drawn back with determination.

“Omera,” you breathe, recognizing the woman for the goddess she truly is.

“Yes,” she says, sounding reluctant to confirm her identity. Her eyes flick between you and Din. “Who are you and why have you brought Death here? I have a formal agreement with the Guild that grants me permission to personally handle the passing of my people’s souls into the afterlife. Death should have no purpose here.”

This is news to you.

Not the reference of the Guild—you’re very much aware of Greef Karga’s organization of reapers who assist Din in maintaining the natural order by collecting deceased souls on his behalf across the galaxy. Despite all the powers that come with being Death, Din is unable to be everywhere all at once. So the reapers bring the souls to Nevarro where Karga holds onto them until Din arrives to usher them into the afterlife.

What you weren’t aware of is her claim that this village might be the one place in the whole galaxy where Death and his associates have no influence.

“I’m a Cupid. I help people find their soulmates.” You gesture to Din who stands so tense behind you, you’re not entirely certain he’s even breathing. “And currently, I’m helping him.”

The way Omera’s expression instantly brightens is almost comical. A smile grows across her face, warm and friendly as if she’s known you for years and not mere seconds. “Oh, forgive me my rudeness. That’s wonderful to hear. It’s been quite some time since we’ve had guests. Would you like something to drink?”

“Actually—” Din starts, speaking for the first time since you’ve arrived.

“Yes, I would love one,” you interrupt, digging your elbow into his side and eliciting a soft grunt. “I heard the spotchka here is exceptional.”

The villagers, who had relaxed once Omera deemed you and Din weren’t a threat, are eager to prove their reputation as spotchka brewmasters. Nothing brings people together like alcoholic beverages, and within the hour you are sitting on a log bench in the village center and chatting amicably with them.

It’s a happy, tight knit community. Omera’s nurturing powers have only further increased it’s natural conditioning as an ideal sanctuary to raise a family. Everyone knows one another and takes care of each other. You can see how easy it was for her to have fallen in love with the place.

“He’s different than I expected.” Omera interrupts your thoughts by nodding to someone behind you.

You follow her line of sight, and see Din standing distantly in a field of grass, surrounded by a squadron of younglings. He’s too far to be heard, but you can tell by the gesturing of his hands that he’s explaining to them the pieces of his armor. They’re hanging onto his every word, completely enthralled, if their wide-eyed expressions are any indication. You realize as you watch that they’ll never come to recognize Din as the true identity of Death due to Omera’s agreement with the Guild. In their eyes, he is just an interesting stranger wearing shiny metal who they can pester with an endless amount of questions.

“He’s got many layers,” you admit, turning back around before the bittersweet scene makes your heart melt into a disgusting puddle at your feet.

And it is only because you look away first that you notice how Omera’s gaze lingers just a beat too long.

“Does he ever take it off?” she asks. “The helmet, I mean.”

You hesitate, stalling by sipping at your spotchka. “Not when he’s Death.”

Omera looks at you like you’ve told her a riddle. “When is Death not Death?”

When he’s with me, the voice in the back of your head wants you to shout at her, but instead you ask, “You said earlier you handle the souls of the villagers when they pass away?”

“They asked me if I could protect their planet for future generations,” Omera explains slowly, confusion still present in the lines of her face. “My powers are strongly connected to the growth of life, blessing both expectant mothers and nature’s saplings. After I chose to bind myself to Sorgan, the villagers offered to lend me their souls as sources of energy to further strengthen it. So now, rather than losing them to the afterlife, we continue to see those who have passed on in every blossoming flower and in each drop of rain, remaining part of our everyday lives despite their physical absence.”

“That’s beautiful,” you breathe, because it’s the truth. It’s also the confirmation you needed to hear to honestly tell her, “He wouldn’t be Death here. He’d have the opportunity to be anyone else he wanted.”

Omera lets the words sink in for a moment, then she returns to staring at Din, eyebrows furrowed thoughtfully. You don’t blame her for being curious, especially since he’s barely said anything to her, subsequently forcing you to be the sociable one.

You thought when you both arrived he’d try harder than this to make a good first impression. Omera’s his potential soulmate, he knows this and yet it seems as if he’s doing all he can to avoid her.

Omera startles you out of your thoughts when she abruptly inches closer to you, as if preparing to share a secret in your ear.

“You said you were helping Death find his soulmate,” Omera’s voice is no louder than a murmur, seeming uncharacteristically bashful all of the sudden as she tugs at a strand of hair. “Does he...Has he been marked?”

It occurs to you then that this whole time she’s been fishing for information from you, gradually leading up to this particular question. This is a good thing, you tell yourself, despite the sickening pit forming in your stomach. It means she hasn’t been offended by his standoffishness.

“Yes.” Your head dips in a jerky nod. Fortunately the goddess doesn’t notice your awkwardness as she peers down at her hands folded in her lap. You know what’s there without having to see it. “We came here because I knew you’d been marked too.”

“I’d hoped so,” she confesses, showing you her palm. “I didn’t think it was possible, someone like me having a soulmate.” An immortal, your mind deciphers her underlying meaning. “But, then again, the universe always seems to be full of surprises, right?”

Soulmate markings all resemble each other as black lines forming the shape of a heart no bigger than a bottlecap in the center of one’s palm, regardless of what the person looks like themselves. They only appear on select individuals the universe picks for reasons known only by the divine Maker. Those without marks often make the ignorant mistake of comparing them to tattoos. A soulmate mark doesn’t fade with time like ink does, remaining eternally vibrant and warm to the touch, as if there’s a tiny flame buried beneath the skin.

You’ve seen thousands of marks on thousands of hands, yet your mouth dries up at the sight of hers despite it looking no different. An unexpected tremor rocks your body, worse than anything you’ve ever felt before. It’s as if you’ve been stabbed by an invisible shard of ice, threatening to freeze you solid from the inside out.

When you speak, each word scrapes against the inside of your throat and tastes bitter on your tongue. “You should go talk to him.”

Omera’s face goes a bit pink. “You think so?”

You force yourself to smile, hoping it doesn’t resemble a grimace or, Maker forbid, a snarl. “I think you’ll never know if he’s your match unless you do.”

Not needing any more convincing, she spares you one last hopeful look before leaving to approach Din. She walks across the grassy field with unhindered grace, not once tripping over a rock or the bottom of her dress, and you can’t help feeling envious, knowing your clumsy feet wouldn’t be able to carry you three steps without an issue. You watch as she says something to the children, inducing several disappointed groans audible even from where you sit, before one by one they each depart, seeking entertainment elsewhere in the village.

Omera and Din fall into conversation, and you bite your lip, knowing you’re only making the ache hurt worse by watching but unable to tear your eyes away. Their conversation is too quiet for you to make out, but given the way Din’s body language is relaxed and without a hint of defensiveness, you’re convinced Omera’s definitely charming him.

They’ll make an attractive couple, you think before you can stop yourself. They’re similar, too, in that they both have protective streaks a mile wide when it comes to those they care about. As a divinely gifted caretaker, Omera will know just what to say to pull him out of one of his brooding episodes. She’ll soften his rough edges, lend him strength when he needs it most, and might even be able to convince him to settle down in the village where he can shed his persona as Death and actually experience life. Most importantly, though, you hope she’ll make him happy.

Because Din deserves someone who will make him happy every day of his existence.

You know it’s coming, but still your breath stutters when you see Din begin to remove his glove. He moves slowly, revealing tanned skin inch by inch as he pulls at the leather with his other hand. He has never been one to hesitate over things in the past, except when he showed you his mark that night at the train station. You really don’t want to think that Din could be nervous, but you also can’t determine any other reason explaining his behavior. Omera, for her part, is the perfect image of patience as she waits for him to initiate contact, if not for the way you spy her pulling anxiously at her brown locks again.

As Din reaches out to grab hold of Omera's hand, there is a second right before contact where his helmet shifts in your direction and you feel the intensity of his gaze cut through the distance, piercing your fragile heart.

In the next breath, an invisible explosive force sends you hurtling backwards through the air several feet. You bite your tongue when you collide with the ground and blood begins pooling in your mouth, causing you to gag at the coppery taste. Ignoring the pain emanating from your undoubtedly bruised rib cage, you force your body to roll over so you can spit out a scarlet blob onto the dirt. Gross, you think sluggishly.

Movement out of the corner of your eye has your head turning to look, but it takes several more seconds before your brain comprehends what you’re seeing.

The village looks as if a massive wind storm has swept through it in the last five seconds. Several villagers are slowly rising onto their feet, having apparently also been roughly tossed to the ground, looking just as bewildered by the state of things as you feel.

Your eyes next lock onto Din’s figure. He and Omera stand in the distance exactly where you last saw them, appearing completely unaffected by the unseen force. But rather than looking at each other with awe as all other soulmate pairs do, there is only unbridled shock on Omera’s face.

With newfound urgency, you stumble onto your feet, knowing something’s gone horribly wrong.

“Din!”

Your shout startles him enough he visibly jolts, increasing your worry tenfold.

Your feet skid to a stop closer to his body than you anticipated, nearly colliding face-first with his chest. It’s on the tip of your injured tongue to ask them what the hell just happened when Din beats you to the punch.

“What happened to you?” he demands, cradling your jaw. He’s using his gloved hand, you can’t help but notice. His other one—still uncovered from when it had touched Omera’s—is pressed firmly against the segment of armor protecting his upper thigh. His thumb starts to wipe at the blood staining the corner of your mouth, but you refuse to be tended to when there’s a bigger issue at stake.

“What happened?” you repeat incredulously, pulling away and resisting the urge to smack the side of his helmet. “I should be asking you that, idiot. Did you two match?”

Omera says nothing in response to your question, but there is something about the way she stares at you directly, like you’ve revealed a secret of the universe right in front of her, that brings back the same self-conscious feeling of being exposed you’d felt earlier.

“Look for yourself, angel,” Din answers with a tone full of scorn, gesturing widely to your surroundings with both arms. “Does any of this look like what you told me would happen?”

Taken aback by his hostile tone, you glance around the field, only to be stunned by what you’d initially failed to notice. In an almost perfect circle encompassing the three of you, the once beautifully green and luscious grass is now black and shriveled, entirely devoid of life. It crunches beneath your shoes as you nervously shift in place, eerily resembling the sound of bone breaking, and you’re beginning to understand the shock you’d glimpsed on Omera’s face.

“No,” you say, feeling slightly hysterical but doing your best to keep it out of your voice. “No, it definitely doesn’t.”

Omera had said that the universe is always full of surprises.

What a kriffing understatement that turned out to be.

Tag List: @leilei-draws, @theocatkov, @becauseican2, @vintagesaph, @stardust-and-starlight, @kay2304, @odelia-d32, @adrieunor, @remmyswritings, @gallowsjoker, @rhiannon-russo, @randomness501, @eleine-t1d, @nicotinebirds, @sylphene, @softly-sad, @maytheglitter, @melobee, @rogertaylorsfalsettogivesmehives

#death and an angel #Pedro Pascal #Din Djarin #din x you #din x reader #din djarin x you #din djarin x reader #soulmate au #my writing #my fic #pedro pascal character fanfiction #mandalorian x reader #Mandalorian #the mandalorian

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dandyxrandy · 3 years

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Reassurance

Pairing: Pedro Pascal x Reader Rating: Mature Length: 1,700 Warnings: Self-Deprication, Weight Shaming, Plus-Size/Heavy set Reader, Sexual Situations (if you squint) Summary: Reader is having a hard time with their weight and vents to Pedro about it, who is incredibly supportive. Part 2 will have spicy bits.

Part 1 - Part 2

It had been a long day that had ended on a more sour note than you expected. You and Pedro had spent the day out around the city and finished with lounging out at the pool, where you found yourself slipping into a self-deprecating mood when a group of young ladies came and shared the water with you both. They were skinny, pretty, young, and the epitome of what society said a woman should be and it made you feel horrible about yourself.

It wasn’t their fault, you knew, and you rationalized that with yourself as they minded their own business, talking amongst themselves, but you couldn’t help but catch the glances of the other people watching them for brief moments before knowing better and returning to whatever they were doing. You knew you shouldn’t be down on yourself and knew you should be strong and love who you were. You were already working on yourself as it was, eating better, exercising more - hell, drinking at least three glasses of water a day. All this was done with the help of Pedro, who always encouraged you in making strides to keep yourself healthy and happy.

But it still hurt whenever the group of women giggled and flipped their long hair, almost as if saying ‘look at me. I have it all.’ It made you exit the pool minutes later, wrapping yourself up in a towel and padding over to where Pedro was reclining in a chair, his gaze trapped behind the pages of a book. “I think I’m done swimming. I’d like to go, if it’s okay.” Pedro slid his bookmark in place and lowered his reading glasses a fraction to look up at you over the brim. You tried to hide your unease but you knew he would catch onto it with how attentive he was. “Sounds good. It’s starting to get cold out anyways.” You were glad when he didn’t ask about what was wrong and how he stayed quiet as you both made your way up to the hotel room where you both were staying for the weekend. It wasn’t until after you had stripped out of your bathing suit in the middle of the bathroom to shower, that you finally let yourself break down. The reflection in the mirror was your enemy, the teller of lies, and the longer you looked at yourself, the more you saw a bloated version of who you really were. Ugly. Fat. Unlovable. The harsh lights of the bathroom didn’t help and it felt like they highlighted every imperfection. You tugged at the bits of you that were extra, the pudge at your hips and belly, imagining what you would look like if you were skinnier. You hated yourself because no matter what you seemd to do, you always failed. You were trapped in an endless cycle. The door to the bathroom creaked open a little and Pedro came in, already naked and expecting to shower with you, perhaps cheer you up and distract you from whatever it was that plagued your mind. He paused, however, when he saw the tears in your eyes and the heavy air around you.

"Hey, tell me what's going on." Pedro's voice was soft as his hands guided along your hips and you moved hastily to wipe away the tears that had fallen from your eyes.

"I'm - " your words faltered as you looked in the mirror that was starting to fog up from the hot shower. "I'm fat."

The words were heavy on your tongue and even though they were hard to say, the admission made you feel a little better. It made you feel like it wasn't a secret you were hiding anymore and now you were just left with the shame of your proclamation.

Pedro stilled behind you and you wish you could make out his face in the mirror, but it was too fogged now and all that was left was the blurry shape of you and him. But Pedro didn't stop touching you. You wanted to push him away as his hand smoothed from your hip to your stomach and it felt like you were kicked as he cupped you there.

"You are ashamed of your body, hermosa?" His voice was a whisper next to your ear and you accidently bumped his nose when you nodded a 'yes'.

"Why?"

Why? Why were you ashamed? How could he not see?

"Because I'm not skinny and dainty. I'm not one of those pretty girls who can lounge at the pool in a two piece and make men ogle me when I walk by. I'm just -" Just what? Your eyes closed as you cried, your words only a faint echo from the real pain you felt in your mind.

"Oh, darling. My beautiful girl."

Both of his arms slid around you, turning so you were chest to chest and you instantly buried your face against him, your arms looping loosely around his back. His fingers threaded through your hair as he gently stroked the back of your head and he pressed a strong kiss on your crown. “You are not those things.” Him agreeing with you almost broke you and you choked back a sob. “Hey - hey listen to me…” He continued on, holding you tighter. “You are not those things, no. But you are so much more. You are strong and kind and beautiful. You light up the room when you walk in and you do turn heads. God -” He laughs as he speaks. “You don’t know how many times I have to stop myself from snapping on people for staring at you. Because you are so captivating.” Pedro pulls away a little at that, his fingers catching your chin to turn your face up to him. You look at him through watery eyes and see the kindness in his face. He is so open with his adoration for you and you could almost feel the tangible love radiating off of him. Even so, the question burns in your mind still.

“But why? Why, when you look like...you’re so good looking and well built. I don’t understand why you would,” You swallow thickly and he waits patiently for you to finish. He was always so good with letting you speak and get your mind out. “Why you would want to be with someone who looks like me?” Pedro’s hand slips to cup your cheek, his thumb smoothing along your cheekbone to brush away a stray tear.

“Mi cielo, it is my job to look the way I do. Literally - I am paid to act, to look a certain way, and to keep that upheld. It is an insane amount of work and I envy you so much that you don’t have to have such a rigid diet and exercise routine. You get to be free in a way I can’t.” It was something you didn’t quite think about until he said it and you suddenly felt guilty for being so selfish. “And asides that, you take care of yourself as well. Along with working a full time job and keeping one needy man satisfied. You are doing wonderful and I see how hard you work, everyday. You are beautiful to me in so many more ways than your just body.” Pedro gives you another kiss, his hand slipping down to cup your ass. “Not that I can’t say I don’t find all of you physically attractive. You’re soft and curvy and so very supple. I enjoy watching you bend under me, taking me so easily because you are built in such a way that I can do what I want and not have to worry. You are very, very much a woman and I admire that more than you will ever know.”

You feel him stir against you, his cock twitching against your stomach and while he is doing a good job at ignoring it, you don’t. It is almost a testimony to his words, how he was attracted to you, standing nude in the center of the bathroom, bawling your eyes out. Even at one of your lowest points he still loved you and wanted to hold you close, to touch you and be intimate with you. “I wish you could see what I see and I know none of my words will truly ever matter. You need to believe you’re beautiful. I can tell you what I see and how I feel until I am breathless, but it won’t matter until you believe it. And we can work on that, but you have to trust me when I tell you that I love you and find you attractive, no matter your size.” You finally smiled and although it was small and defeated, it was still there. Pedro always had a way with words to worm into your heart and warm it and this time was no different. You knew he was right, what with you needing to believe that you were beautiful. That your worth couldn’t come from what he or any other thought, but it was still hard. It was something that you fought against your entire life. You couldn’t possibly imagine how he or his co-stars worked in an industry that valued beauty above all else. You sniffled a little, trying to composure yourself as he simply held you, his arms warm and strong.

“You promise?” You whispered as you looked up at him shyly. “Of course. I will always love you for who you are.” He promised you and it was enough for you to nod in a silent agreement, that you believed him. You unwrapped yourself from his arms then and turned to the shower. “We should probably get this chlorine off before the water gets too cold.” You take your time to look over Pedro’s body once you step in, eyes dragging from the mass of curly brown hair over his shoulders and arms, his pectorals and soft stomach. He was in between jobs right now and could afford to eat a little more than when he was on set. It showed in the softer dips of his own body and it reminded you of what he said about him being envious of you. “Can I still shower with you?” He was polite in his asking and it showed he truly did care about you. “Yes, of course.” Part 2 coming soon!

#pedro pascal x reader #pedro pascal #randywrites

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santastic · 3 years

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the big, bad wolf || hwang hyunjin oneshot

》》 pairing: hyunjin x female reader

》》 summary: every year, you and the boys celebrate halloween with a party at hyunjin's - who just so happens to be your mortal frenemy. every year, you all dress up. this year, however, you decide to make it a bit more interesting: everyone picks an outfit for their random secret santa partner. it seems like a bit of innocent fun, but felix has an idea...

》》 word count: 2.4k

》》 genre/tags: halloween au, not quite e2l but e2 like...sexy tension???, suggestive themes (mostly just implications), a little bit of crack lmao

》》 warnings: cliche cheesy dirty flirting (come on hyunjin you're better than this), thicc romantic and sexual tension, reader is a simp in denial, suggestive themes, implied smut at the end, talk of biting but no actual biting, reader has dom vibes, hyunjin is bold until someone else is bolder

》》 notes: my first oneshot on this blog! I already wrote a halloween drabble, but I felt like writing something bigger than that and my friend (I see u vi) inspired me by suggesting some spicy hyunjin content. n e ways, happy halloween everyone! and if u don’t celebrate halloween, I hope u have a lovely weekend <3

navigation || skz masterlist

Halloween is always fun with your friend group. I mean, it's fun anyway - lots of cheap candy, neighbourhood celebrations, an excuse to get way too drunk - it's just a lot more fun with eight other crackheads.

You guys have a sort of tradition going by now, even though each year is a bit different. Hyunjin throws the party, Minho brings the alcohol and hides it from Chan until it's too late to stop everyone from getting shitfaced, Jeongin and Felix bring ungodly amounts of candy, and Jisung is a skeleton (literally every single year - it started when you called Tate Langdon's skeleton makeup hot, and it never ended).

Everyone (except Jisung) keeps their costume a secret - unless they're Chan and Felix, in which case they do couple costumes and keep it a secret from everyone else. Sometimes you even decide on a theme, like the year before the last, where everyone was supposed to dress as their favourite Pokemon. This inevitably led to intense fighting roleplays to assert dominance as your respective type, and in order to spare your reputation in the neighbourhood, you decided the next theme would be a little less wild.

This year, the theme was 'secret Santa costumes', meaning you each picked a random name from a hat to decide who you would be buying a costume for and a few days before Halloween, you were given your own costume to wear to the party by whoever pulled your name from the hat of destiny.

Technically that's not how secret Santa works, but no one questions Chan when it comes to holiday business.

You just so happened to get Jisung, and while the temptation to keep the skeleton thing going just for the meme was definitely there, you ultimately decided he should be a classic bedsheet ghost - except with no eye or hand holes cut out. You know, to add a little sprinkle of chaos to his already very chaotic life.

The lovely boy who decided your spooky fate was Felix, who had coincidentally been in charge of buying Hyunjin’s costume too - when you asked why, he said it was because the number of people was uneven, so he had kindly volunteered to take on an extra. You had honestly expected him to pick something weird or wild for you, so you were quite surprised by the outfit he had settled on.

"Is this...little red riding hood?" you had asked, eyebrows furrowed in confusion as you stared at the dress and hood in your hands.

"Yep! I saw it the other day and I thought it would be nice to go for one of the classics, you know?" he had explained, smiling as if he was ever so proud about his decision. Something about the hint of mischief in his eyes made you suspicious, but you had let it slide. "You don't mind, right?"

No, you didn't mind. You had given Jisung a ghost costume, so you didn’t really have room to speak on the originality of Felix’s decision. Besides, the dress didn’t look too cheap, nor did it look especially short, and the hood-cape made you feel way too powerful for someone wearing a $20 Target costume.

So you really didn't mind at all, until it came to the day of the party. Now, as you stand in the doorway to Hyunjin’s apartment, you suddenly mind a lot more.

”Lee Felix, I’m going to decorate the lawn with your fucking intestines, oh my god!” you whisper-yell to the boy who conveniently manages to dart away with the excuse of needing to help Jeongin open all the candy bags. Your angry eyes follow his retreating blue form - Chan picked his outfit this year, and of course he decided Felix should be an Among Us character.

Everyone in the group knows about the slight tension (read: obvious beef) between you and Hyunjin. Technically speaking, you’re friends. He invites you to his parties, you hang out with him when he’s with the boys. It’s just that neither of you can stand each other, because you’re both very bold and even more stubborn.

Whenever the two of you are together, you bicker like children and it’s pretty much endless. You could probably throw insults (and the occasional murder threat) at each other all day if the other members didn’t interrupt, and on those days you’d be more than happy to teach Hyunjin a lesson with a nice, strong punch in the nose if the opportunity were ever to present itself.

So, with this in mind, it’s quite clear why you’re planning Felix’s murder when you see Hyunjin walking around as the big, bad wolf.

You’re genuinely considering sneaking out the front door before anyone else sees you and running back to your apartment (because Felix just so happens to be your ride home), but fate decides to mess with you and suddenly, Hyunjin locks eyes with you from across the living room.

The way a huge smile instantly graces his pretty face sends a rush of butterflies, followed by anger, through you as you stare back at him. His clip on wolf ears are admittedly quite cute, but the fake fangs he’s wearing send your thoughts in a very different direction. As he makes his way over, you suddenly wish you had followed Felix to the kitchen - at least they keep the alcohol in there. In his living room, you’ve got no choice but to deal with Hyunjin while sober.

”Well, would you look at that? Seems like I found my little red riding hood.” he teases with a wink, leaning against the wall beside the door.

When you scoff at him, he gives you another big grin and you can’t help but stare at the fangs again. The vibrant blue contact lenses he’s wearing make his gaze feel intense even when he’s smiling, and the way his long, blonde hair falls freely gives him a glow that’s both angelic and positively demonic. He looks so annoyingly handsome, as per usual; if only his personality wasn’t the personification of the words ‘cocky asshole’. You can’t help but think it’s a huge waste of beauty.

“Excuse me-” you begin, ready to start the first round of arguing, but he cuts you off like the annoying brat he is.

“You’re excused,” he says, thinking his comment was very smart, and if it wasn’t a night meant for fun and games, you might’ve killed him on the spot.

“Fine, excuse you. I’m not your little red riding hood. In fact, I’m not your anything, thank you very much,” you snap, brushing past his tall figure as you head to the table the boys have set up to the side. There’s an array of Halloween-themed food, prepared by Chan, and you settle for a red velvet cupcake decorated with black frosting and what you assume are meant to be cat ears poking out of it.

“Right, sure, but we’re still matching tonight. It’s kind of like-”

This time, you cut him off. “It’s not like Chan and Felix. It’s not. We’re not wearing couple costumes, so don’t say it.”

He shuts his mouth (finally) and you take it as your cue to leave before he says something else to piss you off. Unfortunately, he seems to have the desire to ruin your night further and chooses to follow you on your journey.

“So anyway, I guess this was Felix’s plan, right?” He gestures to your costumes. “Unless you had something to do with it, that is.”

You don’t bother to address the second part of what he said and instead just nod, scanning the room for the previously mentioned mastermind. As soon as you can get your hands on that boy, you swear you’ll slaughter him for subjecting you to Hyunjin’s torturous teasing all night.

“He was already on thin ice after trying to tell me Bulbasaur is a better starter than Charmander, but now he’s actually dead to me,” you growl out once you spot him sitting beside Minho, laughing happily with his classic red solo cup and a slice of chocolate cake. Jeongin sits beside them, tearing open bags of candy with no assistance from Felix, because of course he was lying about helping him earlier.

Hyunjin laughs softly and you curse your heart for skipping a beat at the sound. Sometimes it feels like your head hates Hyunjin while your body is stupid enough to like him, and it’s part of the reason why you hate talking to him so much. Every time you stop throwing insults and sass at him and instead sit back and listen to what he has to say, a part of you realises you don’t exactly have a proper reason for disliking him. He’s not all that bad, and sometimes you even find yourself laughing at his jokes and witty remarks.

But you’d really rather not go through the endless cycle of those thoughts right now, especially when the cause of your problems is standing beside you eating a chocolate bar.

“I have to say, though,” you comment as you turn to look him up and down, “the big, bad wolf concept suits you pretty well.”

Before he can accept the compliment, you continue. “You’re both big, hairy beasts who dress like grandmas.”

The obvious offence on his face is so satisfying you almost wanna snap a photo to reflect on this moment in the future, but you refrain from doing so. He would just pose anyway, and the photo would probably end up making your stupid heart flutter again.

“Well, at least you think I’m big. Besides, if dressing like a grandma gets me closer to eating you, then I suppose it’s a sacrifice I’ll have to make,” he whispers in a husky, seductive voice that kind of makes you want to choke-slam him, but you suspect he might enjoy that anyway.

It angers you when he makes flirty comments like that, because as annoying as they are and despite you knowing full well he only says it to get under your skin, it still makes your heart race every time. Maybe in another universe, Hyunjin is a sweet boy who innocently flirts with you and brings you roses instead of a big, bad bitch who’s just acting like a horny teenager. Annoyingly enough though, you think you’d fall for him either way.

You turn away with the intention of finally escaping to the kitchen to grab something to drink, hoping to settle the thoughts dancing around your head, but he reaches for your wrist. The feeling of his fingers pressing warmth into your skin just makes your head spin even more, and you’re so distracted you don’t pull away from him.

"Aw, don’t run away now. Are you scared of me, little red? There’s no need to be, I’m just joking. I won’t bite unless you beg me to."

You pull your arm back as soon as the words leave his mouth. Hyunjin has a lot of things (a severely irritating personality, a stupidly handsome face for such an asshole, a loud voice solely meant for pissing you off on a daily basis, the list goes on), but the thing he definitely has most is the fucking audacity.

However, the most annoying part by far is the way you feel your face heat up when you register the last thing he said. You’d rather die than let him make you flustered, so you shake your head slightly to clear those thoughts from your mind and look him in the eye again.

"Scared? Me?" you scoff, staring him down with a steady glare and if he was anyone else, he'd probably shiver in fear.

Unfortunately, he is not anyone else. He is Hwang Hyunjin, and Hwang Hyunjin does not shiver; he beams with a smug grin and makes your blood boil.

"Mhm. Look at you. You’re basically dressed as my prey tonight, babe." He purrs the pet name like the absolute fuckboy he is. "And sure, the real you is feisty, but you're all bark and no bite."

The overly confident, proud smirk on his face makes him look like a damn peacock flaunting its feathers, and you decide then and there that you'll do anything to get rid of it.

"All bark," you echo his words, walking towards him slowly, "and no bite, huh?"

You swear you see his eyes widen for a split second at your change in demeanor before the stupid smirk returns, and the little rush of victory you feel from catching him off guard is enough to keep you walking forward.

His gaze never leaves yours, especially when you're standing on the tips of your toes in front of him, noses just barely brushing against each other. Your hands grip his shoulder to balance you, and you run a finger over his collarbone up towards his cheek, where you gently cup his face. The small distance between the two of you means you can hear his slightly uneven breathing and see the curiosity swirling in his bright blue eyes as he waits for your next move.

You reach a hand up and thread your fingers through his long, bleach blonde hair, and his breath hitches when you gently tug at it. Even his wolf ears almost seem to droop submissively. He doesn't dare move, but his eyes keep flicking down to your lips and back up again.

"Now, that's just not true at all, is it?" you whisper, tilting your head as if waiting for an answer, but he can't find the words to form a witty response. It’s about time he learned some manners, really, even if he needed your guidance for that.

"I'm warning you now," you continue, "you might wanna watch your tone. I might look like your prey, but I promise I bite harder than you do, babe."

You make sure to emphasise the pet name, purring it in the same way he did minutes before. He bites down on his bottom lip, and the way his fangs press into them makes you lick your own lips nervously. It seems as though he can't take the tension anymore, because he goes to lean in and finally close the distance between the two of you as his hands find your hips.

Of course, you'd never let him have that control, especially after his bold attitude from earlier. Even though the temptation to lean in is certainly there, you step away from him and smile sweetly.

"Learned your lesson yet, puppy?"

He doesn’t respond for a moment, clearly still taking in what just happened. When he registers your question, he tilts his head to the side as if in thought - the way a dog might, funnily enough - before he hums quietly.

“I’m not sure. Maybe you should teach me once more, little red,” he suggests, voice low and slightly breathless, “but preferably a bit more in depth this time.”

- ᴇ ɴ ᴅ -

(A/N: AHHHHH I haven’t written a oneshot in SUCH a long time oh my god,,,,, it was a lot of fun tho even if I’m not super confident writing full things. this one was short anyway so I kinda feel like it doesn’t count, but I’m still v happy to finally post my first skz oneshot! I hope you enjoyed it and thank you for reading <3)

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dropsofletters · 4 years

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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!

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1dfangirls35 · 3 years

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The Language of Your Soul

An enemies to lovers ballet AU in five acts.

Masterlist

Banner: @booksncoffee

Warnings: This story (and chapter) will contain language, mentions of emotional abuse from a parent and eating disorders. Please read at your own discretion.

Act III

Six Weeks To Opening Night

Giselle is beginning to feel the toll of playing Odette. Physically, in the form of sore shoulders and a nagging ankle pain. Mentally, in the overwhelming pressure that she would never master the two personalities of Odette and Odile.

Her biweekly extra rehearsals with Harry had become routine. She no longer had to tell her uncooperative partner what time to show up. He was always there, not always enthusiastically, but present.

Their extra rehearsals have helped. Mistress Ivanova stays for rehearsals. Their partnering isn't perfect-but it's less foreign. And Mistress Ivanova has found a new flaw to focus on- the emotion in Giselle's dancing.

Sometimes, Giselle stays late into the evening, standing in front of the mirror and practicing her expressions. Finding out the best way to demonstrate the pain that her character is feeling. It doesn't seem to help. Hours and upon hours of practice don't seem to give Mistress Ivanova, Anna or Viktor the 'emotion' they so desperately seek from her.

But nevertheless she tries again. Today, she stands in front of the shining glass before her rehearsal with Harry. Staring into the icy blue of her own eyes in an effort to show some sort of feeling. It wasn't that she lacked emotion- she felt plenty.

Harry notices Giselle's slim figure as he enters the studio. She's standing in front of the mirror again- making faces. But even in her acting practice, she looks concentrated and focused.

Harry is slowly beginning to learn more about Giselle-not by the words she speaks, but through her actions. The hesitation in her voice when her mother is mentioned. The way she groans whenever she messes up a piece of choreography. That she is always the first one in the studio and the last one to leave.

Harry supposes he has revealed things about himself too. Suddenly showing up to rehearsals for one, likely revealed to Giselle that he did indeed care about his career- contrary to what folks at the Royal Ballet might tell you. He'd stopped making his rounds through the company members, fearful of a second Eliza event pushing him onto thinner ice then he already was here at ABT.

"Don't know if concentrated is the emotion Mistress Ivanova wants from Odette," Harry says as he enters the studio, causing Giselle to jerk away from the mirror. He notices the faintest pink rise in her cheeks.

She doesn't say anything as he removes his sweatpants and slips on his black ballet shoes, making his way to the center of the floor.

"Well, what are we rehearsing today?"

"Act II Pas de Deux- again," Giselle says with a sigh.

Harry doesn't protest, instead he makes his way to upstage left for his entrance. He lets the music take over his movements, telling the story of a Prince crossing paths with a beautiful girl in the woods. But as he dances, his hands firm on Giselle's waist as she pirouettes, penchés and promenades around him, he feels how disjointed her movements are. While her movements were near perfect technically, her face stayed firm and concentrated. She was doing everything right except for the most important part of a ballet- the storytelling.

"Stop," Harry shouts, dropping his arms from Giselle's waist and throwing them up to his head as the music continued in the background. "You make this seem like torture."

Giselle stares at him, her expression a mix of shock and annoyance.

"Torture?" Giselle repeats, sounding offended. "And why is dancing with me torture?"

She crosses her arms in front of her black leotard, fighting her own tongue to keep more insulting words at bay. Here she thought she and Harry were finally developing a partnership and now he was making comments like he had two weeks before. It was an endless cycle.

"You're so focused, Giselle. And technically speaking, your movements are beautiful. But..."

"But what?" Giselle spits, although she's sure she already knows what Harry is going to say. He isn't the first person that has critiqued her on this. And she's sure he won't be the last.

"You aren't feeling the movement. The character. You don't look like Odette when you're dancing. You look like an excellent ballerina who is trying to execute the choreography perfectly."

Giselle doesn't say anything in response. Mostly, because she doesn't know what to say. She knows her dancing is lacking the emotion. And yet, she can't get her mind to stray from concentrating on the next movement, on the technique. One thought of anything but commanding her body to execute a perfect pirouette and her movement failed.

"When's the last time you danced because you loved it? When's the last time you just danced?" Harry asks, his green eyes losing their sharpness for only a moment.

Giselle laughs aloud. Just dancing? She hadn't done that since her earliest childhood. "I don't think that's even part of a professionals vocabulary,"

"Well then you're doing it all wrong."

"Well let's do it again then," Giselle says rolling her eyes. She hated this hot and cold act Harry had on. One day she thought maybe she could tolerate him, the next minute he converted back to asshole she'd first been introduced to.

"No," Harry says suddenly.

"What do you mean no?" Giselle asks, bringing her hands to rest against her slender hips. The confused look on her face only makes Harry smile.

"We are going to do something different for rehearsal today. C'mon."

"What are you doing?" Giselle asks as Harry reaches for his sweatpants, pulling them over his tights before zipping up his hoodie.

"I'm getting ready to go. Think it's a little cold to be walking outside in a pair of tights."

"So you're just leaving now?"

"WE are leaving," he gestures between the two of them.

Giselle stares at him.

"Oh c'mon Giselle it will help. I promise. Just trust me." Harry offers out his hand, waiting for Giselle to take it. She looks at him, and he watches her blue eyes flicker in thought.

"Fine," she sighs, ignoring Harry's outstretched and reaching for her sweatpants on the side of the studio. "But if this doesn't help, you owe me another rehearsal."

Harry chuckles softly. "Believe me Giselle. I'm not going to owe you a thing."

When they exit the studio- the crisp March air bites at Giselle's cheeks, it's only slightly warmer than it has been. Reminding her that although spring is around the corner, winter still has its grasp on the world.

"Can you at least tell me where we are going?" Giselle asks, wrapping her jacket around her tighter, trying to keep pace with Harry's long strides against the New York City pavement.

Harry looks back at her, a grin on his face. "You'll find out in about five minutes. Walk faster- we don't want to be late."

Late for what? Giselle thinks, but she keeps her questions to herself knowing that Harry wouldn't humor her anyway.

Five minutes later they arrive at a red brick building a few blocks from ABT. It doesn't look like anything in particular, and Giselle still doesn't quite understand what's going on.

"Come on," Harry says, opening the heavy black door and gesturing up the staircase. Giselle can hear the faint beat of music making its way down the stairs. But it's not the slow, smooth, classical music she is used to- this rhythm is much faster and more energetic.

Following Harry's lead, Giselle slowly makes her way towards the music. When she reaches the top of the stairs she's surprised to see the black marley floor of a dance studio, but instead of the room being filled with pink tights and black leotards, it's filled with people of all ages dancing around the room and laughing.

"What is this?" Giselle asks, looking towards Harry for an explanation.

"It's salsa class," he says, as if the answer is obvious.

"Salsa?" Giselle asks again, still trying to figure out how this was going to help their Swan Lake performance.

"Did I stutter?" Harry says and Giselle rolls her eyes. "Let's go."

"You know how to salsa?" Giselle asks as they enter the room, setting her jacket on the floor as Harry pulls off his sweatshirt.

"Don't you?"

Giselle shakes her head.

"Well you're going to learn today," Harry says, grabbing her hand and pulling her to the dance floor before she has a moment to protest.

Giselle feels like she's in a foreign place as couples dance around them. The women swaying their hips to the music in fluid movements, their partners twirling them from their fingertips. Each pair that spins past them has smiles plastered to their face, not a single person looking as if they are thinking through each count in their head.

"Tell me again how this is going to improve our pas de deux?" Giselle asks as she watches Harry begin to move his feet side to side.

Harry groans. "Because it will. So are you going to learn or are you gonna just stand there for the next hour?"

"Fine." Giselle sighs, looking straight into Harry's eyes. "Teach me then." She meets Harry in the center of the dance floor.

"Okay. Well first, take this hand and set it on my shoulder," Harry reaches for Giselle's left palm, bringing it to rest on his right shoulder as his palm holds firmly in the center of her back. His hand feels warm against the exposed skin of her lower back. "And the other one..." he murmurs as he grabs Giselle's left hand in his own bringing it to the sides of their bodies.

"Now," he begins, his eyes meeting Giselle's. "The steps are simple. Back, replace, together. Front, replace, together. Back, replace, together. Front, replace, together." Giselle follows Harry's movements as he leads, slowly beginning to understand the cadence of the movement.

Harry counts aloud for the two of them as Giselle commits the movements to memory. "1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6."

It doesn't take long for Giselle to get the hang of it. She'd tackled much more complicated choreography in a matter of minutes.

"And now," Harry says softly into Giselle's ear- softer than Giselle knew was possible. "We just dance."

At first their movements are calculated- Giselle focusing on the steps, careful not to step on Harry's toes. But as time goes on, her body takes over. The music takes over. And she's just dancing- with Harry's hand firm on the small of her back.

Giselle realizes she'd forgotten what it felt like to simply let the music seep into your soul, to allow your body to move with rhythm, without thinking. It's refreshing. Freeing. Harry and Giselle dance around the room, their bodies moving closer, their movements merging into one. Harry swings Giselle out and she spins back in, laughing. Her gaze lands on Harry's and she's surprised to see a smile across his face. A real smile- not one coming from sarcasm.

Somehow this 'rehearsal' had been exactly what she needed.

As they exit the studio, the cool air feeling refreshing against their sweaty bodies, Giselle speaks. "So how long have you been salsa dancing for?"

Harry shrugs, pushing a stray curl back from his forehead. "A few weeks."

"A few weeks?" Giselle repeats, confused by Harry's answer.

"Found this place one day when I was exploring the area. Seemed like a good way to clear my head and it gave me something to do instead of sitting in my apartment." Harry surprises himself with his answer, he wasn't usually someone who shared aspects of his personal life.

Giselle doesn't say anything, instead walking slowly shoulder to shoulder with Harry along the pavement.

"Well, do I owe you a rehearsal?" Harry questions, even though he already knows the answer.

"Surprisingly, no..." Giselle says. "But..." she begins, glancing at Harry with a teasing smile. "You owe me one tomorrow."

"Okay," Harry replies with a smile and Giselle notices for the first time a pair of dimples on his cheeks.

A few feet ahead, the inside of a dance studio catches Giselle's eyes. A floor to ceiling glass windows giving an intimate view of the dancers from the street. Harry looks on as Giselle stops and watches, her eyes transfixed on the much younger ballerinas. Harry would guess them to be 13 or 14. Young enough to be relaxed but old enough to have control of their movements.

"You can tell so much about a person by the way they dance," Harry muses. His eyes darting from dancer to dancer. "Movements tell you more about a person then their words ever will. The touch of a hand, the smile of a stranger, the way a man in love can't keep his eyes off of his partner from across the room. Dance is all that in one- but bigger, bolder. It's one thing to be told what you are supposed to feel. But to see it, to watch a story be told in front of your eyes with only your own experiences to interpret it. That's the magic."

Giselle breaks her gaze from the dancers and meets Harry's green eyes. "Then tell me something. About how they dance."

"This one in the pink skirt," Harry points, "She's relatively new. She's still trying to learn the technique. Notice how her movements are still a little loose and unrefined. And that one, in the far corner. She doesn't want to be here. Look how weak her movements are. Look how she doesn't even react to the corrections the teacher is giving."

"And well, see that one," he says, pointing to a tall red head in the center of the room. That one is a younger form of Giselle Mason. See how her movements are strong, tense, almost as if she's thinking too hard. That tells me she's a try hard, a perfectionist. She's good, but she thinks she can always be better, so she never loses her focus."

"But that one," this time Giselle's eyes follow Harry's hand to a short, dark-haired girl in a maroon leotard. "That one's the one that loves to dance. She's not the best or the most graceful. She's even got the steps wrong half the time. But look at her face, look at the way her body simply moves. It's almost like you can hear the music just by watching her."

Giselle studies the girl carefully, watching her bronzed arms moving delicately. She can't see the girls facial expressions from this far, but she imagines they would match her movements. She compares this girl to Harry's declared young Giselle, and for the first time she finally understands the criticizing of her movements. With such focus something is lost. It's not something tangible, it's not the technique or the fluidity. But there's something about the girl who just seems to be dancing, the one that is the most carefree, that draws Giselle's eyes back to her again and again. It is in the imperfections that the dancer is truly the most beautiful. The most perfect.

"What about you Harry Styles? What does your dancing tell me about you?" Giselle asks, her eyes studying Harry's sharp side profile as he studies the class.

"You tell me," he answers his eyes not moving from the window.

Giselle thinks for a moment. Harry was a phenomenal dancer to watch, and she wasn't the only one who thought so. It was obvious why he had been dubbed one of the greatest ballet dancers of the present. She remembered a YouTube video she'd watched of him performing in Romeo and Juliet years ago, before she had any idea their paths would cross. There was something about that way he danced, she remembered that made her feel something. Like he was releasing his own own emotions upon the audience through his motions.

"I think your dancing tells me that underneath that hard, prideful exterior, you are just as vulnerable as the rest of us. Because you can't portray emotion so well if you have none can you?"

Harry stiffens. Because she's close. And no one has ever come that close to understanding the pieces that make up his soul before. The pieces he so desperately tries to hide.

He looks at her, her eyes flickering over his for just one vulnerable second before he turns away from the window. "I'm hungry," he states, changing the subject before this girl finds out more then he wants to share. "Let's stop and get a chocolate shake on the way back. I know a great place."

Giselle looked at Harry like he was crazy. She thought he was, suggesting something as calorie filled as ice cream before they continued their rehearsal.

"I shouldn't..." Giselle argues. She knew how tempting that chocolate shake would be. It would go down smooth. Rich and creamy and tasting like heaven. But it wouldn't seem so delicious on the way back up. Or when she had to make up for the calories with extra workouts the rest of the week. Her stomach churns at the image.

"Believe me, this shake is worth the extra calories. And besides, you've earned it. I've never see you dance like that before."

Giselle wonders if that was supposed to be a compliment. Harry doesn't seem to be taking no as an answer on the chocolate shake, so she follows begrudgingly, telling herself that she didn't have to drink more than a few sips. Harry would never know.

Harry was right about the shakes. As they re-enter the American Ballet Theatre building, Giselle has devoured more than a few sips out of the large paper cup, and she silently curses herself for the lack of self-control. She tosses the remaining half in the trash can outside of the studio before she can be tempted any further.

"You aren't going home?" Harry asks as he picks up his bag from the floor where he left it earlier, slinging the thin black strap over his shoulder.

"Home? We've barely rehearsed," Giselle says incredulously. "You may be good to leave but I've got to work for at least a few more hours."

Harry wonders if Giselle had understood anything from their excursion today. For a moment, he'd thought she'd seen it. That she didn't have to try so hard. That she could more gracious to herself. She was dancing just fine. Better than fine even. But he decides now is not the time to argue with her.

"Well, I'm gonna head home for the night. I'll see you tomorrow?" He leans against the doorframe of the studio entrance instantly wondering why he'd phrased his statement into a question.

"See you tomorrow," Giselle says, pulling off her jacket and reaching for the pointe shoes laid next to her bag.

Harry smiles again, and turns away from the door, Giselle watching him as he leaves.

"Wait, Harry!" she calls, rushing to the hall with one pointe shoe on and the other in her hand. "Thank you for tonight. It helped."

Harry shrugs. "Of course." And Giselle watches as he retreats down the hall.

Giselle returns to the studio, tying up her other pointe shoe. She stares at herself in the mirror, the outline of her body reminding her of the chocolate shake that now sat in her stomach. Any pleasure that she had gotten from the creamy ice cream had now turned into disgust. She couldn't rehearse like this. So she makes her way to the bathroom.

Harry realizes once he's down to the street that he's left his phone in the studio. He must have left it near the speaker when he was using it to play their rehearsal music. He lets out a sigh, adjusts his bag on his shoulder and makes his way back up the three flights of stairs to the studio.

He doesn't see Giselle in the studio when he steps back inside, grabbing his phone from where it lay near the speaker just as he suspected. Her stuff is still here though, a black duffle bag in a pile near the corner of the room. He thinks for a moment about calling out to her, wondering where she went off to, but he stops himself. It wasn't as if one salsa class and a chocolate shake had made them friends.

As he walks back towards the staircase, he hears noise from behind the closed bathroom door. He recognizes the sound immediately, a noise he'd heard many times during his years as a ballet dancer, most often from Alice.

The thought of his former partner makes his heart ache, even after all these years. He tries to push her golden blonde hair and green eyes out of his mind, but he can't. The image of the fragile girl he had once been in love with burned in his mind.

Harry considers knocking on the door, making sure Giselle is alright, but he knows from his previous experiences that this would likely not yield any results. She wasn't alright, clearly. But Harry doubted that there was much he could say at this point that would make her feel like she was. So instead he turns back down the stairs and towards his apartment.

Alice's face remains in his mind the rest of the evening.

Harry had met Alice at the age of twelve, when they were still young and impressionable and would stop at nothing to achieve their dreams of becoming principal dancers at the Royal Ballet.

Alice was his first partner. She was the person that taught Harry the importance of trust, the sacrifices a male dancer made to make sure his ballerina looked effortless and that relationships between partners rarely ended well.

But Harry and Alice were young and energetic and they spent hours together working to be the best in their class. It didn't take much, they were both naturally-gifted dancers. But even when they were the best, they didn't stop.

By the time they were thirteen, they were best friends. Harry knew everything about Alice. From her favorite purple leotard, to her favorite ballerina and even her favorite movie (although they didn't have much time for movies at the Royal Ballet School). Alice knew everything about Harry too. About his past and his love for dance and the fact that he absolutely despised adagio for no reason in particular.

By the time they were fifteen, friendship had blossomed into love. Or what they thought of love at that young age. The kind of young, innocent love where nothing was complicated and every moment spent together was the best thing to ever happen to them. They dreamed of dancing together for years, becoming principals at the Royal and working til they retried, then living out their lives teaching the next generation of dancers at the Royal Ballet School. Because they were best friends and they were partners and they knew everything about each other and that was what was supposed to happen right?

But Harry didn't know everything about Alice. He hadn't noticed how as she began to transform from the girl he met at twelve into a young woman she'd begun to loathe her body. He hadn't noticed the way she'd skipped meals or ran a few miles every evening after rehearsals. He hadn't noticed that every time she was corrected about the tone of her arms or the tightening of her core that she'd take it to mean her body wasn't thin enough or she wasn't following the right diet.

Until one day he did. When found her perched over the trashcan after they'd been out for pizza with some of the other students. She blamed it on a stomach bug and said it was nothing. But then he'd heard that noise a second time. And then a third and a fourth and a fifth. Until one day, he came to anticipate the sound of Alice purging whatever meals she was forced to eat.

He confronted her about it one day. Told her that he was concerned about her. That maybe she should talk to someone, the school had people for that sort of thing after all. He told her she was more than thin enough, too thin nearly- but she didn't hear a word he was saying. Instead she was angry at him, for not understanding and even more, he suspected, for never being criticized for his own ballet body.

It tore them apart as a couple. It tore them apart as partners. And one day that trust that Alice and Harry had built so high was broken when she fell from a lift. The fall wasn't far, and for most of people would have only yielded a bruise or two. But Alice's body was fragile and osteoporotic and when she fell she broke her wrist, her bone's as fragile as an 80-year-old woman's from lack of nutrition.

That's when everyone else noticed Alice's struggles. Her parents become distraught, pulling her out of the school and sending her to an inpatient center for individuals with body dysmorphia. Harry thought that when she was done with treatment, she'd come back to the school and they'd be partners again. Their dreams of becoming principal dancers still attainable. But Alice didn't come back, and when Harry visited her one cool day in October, he realized he didn't recognize the girl staring back at him. The ballet world had destroyed her self-image, her self-confidence and worst of all, her love of dance. She could never look at ballet the same way again or Harry.

For a long time, Harry was angry. Angry at himself for not recognizing what Alice was going through sooner. Angry at their ballet mistresses and directors for saying things that made Alice think she didn't measure up, that her body was something different from what it was. Angry at the ballet world for the culture that obsessed with thinness and lightness and pushed dancers to their breaking points. But most of all he was angry that even when he became a principal, it wouldn't be him and Alice dancing out that stage for the rest of their career, like they'd dreamed when they were just kids.

Harry supposed this is why even to this day he didn't trust the ballet world- all the stuff that happens beyond the stage. He was a dancer for one purpose- because he loved the art form. Not because he loved the school or the culture or the people in it. He loved to dance and only to dance. What happened to Alice had proved to him that if you give too much to anything but the stage- everything can be taken from you.

He pushes the thoughts of Alice aside and makes a mental note to be nicer to Giselle. He wouldn't be the reason another person lost dance. Because if Giselle was anything like Harry, dance was the only thing she had.

**********************************************

Giselle notices that Harry is awfully cheery the next day. He slides in next to her on the bar during company class, saying good morning in a tone that causes even Caleb to raise his eyebrow. He compliments her after she rehearses her Act II solo and gives her nothing but praise all through rehearsal with Viktor and Mistress Ivanova.

Giselle grows suspicious. This is not the Harry Styles she knows. This is not even the Harry Styles she had seen salsa dancing. This Harry was cheeky and flattering and...flirty? She'd seen Harry like this before, and usually it was when he was chatting it up with some corps de ballet member he wanted to bring back to his place.

Did Harry think that salsa dancing meant she wanted to sleep with him? Did he think she was just another member of the company that he could 'escape' with? Giselle rolls her eyes at the thought. Had Harry Styles learned nothing about her?

Giselle isn't going to stand for this nonsense. Opening night is six weeks away and there is far too much at stake to play one of Harry's games. She decides if he says anything that isn't sarcastic or rude to her tonight at their rehearsal, she is going to call him out on it. Harry couldn't fool her, not even with those gorgeous green eyes of his.

"Ready for rehearsal?" Harry asks as he enters the rehearsal studio that night. Giselle is already wiping the sweat from her brow after running through the Odile solo three times and so she simply nods.

"Mistress Ivanova seemed really impressed with our Act II pas de deux today," Harry says as he pulls off the grey hoodie he's wearing, the bottom of his toned abs showing as the black tank top he wears underneath pulls up with it. "You were really channeling Odette today, Giselle. Just beautiful dancing."

And there it was. The compliment instead of the sarcastic comment.

"Why are you doing this?" Giselle snaps.

Harry looks at her, his eyebrows wrinkled in confusion. "What do you mean?"

"Why are you being so nice to me?"

"Because I want to be nice?" Harry replies, trying to figure out just what was the problem with being nice towards Giselle. Would she rather he be an asshole?

"What you whisk me off to salsa dance and then think that you are going to seduce me? Because I'm not going to fall for your act Harry, I know who you are."

Giselle's face is stern and Harry feels at a loss. He didn't know she would react like this just to him trying to be cordial. He wasn't trying to seduce her, Giselle is beautiful, it wasn't that he couldn't see her that way. But something was different with Giselle, something Harry couldn't put his finger on. The last thing he wanted to do was sleep with her and jeopardize their partnership on the stage.

"It's not that Giselle. It's just..." he pauses. Should he say something? There was no other explanation for his niceties. He had to tell her the truth. "The other night, after we salsa-ed, I forgot my phone and had to come back to the studio and I thought I heard you.."

Giselle stops him before he can finish. She knows what he is going to say and she doesn't want to hear it aloud. She feels her face flushing and her hands begin to tremble. She can't do this. She can't talk about this. So she panics.

"You didn't hear shit Harry," she spits, storming to the edge of the room and grabbing her duffle bag. She doesn't even bother to pull on sweatpants or take off her pointe shoes before making her way to the door.

"Where are you going Giselle?" Harry shouts after her as she walks towards the door.

"I'm leaving!" she shouts back. "Mistress Ivanova said she loved our rehearsal today didn't she? No need to force you to practice!" And then she runs down the stairs, leaving Harry standing the hallway.

Harry Styles knows her secret, and she's never felt more exposed.

Taglist:

@tpwkhoney , @swtxel , @stylessugarhigh , @morethanamelodyy , @masumiyetimziyanoldu , @hhh33-3l

#an update finally!#loys #writingby1dfangirls35 #hs #harry au #harry styles #ballet au #harry fanfiction #1dff #enemies to lovers #harry fanfic

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slapshot-to-the-heart · 4 years

Text

Breakable Heaven (pt. III) - p.l. dubois

Part I II

Here’s part III! One more part after this, then we’re going to be finishing up our time with Laurel and Pierre-Luc. It’s seriously been so so much fun writing this over the past few weeks, and I’m excited to get to keep the story going. Many many thanks to @hockeyboysiguess for being a great sounding board for Breakable Heaven so far, my favorite response of hers to anything I’ve sent has got to be “that’s rude.” So, enjoy! Reblog if you enjoy it, come scream into my inbox, and I still read every tag!

Part III

July 10 (sat)

Laurel was exhausted. Two hours after the wedding, her and her meager bridal party had shown up to her house, piling everything she hadn’t yet brought over to Pierre’s apartment into her SUV and Madeline’s white sedan. She left her old apartment with the keys at the front office and one last wistful look into the place that had once been her own. She’d miss it, she thought, as she and Pierre drove down the Ville-Marie Expressway towards his apartment, her fingers still trying to get used to the feeling of having rings on it. She’d only lived in the space for a year, but it was in that building that she started her dream job, that space that she adopted her dog, that apartment where she met one of her best friends and that place where she got married.

They had spent a few hours half-heartedly unpacking her boxes; Laurel was excited to get settled in, but she was also the world’s worst procrastinator and even at 6 PM, all that she had managed to get done was folding some clothes and adding her book collection to the shelves in the living room. Pierre poked his head into the spare room — her room? — rolling his eyes when he saw her “progress.” “I was going to order in, what do you feel like?”

Laurel hung up a blazer in the closet. “Pizza?” she asked hopefully. “Though I’m really going to have to teach you to cook one of these days. We can’t survive off of take-out and pasta alone.”

“If that’s how you want to be,” he responded good-naturedly. “I’ll have you know that I can cook more than pasta, though.”

“Really?” Laurel asked, raising her eyebrows. “What’s the Chef Dubois specialty?”

“I make a mean salmon,” he replied, before returning to the living room. That was another thing she had to get used to quickly as soon as they started going through the marriage process: Québec didn’t allow for women to take their husbands’ names at marriage. It wasn’t something she’d ever thought too deeply about, but Laurel supposed she’d always assumed that she’d take her husband’s name when she got married. But then again, she always assumed she’d get married under normal circumstances. Her parents aside, Cloquet wasn’t an absurdly conservative town, but it was still certainly something of an anomaly for a married woman to still have her maiden name. Which is what she was now. A married woman. Oh God.

Pizza with white wine may not have been the most conventional choice, but it got the job done, Laurel thought as she lay in bed at half past midnight, the birds outside her door insisting on making her efforts to fall asleep as futile as her efforts to ignore them. She’d already been in bed for an hour; after dinner, her and Pierre watched a few episodes of Black Mirror — also probably not the best choice to do before bed, but oh well — before he wished her a good night’s sleep. She had taken a melatonin and drank a cup of tea before bed, put on a playlist full of rain noises, but nothing seemed to be working. Maybe it was because it was the first night in a new place, or the birds outside, or just the craziness and excitement of the day catching up to her.

Laurel felt like a child again as she padded over to Pierre’s room, like she was five and back in Minnesota, crawling into her parents’ bed after hearing a wolf howl somewhere on the property. But really, she didn’t really care what she had to do if it meant she could get a good night’s rest. She knocked lightly on his door, careful not to wake up the dogs, who had long since fallen asleep in a corner of the living room. “Mmm?” he answered. She turned the doorknob. God, I hope I didn’t wake him up. She didn’t, as it would turn out; Pierre was propped up on his headboard, scrolling through his phone as he moved his eyes from his screen to her figure in the doorway. “You good? Everything okay?”

Laurel shrugged, wiggling her hand. “I don’t know what it is, I tried everything but I’m just not able to get to sleep. I’d try and wait it out, but my sleep cycle will be thrown off for a week if I’m not able to get to bed tonight.”

He moved over from the middle, reaching over to the side of his bed and getting another pillow before throwing back the covers and patting the spot next to him. “C’mere.”

“Are you sure?” Laurel said, furrowing her brow, suddenly very aware of the fact that she was wearing an old t-shirt and panties, leaving very little to the imagination.

He nodded, putting his phone down on the nightstand, smiling softly at her. “Of course. What’s mine is yours, eh?” That was all it took for Laurel to climb into the right side, claiming it as her own, and throw the duvet over her body. She fell asleep almost instantly.

---

Laurel woke up to the unmistakable smell of bacon frying and the other side of the bed devoid of Pierre’s sleeping form. She straightened the bed before walking out, where she was greeted by two plates on the breakfast bar, a pot of coffee brewing, and her husband at the stove.

“I thought you said you couldn’t cook?” Laurel teased, leaning up against the granite countertop.

“Good morning to you too.” Pierre shrugged. “I hardly think being able to fry an egg and not burn toast qualifies as cooking, but I’ll take what I can get.”

Laurel stepped further into the kitchen, lightly dragging her fingers over his back in a silent thank you as she opened the cupboard. “Let me get the coffee, at least,” she said, grabbing two mugs off the shelf and the creamer out of the fridge. “How do you take yours?” Laurel asked, glancing at Pierre from the side as he buttered the toast.

“A little bit of cream, more sugar,” he replied, sliding the plates onto the bar as she handed him his mug. “Perfect,” he said, smiling. A few minutes into breakfast, with Laurel just about to crunch into her second piece of toast, he spoke again. “So, I was thinking…”

She nodded. “I should hope so?”

Pierre laughed, ducking his head. “I was going to post something about the wedding today, online and stuff, but wanted to check with you first.” They had spoken about it once or twice before the wedding, both of them knew that it wasn’t practical nor honest to think that they’d be able to keep the news from everyone over the entire duration of their temporary marriage. And part of the “sell,” part of what she needed to prove, was that their relationship was real. And real would mean posting about each other online, real would mean flying down a few times a month — thank God her schedule gave her a long weekend, and thank God the flight wasn’t too long — for games and galas and real would mean meeting his friends and him meeting her family and Laurel had to stop thinking about it all before her head exploded.

“Go for it,” she said. “I don’t like having to hide from it any more than you do, so it’ll be a relief to let everyone know, give a heads-up to the four people on my Instagram page who actually care about my life.

Pierre poked her arm. “Five, now.” He opened his phone, scrolling through the pictures Madeline had sent from yesterday. She had run a small side business doing photography in university, and insisted on taking their photos as a wedding present. “You deserve something beautiful to look back on,” she had said. The final book wouldn’t be done for a few weeks, but she had sent over the raw shots the night before. “What about this one?” He leaned over to show her. Their foreheads were touching, his arms wrapped around her waist as they stood in the middle of one of Vieux Port’s cobblestone side streets. Laurel’s fingers brushed the back of his neck, her other hand loosely holding her bouquet. If you didn’t know, they looked like a real couple. They looked like they were in love.

“It’s gorgeous,” Laurel murmured softly. “I knew Madeline was talented, but wow. She outdid herself.”

Pierre nodded in agreement. “She did. I know I already told you, but you really did look incredible.” Laurel’s cheeks burned; she raised her mug to her lips, hopeful the oversized ceramic would cover enough of her face that he couldn’t see the effect his words had had on her. Laurel opened her own phone, scrolling through to find the matching photo. A few minutes later, he handed her his phone and she passed hers, giving their captions one last once-over before giving up their secret. Her eyes flitted across the screen.

Yesterday, I had the incredible fortune of marrying @laurel.klerken, the best person I’ve ever had the fortune of loving. I know it might come as a shock, and that we’ve kept our relationship under wraps since realizing after years of being friends that friendship just wasn’t enough any more, but this wasn’t a decision that either of us made lightly. Laurel, you’re an amazing woman, and even though it’s only been a day, an amazing wife. Whether it’s for your patients, your friends, or me, you make everyone around you feel warm, safe, and cared for beyond measure. You have a sharp wit and an even sharper mind, and I have endless admiration for how committed you are for standing up for what’s right, even when it’s not popular and even if it’s gotten you in trouble once or twice. Marriage is a partnership and a journey, and I’ve never been so excited to start a new adventure.

Laurel sniffed, not even noticing the tears pricking her eyes until Pierre handed her a tissue. “Thanks,” she murmured. “You don’t think you’re laying it on a little thick, though?”

The corner of his mouth twitched. “Not at all.” One tap later, and it was posted. Three minutes later, his phone rang as they were doing the breakfast dishes. Cap ❤️ flashed across the screen. Pierre grimaced. “It’s the captain. I should probably answer this one,” he said, pressing the speaker button as he dried his hands on a spare towel.

“You’re married,” Nick Foligno said, wasting no time. “Is this a fucking joke?” Laurel more than understood his apprehension, but the words still stung.

“Yes I am,” Pierre said slowly, “and no, it’s not a joke. Laurel and I are legally married in the province of Québec.”

She could hear a labored breath from the other line, followed by an airy laugh. “What the hell, man?”

Nick was ultimately happy for them, and after being introduced to Laurel after they switched the call over to FaceTime he apologized for his reaction, but Laurel waved him off. “You’re just looking out for your boy is all. I’d do the same.”

Nick nodded. “Take care of him for us, Laurel. Your address still the same?” He looked over towards Pierre, who hummed his assent. “Janelle and I will send you something. Something useful.”

---

July 28 (wed)

“Something useful” turned out to be a gorgeous set of Wüsthof knives and a stand mixer, the latter of which Laurel was nearly jumping out of her socks with excitement to try. Baking had long since been one of her favorite hobbies and her go-to method of stress relief; while she was grateful for the arm muscles her years of having to hand mix everything had given her, she wasn’t going to miss the extra effort. So Laurel Klerken was taking full advantage of her new toy. She had gone down to the Jean-Talon market in the morning, which was quickly becoming one of her favorite weekly activities. Especially with Pierre around to help her, she was learning to shift her speaking into the Québecois dialect, and her French was good enough to order from the vendors in their language and be understood. In her book, that was a win. The peak of summer meant it was berry season in Montréal, which meant it was time for Laurel to break out her nana’s blueberry oatmeal muffin recipe. And chocolate chip walnut cookies. And a French apple tart. Okay, so maybe she went a little bit overboard, but they had their desserts for the week and it made the kitchen smell so good.

Pierre opened the door just as Laurel was pulling out the last pan of cookies, walking around the corner into the kitchen and raising his eyebrows at the view. She looked over at him. “You going to complain about your wife’s baking when you’re the primary beneficiary?” she asked, challenging him with a playful smile on his face.

Pierre held his hands up in surrender, holding the mail between two fingers. “No.” He picked one of the cookies off of the cooling rack, taking a bite. “Definitely not.”

Laurel nodded towards the mail, walking over to the sink to wash her hands. “What came in the mail?”

“Nothing much,” he said, shrugging. “Just a little letter from IRCC.”

Her eyes lit up. “Immigration finally got back? Did they send my card?”

Pierre nodded, handing her the envelope. It barely took five seconds for her to rip it open. “You, Laurel Elizabeth Klerken, are now officially a permanent resident of Canada. Congrats, babe.”

Laurel squeaked in excitement, dancing around in the kitchen , the holographic detailing on the card catching the glow of the late-afternoon light. She threw her arms around Pierre, giving him a kiss on the cheek that was just barely off to the side of his lips. “Thank you, thank you, thank you,” she said breathlessly.

“Don’t mention it.”

She pulled back, still smiling. “No, ‘don’t mention it’ is for when you bring home dinner without being asked, or take a drunk friend home from the bar. Not for things like this,” she said, wiggling her card. “This is everything to me, P. I get to stay in the city that I love, I get to stay at the job that I love. I get to —” She looked down, eyes widening. “I can finally get a health card!”

Pierre let out a laugh. “Out of everything, you’re most excited about that?” Being a dual citizen who lived in the U.S. for the better part of the year, Pierre understood the absolute chasm of accessibility that separated the American and Canadian health insurance systems better than most, but he still looked at his wife’s choice with incredulity.

“Of course it is,” Laurel said, as if it was the most obvious answer in the world. She still had insurance purchased through her work, but the fact that now it was so much easier and official and came out of her taxes instead of having to try and navigate the bureaucratic system of forms and checks and private insurance companies made it so much easier. “It’s just nice to finally be a part of a system that acknowledges healthcare as the human right it is. That’s another thing about how it works in the U.S., it’s tied to employment a lot of the time so it’s not always a guarantee.”

She gave a tense smile, leaning back against the counter. “I might seem a little worked up about it, but that’s because I am. Uh,” she paused, eyes flickering up towards the chrome-plated track lighting, “my dad lost his job when I was a kid. He was a foreman at a construction company, but then the recession hit in ‘08 and he was laid off. We lost our insurance. Maggie and I were able to get on MinnesotaCare, which is the state insurance for low-income families, but our parents didn’t get approved. Not enough money to go around, I guess,” she scoffed. “Unemployment wasn’t paying enough and mom’s job isn’t full-time, so she doesn’t get benefits. Apparently they think healthcare is a benefit.” Laurel took another pause. “And then Dad had a stroke. It wasn’t serious, thank God, but the bills...Maggie was almost graduating high school and headed off to college, and money was tight even before the layoffs. We were able to come up with the money, but only because the community really came together, in a way I had never seen before. I still haven’t seen anything like it since. Bake sales, church fundraisers, garage sales.” The tiniest of smiles played on Laurel’s lips as she looked back up at her husband. “Do you know how much pasta Minnesotans can eat at a spaghetti dinner?”

“A lot?”

“A whole hell of a lot,” Laurel confirmed. “But anyways. That’s when it became personal to me, and I think it’s why healthcare and access to quality care is still something that I’m still so passionate about and invested in. It’s why I became a nurse.”

Pierre walked over to her carefully, rubbing the back of her hand with his thumb. “It makes absolute sense, Laurel. I know that probably wasn’t easy for you, so thank you for sharing. It means a lot to me that you’re willing to let me in like that.” Laurel wasn’t a cold person by any means; she was one of the kindest and most giving people Pierre had ever met, even in the few months that they’d known each other. But she was someone that could be guarded at times — for very good reason — and it meant the world to him that she was willing to let him chip away her hardened exterior little by little to see the brilliance that lay within.

She pressed against his side, her head resting on his arm. “You’re my husband. Why wouldn’t I?”

---

Laurel was in the ensuite of her and Pierre’s room, washing her face before going to bed, when she heard her phone vibrate with a text. After that first night, Laurel had made it a habit of sharing a bed; she’d never slept better in her life than the past two and a half weeks, and even though she may have been loath to admit it, waking up to an incredibly attractive man — who was shirtless half of the time — wasn’t something she was about to complain about. “Can you get that for me?” She was expecting a text from her mom, something about confirming her and her dad’s flight times for their visit next week.

“Laurel?” Pierre called cautiously.

She turned towards him, patting her face dry. “What? Did their gate get changed or something?”

He shook his head, walking towards her and holding the phone out like it was a bomb. “It’s Maggie.”

Laurel’s mouth immediately went dry. “M-Maggie?” She took the phone, staring at the screen, open to the text.

“Do you want to talk to her? You don’t have to if you’re not feeling up to it,” Pierre said, searching her face for any semblance of apprehension. As far as he knew, she hadn’t talked to her sister in years, and he didn’t know why that was suddenly about to change.

She shook her head. “No, it’s fine. I just...I have no idea what she wants. Why, after three years, is she finally deciding that she wants to be a part of my life again?” She looked down at her phone.

So, I had to hear it through the Cloquet grapevine that you got married?? What’s that about, L? Maggie wrote. Laurel pinched the bridge of her nose, sighing. The gossip train in her hometown was second to none; to be honest, she was a little bit surprised it even took her older sister this long to hear about it. She was already enough of an anomaly. Less than a quarter of her city had a college degree, even fewer left the state to do it, so her going to Toronto for university was practically unfathomable — even if it was closer than Texas, where her second-choice school was. So, needless to say, she was a frequent headline in the Cloquet rumor mill. She had heard it all. That she had run off to Canada to escape a high school sweetheart turned sour, that she had cut off all ties with her family, that she had shaved half of her head and dyed her eyebrows bright pink. The last one actually had some truth to it, but it was just the eyebrows and she was a drunk 20-year-old, and at least she didn’t get a tattoo of the Maple Leafs logo on her thigh like her friend Ethan.

But this one wasn’t a rumor, and if nothing else, Maggie deserved to know that much. Not much to say. It’s true, if that’s what you were wondering.

Why didn’t you tell me? Why did I have to find out third-hand?

Laurel rolled her eyes, sitting down with a huff on the edge of their bed. Not to be harsh, Maggie, but it’s not like you’ve wanted to be that invested in my life since you left home. How was I supposed to know if this was even your number any more? I don’t even know what country you’re in right now.

Her response was almost immediate. I’m working at a hostel in Tokyo. But seriously? I know we haven’t been super close the past few years, but I’m still your sister, and I would have thought you’d tell me about something like this. Getting married is big. You don’t think you’re still a little young? Have you even finished school yet?

I graduated last year, I’ve been working at a hospital in Montréal for over a year, Maggie. And I know it’s a little early, but Pierre-Luc and I are happy. I love him, and he’s a good man and respects the hell out of me. I don’t really need anything else.

It was a few minutes before her next text came through, this time in all caps. YOU MARRIED A FUCKING NHLER? Laurel grew up knowing hockey, obviously; you couldn’t really live in Minnesota and not, and she wasn’t even a half-bad skater herself, but Maggie had always been the more dedicated of the sisters. She’d been the one who was always begging their dad to make the two-hour drive to St. Paul for a Wild game. Even when money was tight, Doug always found a way to scrape up enough for the tickets as her birthday present in January.

Denise from church didn’t tell you?

All she said was that it was some hot French-Canadian guy, and mom said you moved to Quebec, so I thought it could be any number. Fair enough.

Denise seriously called him hot?

Laurel could imagine her sister rolling her eyes all the way in Japan. Okay, fine, she didn’t say hot. But like...am I wrong?

For the first time in a long time, her sister made her laugh. Yeah, okay. He’s hot. I’m very aware that my husband is a class-A babe.

“You think I’m hot?” Pierre said, peeking over her shoulder and wiggling his eyebrows.

Laurel’s cheeks heated. “Yes, okay. I think you’re very attractive. Happy?”

“Very,” he responded. “I’m glad my wife thinks I’m hot. The feeling’s mutual,” he said before walking into the bathroom to brush his teeth, leaving her even more flustered than before. She turned back to her conversation with Maggie. My shift is about to start, so I’ve got to go. But I’m happy for you, L. I really am. You’ve done exactly what you want with your life, and I couldn’t be more proud.

Laurel’s finger traced the words on the screen, a small smile on her face as Pierre came back into the room, throwing back the sheets. She plugged her phone into its charger, turning it face-down onto the nightstand. Things weren’t perfect between her and Maggie; far from it. One conversation over text wasn’t going to change that. But maybe, just maybe, there was still something there that was worth saving. After flicking off the lights, the last thing she remembered before falling asleep was the feeling of Pierre snaking his arm around her waist, pulling her to rest her back up against his chest. And Laurel let him.

August 17 (tues

It had been one of the worst days of Laurel’s life, and she wasn’t one for dramatics. Certainly the worst shift of her career. She knew when she chose to work in a pediatric intensive care unit, that it wasn’t going to be all sunshine and rainbows. If she wanted sunshine and rainbows, she would have gone with something less taxing. Something like dermatology, or working in a pediatrician’s office, or being a school nurse. God knows she could hand out ice packs and tampons. But no, she had to pick critical care, and critical care with children, one of the most emotionally and mentally taxing areas in the entire healthcare field. She saw the highest highs, the incredible moments when a three-year-old girl with a brain hemorrhage was able to get home, or a twelve-year-old boy finally got a kidney transplant after having been waiting for years. She saw the highest highs, but on days like today, she also saw the lowest lows.

Laurel carried her scrub top in one hand, her backpack slung over one shoulder, and tried desperately to regulate her breathing as she turned her key in the lock, pushing the door open. No matter how many times she had helped her patients breathe, she never seemed to be able to take her own advice.

Pierre stood in the kitchen, making a smoothie, but immediately turned off the blender when he saw her face. “What happened?” he asked, gently taking her bag from her and placing it on the floor.

Laurel collapsed into his arms almost instantly. “T-there was a little girl who c-came in yesterday from a car crash, and it was pretty b-bad, but she made it through the night and everyone thought she’d b-be fine,” she hiccuped, “but then right at the end of m-my shift she started coughing up b-blood and she was crashing, so I tried to do CPR until the t-team got there, but it didn’t work and we…” Laurel trailed off, sobbing, gripping the back of Pierre’s shirt like a lifeline. “We lost her, P. And the doctor on call was tied up with another patient, so I had to notify the family, and God, it was the worst thing I’ve ever had to do. She was only seven.” She looked down at her scrub top. “I have to go throw this in the washing machine before the stain sets.”

Pierre pulled back slightly, gently taking the navy shirt from her, giving a kiss on her forehead. “I’ll do it. You need to rest. Take a shower, or a bath, get into some comfortable clothes. I’ll take care of dinner.”

It was almost forty-five minutes later when Laurel finally emerged from the bathroom, clad in high school sweats and a faded Blue Jackets t-shirt. “I hope you didn’t mind that I took this one,” she said, picking at a loose thread on the bottom hem, “I hadn’t gotten to laundry yet this week.”

“It’s fine, Laur,” Pierre said, plating chicken stir-fry and rice. Cooking together had become one of their things; Pierre certainly wasn’t as hopeless as some people she had met, and he was right that he made an excellent salmon. But they couldn’t eat fish every day of the week, so Laurel broke out one of her few cookbooks and they had been making their way through the recipes together. They had finished breakfast and were making their way through poultry. Hence, chicken stir-fry. “You look better in it anyways.”

They ate in silence, her half-heartedly picking up forkfuls of rice only to put them down again. She smiled weakly at Pierre. “The food’s good, I swear. I just don’t have much of an appetite tonight.”

“I get that,” he said. “How about I put this in away in the fridge and you can get a yogurt or something? You don’t have to have a full meal, but you should eat something. We can watch something after, or you can go to bed if you’re not feeling up to it. Your call.”

“TV sounds nice, do you still have the old Parks & Rec recorded?” Laurel needed something she didn’t need to pay attention to, something that could just be background noise as she tried to sift through the emotions of her day and try to make sense of it all.

He nodded. “Wouldn’t get rid of it before asking, I know how much you love it.”

They were curled up on the couch together a few minutes later, a striped blanket thrown over Laurel’s lap despite the weather outside still lingering in the mid 70s. It wasn’t for warmth, not really; it was for comfort. Pierre’s arm was slung over her back, his thumb absentmindedly moving across her upper arm. She leaned into his touch, hardly paying attention to the show. “Do you want to talk about it?” Pierre murmured, pressing a kiss to the crown of her head. “You don’t have to, but it might help.” He wasn’t an expert by any means, but Pierre obviously knew that people died in hospitals, in intensive care units even more so. Which meant that there was an almost surefire chance that she had had people die on her watch, die on her shift. Had children die on her watch. And that didn’t mean she was a bad nurse or a bad person, but just that sometimes there were illnesses and injuries so severe that even the best medical care in the province couldn’t save them. So why was this one impacting her so intensely? Had she reacted this way before, with Madeline or her coworkers, and he just hadn’t seen it before? Or was there something different about this case, about that girl that made it hit closer to home for some reason?

Laurel took a shaky breath. “I know you’re right, that it’s not healthy to keep it all bottled up inside. But that’s what I’m used to, you know? I love my job, I do, but you have to compartmentalize sometimes. With this one, it’s just…” She searched for the right words. “It was so immediate, so in front of me, that I didn’t have any time to reach beyond trying to save her life. I didn’t think, I just went based on instinct and training. And she still died.”

“It wasn’t your fault, Laurel,” Pierre said firmly. “You did everything you could, you did everything right.”

“I know that,” she sniffed, “but it’s so hard to believe sometimes. That if I had gotten there a few seconds sooner, or if the crash team had been a little earlier, she might have survived. And I wouldn’t have had to tell a mother and father that their daughter was dead.” Pierre felt terrible, like there was nothing he could do, because there was nothing he could do, not apart from sit and listen. “I think it was different this time because I finally saw myself in their shoes, I obviously don’t have kids, not yet, but I imagined what it was like to have to be on the receiving end of that news, and it tore me apart, P.” Her voice cracked, and his heart broke. “Being the mom to a beautiful child and then all of the sudden having them all of the sudden stripped away? No longer living? I know that life’s not fair, but fuck, I thought I thought it would be a little better than this.”

Her voice went silent, and Pierre took the opportunity to speak. “It’s not fair, and I think part of what makes you so good at what you do is the fact that you recognize that. You’re so dedicated to giving everyone that comes through those doors the best care, because you genuinely believe that they deserve it. And that’s incredible. You don’t get complacent, you’re never satisfied with just doing things adequately and just enough to get by. You give everything 110%, and that’s how I know the kind of incredible person you are.” He paused. “And I think every parent worries about their kid getting sick, or getting hurt. I know mine did, and I’d be willing to bet yours were the same way. Worrying means you care. And you care the most deeply, the most genuinely, out of anyone I’ve ever met. And I know, when the time comes, that you’ll make an amazing mother. Whoever gets to do that with you will be a lucky man.”

“You really think so?”

Pierre slipped his hand into hers. “Positive.”

September 10 (fri)

Laurel’s fingers tapped nervously on the counter as she waited for Pierre to bring the last of his bags from the bedroom. He didn’t usually schlep a ton of things back-and-forth from Montréal to Columbus every time he needed to travel, but his ticket came with two free checked bags and if there was one thing Pierre-Luc Dubois was, it was efficient. It was the middle of September, and that meant training camps. That meant leaving Québec. That meant Ohio. That meant not seeing Pierre for weeks at a time, when the longest they had been apart since July was a two-day trip to Québec City Laurel took with her parents when they visited in August. Over the past two months, they had settled into a routine, and that routine was about to be broken. Grocery shopping, him washing the dishes while she dried, falling asleep together and waking up with legs tangled in the middle of the bed. She knew that he liked his coffee with a little bit of cream and more sugar, that Georgia got fussy if she wasn’t let out in the morning but Paul was more of a night owl, that dessert wasn’t supposed to be on his meal plan every day but that she could always get him to break for a slice of peach pie. He knew that she needed two Advil on the first day of her period because one just wouldn’t cut it, that her favorite Disney princess was Jasmine because of her independence, and that she liked to light lavender candles when she was stressed.

Pierre wheeled a bag out of the doorway. “That the last one?” Laurel asked, passing Phil’s leash to him as she held Georgia’s. He nodded. She spun her keys around on her finger. “Got both of your passports?”

Pierre patted his jacket pocket. “Right here.” It was easier for him; he could skip the wait in both countries. Exit Canada with the Canadian, enter the U.S. with the American.

It was 2 and his flight wasn’t until 4:15, but Laurel didn’t trust the traffic and she didn’t trust the wait times at the airport. “Guess we should get going then.”

“Guess we should.” Laurel grabbed one bag and he got the other, slinging his backpack over his shoulder and wheeling it out the door. It only took twenty minutes to get to the airport. Laurel pulled up next to the curb, double-checking the signs to make sure she wasn’t about to get fined for stopping, and put the car into park. Pierre was the first to open his door, grabbing both the dogs; Laurel followed suit a moment later.

“You’ve got to pop the trunk, babe,” Pierre murmured. He smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Oh, right,” she said, pressing the button on her key. It popped open with a telltale click; Pierre hefted out the black bag, she got the silver one. “Do you know how many people are going to have this exact bag? It’s going to be a nightmare at baggage claim, P” Laurel tried to joke. She always coped with humor.

Pierre laughed, this time a real one. “Fair enough. Guess I’ve got a lot riding on my luggage tags,” he said, flicking one of the offending objects around the handle of the bag, the black one. Laurel handed him the other handle, their fingers brushing as he gripped the metal. He put a finger under her chin, tilting her head to look up at him. He could see the apprehension in her eyes. There were a lot of things that Laurel Klerken did well, really well, but lying was never one of them. She was always an open book. “Hey, don’t look so down, Laur,” he said softly. “I know you’ll be missing your personal space heater and Piper will miss her siblings, but you’re coming to visit in two weeks and it’s going to be amazing. I’ll introduce you to the boys and the other wives, you’ll get to catch one of the preseason games, finally see my place in Columbus. It might be weird being alone for a while, but —” He cut himself off. “Scratch that, it will be weird for a while, for both of us, but we’ll get through it. You’re a great person, and not a terrible wife either. People have done long-distance relationships that were longer distances for more time, and they made it through just fine. You’ll be okay, Laur. We’ll be okay.”

Laurel took an unsteady breath, trying her best to put on a brave face. “Not a terrible wife, huh? Well, you’re not half a bad husband either.” As she spoke, she was thinking over his words. How normal they sounded, but how abnormal that was for them. They weren’t a normal couple, all they really were were friends who got married — right? So why was he saying those things, things that made him seem like a real husband talking to his real wife, things that were making her feel that maybe, just maybe, this marriage wasn’t as much of a hoax as the thought it was? And it was only because of that, only because she was either reading way too much into a situation that wasn’t even there or was the premier of reading people’s body language and being able to parse out their unsaid words, that she did what she did next. She threw her arms around her husband, and she kissed him.

#hockey imagine #hockey writing #pierre-luc dubois #hockey #hockey smut #hockey imagines #nhl imagine #nhl writing #nhl smut #nhl #nhl imagines #pierre luc dubois

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contrabandhothead · 3 years

Note

omg hi, i saw someone asking for a BoB ship and i wonder if i could get one too 🥺. so I'm greek, 1,58 (5'2''), i have chocolate brown hair and eyes and I'm veery light skinned. i have an older brother🥺, i like sketching (and painting sometimes) and i would like to study psychology and criminology or english literature. i never give a fuck about what people say, my favourite color is black, i love it when it rains and my fav season is winter. also I'm the clown friend 😎. & i love your acc :(

A/N: OH MY GOD I REMEMBER YOU!!!! i’m so sorry this took me forever to get to, thank you for your patience. i’m so happy you love my acc, thank you for stopping by for a ship! i love you so much, i hope you’re having an amazing day 💕

- RON SPEIRS -

- [ general ]

AGWJWIWJJWWJ I KNOW YOU’RE GOING TO SAY THAT IT’S BECAUSE OF YOUR USERNAME BUT IT’S ACTUALLY JUST BECAUSE IT’S A REALLY CUTE SHIP SO JUST BEAR WITH ME OKAY THANK YOU

Ron literally l o v e s how much smaller you are than him

it makes him feel like he’s your protector (even if you don’t need the protection), and therefore makes him feel more valued

it’s also great for cuddling, and he adores bending down a bit to press a kiss to your forehead

Ron likes to brush your hair for you if your arm gets tired, and he does it so gently because he’s worried he’ll yank your hair while trying to get out a knot

when i tell you he’s terrified your brother won’t like him... he’s t e r r i f i e d

he spends a lot of time making sure that he’ll make a good first impression on your family

Ron doesn’t usually care about how people perceive him (obviously i mean have you seen him react to rumors), but this is not the same when it comes to your family

he desperately wants them to like him, and oddly enough manages to charm every single one of them

he spends a lot of time with your brother, and is super relaxed about him being around, even if he wants your attention to be on him rather than your brother

this man adores just flipping through any of your sketchbooks, and almost loses his mind if he finds himself drawn in there

if you give him a sketch or painting, he’ll protect that thing with his life

god forbid anything happens to it, he’ll literally kill someone because it meant so much to him that you trusted him enough to give him one of your creations

he is MORE than willing to model for sketches or paintings if necessary

supports you in all your studies, and is always around to help you study

he’ll even rewrite your notes for you if you’re too tired to do it yourself, anything he can do to help

he loves that you don’t care what others say, especially about being with him

honestly, the only time he cares about what people say is when they say shit about you

even if you don’t care, he’s more than willing to throw hands with that person and put them in their place

he buys so many things that are black just because he looks at it and is like “that’s their favorite color. i need that.”

believe it or not, ron actually loves to stand out in the rain with you, especially if it involves dancing

he’ll take care of you after if you get sick out there

often relaxes with you by cuddling you and sitting close to the window while it rains, so you can see outside while he reads

don’t ever throw a snowball at him during winter. you will cause a snowball war, and he will win.

also loves winter, but hates being too cold

it’s nice to cuddle up to him during the colder months, since he’s practically a walking furnace

you’re the only person that can make him genuinely laugh, and he thinks all your jokes are the peak of comedy

he does not like to be pranked, but will tolerate it for you

if you do crazy shit, he’s doing it with you. ride or die baby let’s GOOOOOO

- [ how you two met ]

you were just like every other paratrooper in Easy, originally intimidated by the infamous Ronald Speirs

you hadn’t really seen him much, he was more of a legend than a man in your mind

that of course changed when you saw him sneaking around every once in a while back in Bastogne, darting between foxholes and trees

although he rarely spoke to the other men, he seemed to enjoy your company

checking on you between the nights, asking if you needed any extra supplies (you knew he stole them for you, but you let him do it regardless because you thought it was sweet)

you never thought anything of it. to be quite honest, it seemed to you like he had a begrudging respect for you, but never saw it as something more

in reality, ron was always watching you

he wanted to know what you liked so he could talk to you

he wanted to see your interactions with the other men, so he knew if he had to scare off any potential suitors (which he did do more than once)

he wanted to get to know you, he just didn’t know h o w to approach you

so for a while, he simply watched from afar

one night though, you decided to break the cycle

waiting in your foxhole, you glanced around, waiting for his shadowed figure to come darting through

this night, you were going to t r u l y speak to him

you were sick of how he danced around you. although it was entertaining for a while, it got old fast

you just had to take the opportunity to get to know him past his Ron Speirs™ persona

grinning, you watched as a dark shape moved quietly among the endless trees, making his way towards your foxhole

acting as nonchalantly as possible, you glanced at him as he crouched down beside you, watching as his every exhale turned into yet another cloud of white vapor

shifting closer slightly, you turned to him, mumbling “aren’t you going to sit in the foxhole with me for once?”

Ron tilted his head, surprised at your request

but after another moment he nodded, taking his place beside you

“you don’t talk much, do you?”

Ron simply chuckled and looked away, a blush beginning to dust his cheeks

“no, not really. it’s hard talking to beautiful people, they make me nervous”

you laughed, moving closer

“well, it’ll get easier talking to me with time... you’re stuck with me whether you like it or not”

#ron speirs #band of brothers #band of brothers ships

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mojofun · 4 years

Text

Not My Type (Sirius Black x Reader)

Hello earthlings :) This is an entry for This is an entry for a writing challenge I’m taking part in, launched by the wonderful @obsessedwithrandomthings for getting 500 followers; congrats again :) The prompt I chose this time was <<You look so good in my shirt>>. I can just imagine our dear Sirius using lame one-liners when flirting with girls, and this is the result. P.S. I’ve been listening to Motionless in White lately, so this thing is packed with lyrics references. Besides, Sirius looks like the kind of guy who would totally dig that style of music so I thought “why not?” I hope you enjoy it!

Gif not mine, credits to @snuffles-padfoot07

<<Remus?>>

No answer

<<Remus. Remus Lupin>>

Still silence

<<Remus John Lupin>>

Still no reply

<<Moony. Moony, Moony, Moony->>

<<WHAT?!>> The taller Marauder ultimately snapped, turning to glare at his bespectacled friend; said friend acted like nothing happened, simply holding up a slip of paper

<<Do you think Lily will like it?>>

Sighing, Remus gave the poem a skim before rolling his eyes

<<Won’t you give the poor girl a moment of reprieve, James?>>

<<Cmon, help a friend in need!>>

<<Why me?>>

<<You always has a way with words>>

A snort came from the opposite side of the room

<<And yet, he still got no date>>

Remus scowled

<<Prongs, why don’t you ask Padfoot then? Merlin knows Y/N loves his idiotic pickup lines>>

Sirius acknowledged the hit, rising from his bed and walking toward his two mates with a strut. Once there, he took James’s poem and read it, nodding in approval

<<Go for it, pal>>

<<What about you, oh great master of poetry?>> Moony teased, still miffed about Sirius’s jab <<How will you annoy your muse today?>>

The shorter male chuckled, smirking mischievously

<<Don’t worry, Moony. I’m very well-prepared>>

<<That’s exactly what worries me>>

_______

<<Y/N! Y/N!>>

Sirius greeted the H/C girl who’d just walked in the class with her friends. As soon as she saw him, she groaned

<<Oh no>>

<<Come sit by me!>>

Another H/N patted her back soothingly while she face-palmed

<>

<<Oh love, come on! You don’t need to be afraid of me!>>

<<I’m not scared: now that I think about it, you look like my boggart after I’ve cast Riddiculus>> The female deadpanned.

Sirius was stumped.

Beside him, Janes cackled

<<Your girl’s got sass, Padfoot>>

The other guy could only nod, watching as his crush took a seat as far as possible from him- or tried to: thanks to his distraction, all the other spots were occupied.

That meant she was sitting in the next desk.

Y/N hoped that she’d successfully quelled the Gryffindor’s idiotic onslaught.

Well, she did... Just for a little while though

<<Such a sharp tongue for someone so pretty, doll>>

<> The girl countered, glaring at him <<Do not tempt me>>

<> He cackled

<<Yes, my killing instincts are very strong right now>>

The quaint theatre was interrupted by the arrival of Professor Silvanus Kettleburn, who immediately gave dispositions for the class

<<Very well. Today, you will work in pairs>>

The sentence every student dreaded, especially poor Y/N.

It seemed luck was not on her side that day because, when the professor announced her partner, she was faced with a smug Sirius, grinning from ear to ear

<<You know, my therapist says I’m afraid of commitment. Wanna help me prove em wrong?>>

<<Interesting. I’ve never wanted to commit more>>

<<Really?>>

<<Yes; a murder>> The E/C-eyed student walked away from him, heading toward the fire crab the professor had assigned them

<<Ready to give up, Padfoot?>>

<<Never>>

<> Remus commented

<<She’s made of fire, but I can handle it. And no, James; I’m not talking about the crab>>

_______

<<No no no no. Stop right there>>

<<What?>>

<<You need to chop those before feeding the crab>>

<<Oh>>

<<Give them to me>>

Sirius nodded, handing her the food and watching her cut it, slowly and precisely

<<Where have you been all my life?>>

<<Hiding from you>> Y/N replied coolly.

The boy cackled

<<You’re smart, funny, pretty, and you’ve got an insane amount of sass. You’re everything I’m looking for in a girl>>

<<Wow, I’m so lucky>>

It would have been impossible to ignore the sarcasm lacing her words, but Sirius didn’t acknowledge it

<<Would you want to go watch a movie with me this weekend?>>

<<I’ve already seen it>>

<<How can you know?>>

<<You’re asking me out again: I’ve already lived this horror enough to last me a lifetime>>

The older Black brother laughed, shaking his head in amusement

<<Alright, let me try again>>

<<Please no>>

<<Can I take you out on Saturday?>>

<<Sorry, I’m having a headache this weekend>>

<<What?>>

<<Leftovers from the one you’re giving me now>>

But you->>

<<Bitch you’d give a fucking aspirin a headache>> She growled.

Once again, Sirius was at a loss for words. Not only had Y/N just used two swear words in a sentence, but he knew he’d already heard those words somewhere...

<<Wait a second. You listen to Motionless In White?>>

He cried out. The female snorted

<<Are you kidding me? They’re one of my favourite bands>>

<>

Finally, the tension between them seemed to dissipate. Finally, Sirius’s smile was not a smug grin but a real, happy smile.

Finally, Y/N smiled genuinely back at him.

How cliché would it be to say that they felt like they were the only ones in the world at the moment?

(Fire crab aside)

And yet, that exactly how they felt.

It was so exhilarating that Sirius just had to try again

<<Y/N?>>

<<Yes?>>

<> The girl chuckled, prompting him to continue <<but I’m here to stay, forever and always>>

She laughed more. It was not sarcastic or mirthless but a true, joyous laugh

<<You know, you’re not so bad once I get past the smug act>>

<>

<<You’re probably right, but don’t get ahead of yourself. My killing instinct are not raging right now: let’s keep it that way, shall we?>>

<<I’m ready to bleed to make amends>> He joked. The young woman cachinnated, shoving him playfully

<<You idiot. You’re making it hard not to like you>>

<<That was my objective>>

<<Continue on this road and you might just achieve it>>

<>

Y/N cackled one more time, shaking her head in amusement.

It was an incredibly welcome turn of events.

_______

Later that day, the two students sat together for lunch in the Great Hall, discussing anything that came to mind. Mostly their favourite bands.

The more they found out they had similar tastes the more engaged they became.

It was quite a sight. It surely left Remus and James gobsmacked: they would have never thought Y/N would actually want to be with Sirius. Didn’t he annoy her as much as James did Lily, with his dumb pickup lines?

Apparently not.

Their surprise grew even more when their friend suddenly asked her on a date- nothing new there.

They’d enjoyed endless attempts by Padfoot to win the heart of the smart and beautiful H/N.

Her answer, on the other hand, was something entirely unexpected

<<Yes, Sirius: I will go on a date with you>>

The black-haired Marauder offered her a huge smile, making her laugh

<<Thank you, darling. You won’t regret it>>

<>

<<I’ll even make sure the place I take you to has sharp knives, so you’ll know what to do if I get too annoying, alright?>>

The girl laughed so hard that tears fell from her eyes

<<You’re an idiot>>

<<Duly noted. But doesn’t this idiot deserve a kiss?>>

Remus and James half expected Y/N’s smile to turn into a frown, and for her to smack him in the face.

Instead, against all odds, she giggled and pulled him closer, pecking his cheek

<> Sirius beamed. Y/N snorted

<<Not entirely: you’re still an idiot>>

_______

Idiot or not, the date went so well that they went on a second one, and a third, a fourth... And so on, until they officially became a couple.

Which meant Remus, James and Peter had to deal with their best friend and his girlfriend sucking faces and being all lovey-dovey- though they were sure those two only did it to piss them off.

Well, they’d learnt how to deal with it, as long as it was just holding hands and kissing- making out, actually.

But none of them was ready to find the two of them in bed together in their dorm room

<<What the->>

<<Ah!>> Y/N startled, waking Sirius

<<For crying out loud, guys, won’t you ever knock?>>

The poor friends just stood there, red in the faces while Padfoot rubbed sleep out of his eyes.

Once he’d had enough, he shouted

<<Well, why are you still standing there? Get out, we need to change!>>

Not even Death-Eaters after them would have made the three boys run so fast.

The female chuckled, standing up and smoothing our her boyfriend’s shirt that she was wearing like a dress.

The boy in question stared at her adoringly, pulling her closer

<<You look so good in my shirt>>

He fully expected her to blush, but she smirked and replied cheekily

<>

The wink that came immediately after threw him for a loop

<<Y/N...>>

<<Yes, dear?>>

<<... That’s such a lame pickup line>>

<<Yeah... I stole the idea from you, along with your shirt>>

<<And my heart>> Sirius played along

<<... Just like that, the lame throne is yours again>>

<<But that makes you the queen of lame>> He pointed out.

She didn’t know what to reply to that, so she swatted him on the chest.

He gasped in horror

<<You said you’d never hurt me>>

His joke made her laugh.

When she calmed down enough, she teased

<<You’d still give a fucking aspirin a headache>>

<<Oh, are you an aspirin?>> For old times’ sake, he decided to throw in another lame pickup line <<I’d love to take you every 4-6 hours>>

<<Isn’t that too much for you?>> She teased. He chuckled and pulled her in his lap, pecking her cheek

<<You are too much for me, but I’m never letting you go>>

Despite the light atmosphere, those words held a promise of forever, and they both wanted that.

Their lips met and their hands held the other close.

Once again, as cliché as it may sound, they felt like the only two people in the world

___Extra____

Outside the door Remus, James and Peter stood still, looking at each other in confusion and embarrassment

<<How long do you think it will take?>>

<<Well, Wormtail, I don’t know much about Padfoot’s prowess in bed but->>

<<I’m not talking about that, James>> The shorter Marauder spluttered.

Remus sighed

<<That was probably the most embarrassing thing to ever happen to me. And that’s saying something, taking into account I hang out with you three>>

James cackled

<<Oh, Moony, you wouldn’t->>

<> Peter piped up again

<<What would that be?>>

<<Why are we still standing here?>>

<<Oh, right. We should come back later>>

<<Better yet, let’s change our house>> Remus groused <<Merlin knows I’m never going back there>>

After some silence, James spoke again

<<Hey, Moony, do you think if I used those pickup lines on Lily, she would->>

Professor McGonagall spent the whole day wondering if the incredibly loud sound she heard in the morning was actually a scream, and where it had come from

#dees500challenge #sirius black x y/n #sirius black x reader #sirius black fanfiction #sirius black imagine

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comradelup · 4 years

Text

Julia would never describe death as enlightening. Quite the opposite, actually. Maybe… endarkening…. Point is, she never knew death until she died.

She opens her eyes on the shore of the astral sea. She feels bruised all over, and half her mind is still fast asleep. Groggy. That’s the word for it.

The sunless grey sky is above her, and the sound of lapping waves fill her ears. Sand surrounds her on the ground, and it’s almost comfortable, even if it may be getting in her hair. She doesn’t want to move, so she doesn’t.

A weird sense of familiarity washes over her as lazy as the waves. She’s been here before, right? Or perhaps she’s seen one too many friends and comrades die for death to be confusing and scary. Her most likely theory is that The Raven Queen does this to people to ease them into death after trauma.

She recalls the events before her death. Kalen returned with vengeance to blow up Raven’s Roost. She bets he was bitter about his loss and decided to erase any memory of his weakness. Well, he got his revenge. Julia tried to get as many people as she could out, but a whole building fell on her as a result. One of the two leaders of the revolution is dead. She’s only happy he didn’t get Magnus.

Magnus… she remembers him. A cheerful carpenter, a loving husband, a great crewmate.

Wait. What?

The memories trickle into her mind like a summer creek. The two of them in flowing red robes, standing somewhere up high. On the deck of some ship, but on land. Above land.

The Starblaster.

There were others too. Beautiful twin elves, a plain-looking human, a crunchy dwarf, a wallflower of a human, and a gnome captain. Their names hit her like arrows to the chest.

Taako. Lup. Barry. Merle. Lucretia. Davenport.

It comes back faster now. The flow quickens. The eight of them, on the Starblaster, on an endless mission. Images flash in her mind. Good times, bad times, laughter, love, screaming, crying. Life and death alike.

They were running from something, running to something else. But… what?

At least she knows why death is familiar. She’s died before. An explosion, an accidental poisoning, turning to a statue… death is an old friend in a way. She remembers her friends dying too. The four judges killing everyone but Lucretia. That time everyone but her, Lup, and Lucretia died so it was months of girls’ nights. One year the twins died and everyone else tried to cook like them but couldn’t, because who can cook like the twins?

These memories don’t quite feel like her own. She’s missing something. Lup and Barry trying to understand the chemical makeup of the Light of Creation. Merle dying so many times talking to John. Magnus died in the first cycle at the hands of The Hunger.

A weak groan escapes her and she closes her eyes. This is giving her a headache, trying to think through the static. Static… static…

Fischer! Her eyes snap open, arm frozen halfway to rubbing her temple. Death really is enlightening, the voidfish’s power doesn’t work on the dead. Somehow she forgot everything, or at least everything in Lucretia’s journals.

Oh, poor Lucretia. Now that it’s coming back to her, she remembers Lucretia bringing her and Magnus to Raven’s Roost, trying to hide her tears. She told them, this is where you’ve lived your whole lives, it’s not much, but it’s home. Julia retroactively corrects that no, the Starblaster is home, Lucretia is home, along with the rest of the crew. Lucretia must have erased their memories of their mission, but Julia can’t quite remember why. She can’t bring herself to be truly angry though; she loves Lucretia too much to be.

She starts to remember more recent details too. Lup… Lup went missing. She’s nowhere to be found, even with Barry and Taako’s rigorous searching. She went missing after the eight of them made the… the… the Grand Relics.

The dam breaks, and she knows everything— the Light of Creation, The Hunger, oh stars.

She lets her arm fall and stares up, letting all the sadness show on her face. The world might end, and no one else but a dead woman will know how to stop it. Not even, right? All she knows how to do is run away. This plane will be consumed and feasted upon until there’s nothing left, and she’ll be destroyed right with everyone el—

“Um, Julia?”

Julia cranes her head back towards the sound of the voice. Upside down, she sees a pair of fancy shoes and the hem of fancy slacks. They step closer and Julia looks up at the sky again as a face comes into view.

“You’re Julia Burnsides, right? Are you okay?” the man asks, and he’s handsome. Not the same rustic and warm handsomeness of Magnus, but a sharp, well dressed handsome. It isn’t her thing, but it’s hard to not admit that this guy is a looker. His long dreadlocks are pulled back in a half up half down style, and some of them fall over his shoulder as he looks down at her.

“I’m Julia,” she says, and her voice is raw. She coughs into her hand and he looks sympathetic. “Who’re you?”

“I’m Kravitz. Let me help you up.” He holds out a hand, and she takes it. It’s cold as shit but she doesn’t comment on it as he helps her stand.

Her body doesn’t like being vertical apparently. She now knows her bruises are the incorporeal equal of the injuries sustained from her death, and they make all movement painful. She wobbles a bit when on two feet and balances herself on Kravitz’s steady hand.

“Thanks,” she mutters through the pain, because her parents didn’t raise a rude girl.

“Of course,” Kravitz says, taking his hand back and using both hands to hold onto a sharp scythe taller than him. It’s actually about Julia’s height, as she stands a good few inches above him.

“There’s a bit of… an issue here,” he continues, “When a person dies, they either go into the astral sea or the eternal stockade. Or, in special cases, to the Raven Queen herself to discuss joining her retinue. You shouldn’t have ended up here.”

He’s saying a lot of words at once. Her head’s still swimming. She feels dizzy. Remembering a century all at once after a falling building killed you is… tough to handle all at once. And it's not the position she should be in when discussing… what was it? Death crimes? He mentioned a stockade, right?

“I… I should…” She brings a hand to her head and rubs the part of her temple that isn’t super bruised.

“You don’t look good, here.” Julia’s staring at the ground, blinking and trying not to sway, so she doesn’t see what he does. She hears fabric ripping, and he puts a cold hand on her shoulder.

“Step right through here,” he says, voice quiet. He seems tuned in to her headache and is accommodating, for which she's thankful.

She follows his direction, through a portal of sorts. One second she’s on a beach, the next she’s in a throne room, four stories tall. The floors and walls are black marble with an iridescent sheen to them. The far left wall is floor to ceiling windows, showing off the astral sea. It's beautiful, swirling rainbow waters with millions of lights floating above the surface. The sky is grey, but not like it’s covered by clouds, it’s naturally grey. Not a sun or cloud to be seen. In the window sills are ravens, hopping around or snoozing or watching her. All of them are silent in the presence of their queen.

The Raven Queen is hard to perceive. She is in the back of the room, on a large throne. Shadows cover that end of the room, so she can’t see the queen’s face. She does know she’s huge, though. Tens of feet tall, Julia guesses she’d be almost as tall as the throne room if she wasn’t sitting. She’s wearing an impeccable dark suit glittering with gold accents and jewelry. There are rings on her gloved fingers and bracelets on her wrists, and her hands sit on the arms of the throne. One leg is crossed over the other, letting a dark flowing cape pool at one foot.

In her presence, Kravitz kneels. Following, Julia does the same. He says, “My Queen, I found Julia Burnsides on the shore of the astral sea, disoriented and in pain. I don’t know what her soul’s fate is, so I come to you for guidance.”

Julia stays quiet, looking at the floor. She can kind of see her reflection, and sees that her face isn’t as beat up as it feels. In fact, it’s completely free of injury. She’s also wearing her IPRE robe. Huh.

After a moment of silence, The Raven Queen speaks. “Julia Burnsides, you have died twenty-two times, including your most recent death.”

Julia looks up to the queen and sees Kravitz staring at her bewildered out of the corner of her eye. She can’t see the queen’s expression, but her voice makes her sound accusatory. So Julia nods, unsure of what else to say.

“Yet… you have entered the Astral Plane every time. You also never escaped the plane. That is an anomaly.”

“I can explain, your majesty.” Julia remembers other Astral Planes too, with the occasional alternate death deities. At least in this plane, it’s The Raven Queen and not that other one, The King of Death and Insects. She hates bugs.

“Please do.” The queen waves a hand, and two armchairs appear, with a coffee table in front of them. Julia takes the silent invitation and moves to sit down in one. Two mugs of tea appear and she takes one. What's most strange is Kravitz seems more confused than her as he does the same. Julia must be a real edge case.

She takes a sip of tea and feels the warmth travel down her throat into her stomach, then spread to her whole body. It seeps away the pain and clears her head, making her sigh in relief and relax into her seat.

“Now,” The Raven Queen says, “explain your deaths.” She holds up a palm in her direction and pushes it towards her. Julia feels a breeze blow past her as a Zone of Truth appears around her. Admittedly, she’s developed a familiarity with it thanks to Merle, but she lets the spell affect her this time. She has no reason to lie to a queen.

“I… I don’t know where to start,” Julia says. If only she had Lucretia’s journals and could read them to the queen. “Do you know about the multiverse theory?”

She goes on to explain everything from the beginning. Where she's really from, the Light of Creation landing on her home plane, and the original mission of the IPRE. The Hunger and how it interrupted this mission, the cycles that brought her and her family from the dead. She even explains that this is the first death where she wasn’t put into the astral sea. (Except for that one time she and Barry ended up in that plane’s stockade, though. It was only an experiment gone wrong, after all, so why include it?)

All of this is new information for The Raven Queen and Kravitz, but it feels new to Julia too. For some of the details she says them without thinking and then reflects on them. Taako made a fake Light of Creation? Oh right, he did!

After she’s done explaining, she sits back, taking a big sip of her tea. Her cup never seems to empty and for that, she’s glad, because every sip brings back that warm feeling in this cold, dead plane.

Kravitz looks bewildered and intrigued by the story, but also says nothing. The Raven Queen is quietly contemplative for a moment, then says, “Those relics are causing a lot of death. You created them?”

Julia flushes. “Yes, your majesty, but we didn’t mean to cause wars. The Light of Creation needs to be needed, so we tried to make intriguing objects. They ended up using the people wielding them instead of the other way around.” She looks down into her lap, staring at the tea swirling in the mug. Voice low, she adds, “We would never do that to so many innocent people.”

She can tell she brought down the mood of the room, evidenced by Kravitz’s kind of awkward look as he clearly doesn’t know how to make her feel better. She can’t bring herself to care though. Maybe ignorance really is blissful, she was happiest she’s been in decades when all she knew was Raven’s Roost.

“Things like this are rarely intentional,” The Raven Queen says, her tone somber. “These objects, they are an affront to the nature of life and death. They are an insult to my domain.”

“You’re really good at cheering people up, you know that?” Julia deadpans, apathetically staring at her drink. Kravitz stares at her with wide eyes.

“I am saying this to ask: can you stop these objects from killing people?” The Raven Queen asks.

“I… imagine that we could. We’ve handled the Light so much that we are more or less immune to it’s craveability.”

“I’m sorry, ‘craveability?’” Kravtiz interjects. Julia nods, sipping her tea.

“So your living crewmates could put an end to these wars?” The Raven Queen asks.

“They’re the only ones who can,” Julia says.

The Raven Queen is silent for another moment. Then, “Until all Grand Relics are collected and disposed of, your family’s bounties will be called off.”

Julia sighs, relieved, and sags into her seat. Then sits back up. “But what will happen to me?”

“You cannot influence the Prime Material Plane anymore. You have the option of joining the astral sea, or lessening your family’s sentence by serving time yourself.”

“But their deaths are like mine. They didn’t escape the Astral Planes willingly and you technically can’t punish them.”

Kravitz looks at her like she’s walking into a volcano and expecting to live. She gets it, she knows she’s talking back to a goddess, but she doesn’t care.

“Lup Hallwinter and Sildar Hallwinter are liches, and they will be punished accordingly.”

“Just call them— ugh—” Julia huffs a sigh and sags into her chair in frustration. She puts her cup down and says, “They did it ethically, for the greater good. Lup and Barry were able to do so much good without death to stop them!”

“There is a reason death stops them. Everyone thinks they have a good reason to cross me.”

“You wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for them!” Julia shouts, standing. Kravitz stands too, scythe at the ready. Julia pays him no mind, pointing a finger at the queen. “You OWE them!”

The air is still. Kravitz is ready to strike at the queen’s order. Julia doesn’t give a shit. Goddess or not, she can’t act like she knows Barry and Lup enough to just declare their fates. Other liches? Yeah, they’re almost always corrupt and selfish, but what Lup and Barry did is selfless if anything.

“There is no point in arguing. Make your choice.”

Julia raises her chin defiantly. The same look she’s given corrupt warlords and wealthy industrialists, the look she’d give John if she met him rather than Merle. The queen is unmoving and Julia knows her effort is futile, at least now. She crosses her arms. “I’ll serve their sentence.”

“It’s decided then. Julia Burnsides, you will begin training as a Reaper, serving the sentences of Lup and Sildar Hallwinter. Reaper Kravitz, you will train her."

#REBLOGS > LIKES lol #taz #taz balance #the adventure zone #taz julia #balance #julia #txt #writing #8th bird julia #is my fave #i love her so much #and reaper julia!! the potential is delicious #life after death

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kimberly-spirits13 · 4 years

Text

Moroccan Outlaw

Pairing (Bart Allen x reader)

Synopsis: Living in the wilderness of Morocco by yourself after your parents were killed for witch craft, you fight to survive with everything that you have learned of magic and the myth that now surrounds your name. You think that your life will never change of this endless cycle until one day, a certain team comes to your dwelling to investigate strange news of something powerful lurking in the forest. That is when your life changes forever.

Warnings: None

You had never considered yourself a threat to anyone or anything that wasn’t a threat to you. You nor your parents had ever meant anyone any harm, however the world is a cruel one and doesn’t take lightly to things that it does not understand or take the time to adapt to. At the age of 7, your parents were taken and burned after being found out they were practitioners of witchcraft and magic. They had both come from a long line of magic users and taught you everything that they knew, including the combat that your father had picked up while serving in the army during his time. The only thing that you had of them now was a few books of magic, a few charms, and faint memories that haunted your dreams at night.

The town considered you a myth, a legend, and even an outlaw. At just the age of 8, you had learned what it took to survive in these rare conditions and kept to yourself, avoiding people at almost all costs. Tonight, was a full moon. This was the most significant time of the lunar phases because it was when the most powerful book of spells that your parents had left you gained even more spells and charms to use. You had opted to stay in your house and practice the spells that you would be gifted. Well, if it could even be considered a house. The place that you lived was like a three- story tree house over a wide stream. It was in a smaller clearing but still high enough up that no passerby would see it. There you and your panther, Onyx would live out your lives.

It was a normal day waiting for the spells and nothing in the world was happening to your knowledge outside of the usual mess of things. Well, at least that it what you thought.

_______________________________________________________________________

“Team, there has been a sudden disturbance in a sector of the forests of Morocco. It is thought to be magic with the level of power and magnitude that it emitted, however we cannot know for sure.” Nightwing informed the team, “We need to find out who or what this is and see who’s side it’s on.”

The only ones who weren’t on a mission right now was Nightwing, Blue Beatle, Impulse, Beast Boy, and Robin. Everyone else was either off or on mission assigned earlier. They got into the ship and headed off to Morocco to investigate whatever was going on.

_______________________________________________________________________

You settled in on your cot next to Onyx and watched as the sun started to set. Everything was going as planned. You had your herbal tea next to you and your spell book in your lap just like all the nights before. Everything was calm and peaceful until the magic sensors that you had put around your dwelling picked on a low flying craft. Onyx’s ears pricked up as you listened closely.

Hearing it get closer and then the sound stopping made you go on high alert. You walked to your table and summoned a looking spell to see what on Earth was going on. You saw nothing at first, but upon further investigation, you found that the ship was shielded with invisibility tech.

“Interesting.” You thought, “Tell me who these people are.” You said after seeing a few figured jumping out.

“Heroes?” You thought aloud, “I wonder what they’re doing here.” “Onyx, it’s time to go for a hunt.”

Onyx’s ears pricked up and he stood, walking to your side. Sliding on your combat boots and gloves, you stepped out of the shelter and traveled by the trees to where the ship was, not too far away. You observed them from a distance, sticking to the shadows and staying out of site along with your panther who was circling the group.

“Nightwing, I feel like we’re being watched.” The smaller one with a cape and jet -black hair said to who looked to be the oldest.

“I know what you mean.” Nightwing replied, “Just keep your guard up and...” He stopped dead in his tracks, “Impulse, don’t move a muscle.”

Everyone started at Impulse as he stopped, noticeably frightened at Nightwing’s command. They looked around until seeing a massive black cat staring at them from a small clearing like it was about to pounce. Then they all saw what Nightwing really was pointing out. A snake was coiled up in front of Impulse waiting for him to take a step closer. All of them were startled when you spoke up.

“Down Onyx.” You said in Arabic.

The panther went into a resting stance and didn’t pounce at the team but you on the other hand came into few after a few seconds of moving in the shadows.

You then stared at the snake, eyes gleaming red before it contracted and looked straight at her hissing. After a second it had been ripped apart and withered away with the wind.

“You know you really should be more careful hero.” Your magic swirled from your fingers before disappearing once more, “The floor of these jungles move with life.”

You jumped down to the ground, leaning on a massive boulder, “Who are you? Quickly, before I have Onyx sick you.”

“We’re part of the Justice League.” The leader with a blue and black suit and domino mask said, “I’m Nightwing, this is Robin, Impulse, Blue Beatle, and Beast Boy.”

“What is your business?” You demanded.

“We are here to investigate a surge of energy. Now I can assume that you were that energy surge. We’re here to take you somewhere where you’ll be safer and away from all of this.” He finished.

You smirked some at how hopeful he sounded. That was something that you had learned not to trust over the years. Hope was a delusion and something to pity for all who really relied on it.

“I’ll come. But only if you can catch me.” You smirked, lifting your index finger which started swirling with glittering red and purple smoke before your body was completely engulfed in it and you reappeared in the tree tops.

“Base.” You said to Onyx before starting off away from where the team was.

“Catch her.” Nightwing said as they all started to go after her in preassigned teams.

After some time of losing the team, you stopped on a branch and rested for a second.

“Watcha doin up there?” You heard from below. You smiled some when you saw Impulse.

“Becoming quite bored of this endeavor.” You said.

“Well then, allow me to entertain you malady.” He darted up the tree fast enough to not give you time to react, “Gotcha.” He smirked grabbing you.

“Please, can’t a girl play hard to get?” You said before disappearing once more, “Over here lover boy.” You waved from a different tree.

“Impulse, Y/N is a witch, take her to the starting point and we’ll give her a dose of some white light.” Nightwing said into the comm before Impulse was about to take off after her again.

“Got it wing.” He replied.

Impulse chased you to the starting point before you noticed what was happening. You went to turn around before Blue Beetle shot a beam of white light at you. With somewhat of a mix of a screech and scream, you fell off the branch that you were on and plummeted to the forest floor.

“I got her!” Impulse said going for you.

After a few seconds, you regained your senses and looked around before meeting his gaze. Rubbing your temples you spoke up, “Thank you.” You got out of his arms and brushed yourself off.

“No problem beautiful.” He said smiling at you as he got a good look at your figure.

Your skin glimmered in the moon light, contrasting against the dark red and black costume. Your now purple and gold eyes shinned in the moon light as you swept your hair out of your face.

“I don’t even know you name.” You said feeling weird that this random costumed person would just chase you down only to save you.

“Oh, I’m Bart, Bart Allen. That is presuming you’re coming with us.” He said.

“Y/N, Y/L/N.” You replied putting your hand out for what you thought would be shaking hands. Instead he took yours and kissed the top of it like he was trying to either be a gentleman or funny. You couldn’t decide which one it was.

“So, you’re coming with us?” Nightwing asked.

“Yes, well, that is as long as I can grab my panther and my books.” You said, “Trust me, it won’t be long.”

He nodded and you chanted a spell before the entire contents of your home was in a small box and your panther walked up next to you. He wasn’t that big and would never get that big which is why your parents wanted you to have him.

You sat next to Impulse and watched the forest fade out of view. Your home was now a tiny speck in the great big world, and you figured that you’d never see it again whether you wanted to or not.

“Have you ever been outside of your home?” Impulse asked you noticing the weary look on your face.

You shook your head, “Never.” “My parents always hid me away in fear that I would also be... well, executed with them if we were ever caught with magic.”

“I’m sorry.” He said giving a sympathetic look at taking your hand, “You’ll like it at the cave, trust me.”

“I’m sure I will.” You said as Onyx laid his head on your lap.

______________________________________________________________________________

*Narrator voice* A few months later

“Hey babe.” Bart said kissing your cheek.

“You missed Speedster.” You said before he pulled you into an actual kiss.

“Watcha reading?” He asked laying his head on your shoulder.

“Spell book, tonight’s a full moon so it got new spells a few minutes ago.” You answered.

“Could we cuddle?” He asked you.

“Will you still let me read?” You asked.

“Mhmm.” He answered.

“Okay.” You picked up your book and the both of you walked to your bedroom with Onyx who was tailing you.

The both of you curled up on your bed while Onyx jumped to the foot of it and laid down. Wrapping into the blankets, Bart laid his head on your thy and rubbed circles on your hips.

“I love you.” You said.

“I love you too Y/N/N.”

#bart allen x reader #young justice x reader #dc x reader #impulse x reader #bart allen #impulse #writers of tumblr #fan fic stuff #fan fic

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strifescloud · 3 years

Text

the winds will lead us somewhere

6.4k words, kuwana gou/koryuu kagemitsu, G rating

getting together, fluff

If Kuwana listens, he can hear the joy of the soil at being tilled by Koryuu’s gentle hand, the way the things he cultivates yearn to grow under his practiced care, a joyous chime of things that thrive because they are beloved.

He hums along, because he likes Koryuu too.

read on ao3

There are many things that make up the earth, Kuwana thinks.

There is that which grows on the surface and within it, and that is what most people see, the waving blades of grass in a summer’s breeze and the vegetables of the harvest, the worms that are washed up by the rain and the thick roots of the trees you trip over in the dark. Life flourishes across its surface, gorgeous and fleeting, a cycle born from the rich soil.

But there is also that which lies deeper, the things people dig for - things that are lost and buried by calamity, the bones of the dead that are left behind after their flesh decays and nourishes the life around them, and even the beginnings of metal, the ore from which swords like them were forged.

When Kuwana digs his fingers into the dirt, soil damp and fresh against his skin, he feels like he can sense it - that this is where he came from, the beginnings of his body as a sword, and this is where he will end, his flesh offered to the earth.

The earth also sings, but Kuwana isn’t sure anyone can hear that except him.

“Do you ever listen to the earth, Koryuu-san?”

It can’t hurt to ask.

Koryuu pauses where he is bent over their flourishing crop of carrots, his hair shifting and spilling over his shoulders as he turns to pin Kuwana with a confused stare.

“I can’t hear anything out here except us.” Koryuu rolls his shoulders, confusion melting off his face as easily as it had formed, and he turns back to his task, “Do you hear something, Kuwana-san?”

Kuwana hums, shrugs, turns his mind back to the feeling of soil beneath his hands as he keeps harvesting for their dinner. It’s a shame, he thinks, that Koryuu can’t hear it, because the soil beneath them sings brightly of his praises, in high, soft tones that echo the end of spring, the sprouting of the sunflowers in summer. If Kuwana listens, he can hear the joy of the soil at being tilled by Koryuu’s gentle hand, the way the things he cultivates yearn to grow under his practiced care, a joyous chime of things that thrive because they are beloved.

He hums along, because he likes Koryuu too.

It’s not something he thinks about too hard, because to Kuwana it is simple. He likes when they are assigned to work the fields together, sometimes in silence and sometimes spending their hours in gentle, slow conversation. He likes Koryuu’s hair, long and beautiful like a field of wheat under the sunrise, even though it always gets in his way. He likes Koryuu’s eyes, always kind and ever-wistful, sometimes staring off into the distance like he wanted the horizon to come take him away. He likes when they sit on the engawa after a long day’s work, their hands no longer in the soil but the dirt still under their fingernails, and they sit and talk about everything and nothing at all until the ache in their muscles begins to subside.

“You know, I always hear you humming to yourself over there. What, are you practicing for Kotegiri-kun’s lessons?”

Kuwana shakes his head, smiling, and the potatoes he’s harvesting go into his basket. It kind of feels like a secret between him and the soil, but he wants to give an answer nonetheless.

“Things grow better if they know they’re loved.”

This is true of both plants and people - and if swords could be people now, they would learn to grow as well. So it would be nice if Koryuu was a little closer to the earth, could hear the way it hums beneath them, but Kuwana understands.

I’ve been all over the place, you know, Koryuu had told him once, both of them watching the sun’s slow descent past the horizon, went from person to person, place to place, family to family. Feels like everybody else here has got their thing - lots of talk of former masters, or places they’ve been, the things that were important to them. Things that made them manifest the way they are, y’know?

He hadn’t turned to face Kuwana, but something about the way he stared out into the wide fields had seemed so melancholy as he spoke.

I’ve been so many places as a sword, and Koryuu had smiled then, but it was neither happy nor sad, and I was wielded by so many people, but I don’t know if there’s somebody I would call “my former master”.

Kuwana had laughed, then, at the voice Koryuu had put on, a dry imitation of so many of their fellow sword warriors.

Even now I guess I’m still looking, huh? Koryuu had shrugged, an odd vulnerability in the way his shoulders curled in, I like it here and all, but I feel like I’m missing something - that thing that tells you that you’re home. Guess they’ve all found it before, so they can see it again here.

Kuwana had hummed at him, considering, but Koryuu had barrelled on, almost as if he needed to get the words out while he could.

I know I’m meant to be here, he’d said as he stared down at his knees, legs swinging childishly over the side of the engawa, and I know they’re my master now, for better or worse. But I keep feeling like, I dunno, I just gotta get up and walk and keep walking and see whatever it is I find beyond that horizon.

Kuwana doesn’t really share the feeling, but he sees it in Koryuu’s face all the time. So he does get it - that Koryuu hadn’t learnt how to put down roots yet, still blowing this way and that like dandelion seeds in the wind, and maybe that airy heart of his wasn’t meant to be so attuned to the depths of the soil.

So if he can’t hear it, then Kuwana will sing along, both in hopes that it might reach Koryuu - might help him understand that the gentle affection he shows to the life he cultivates in the fields is returned, that this place already loves him even if he’s not ready for it - and because Kuwana thinks he is something that grows better with Koryuu, too.

He wants to reach out, try and capture that fleeting, wandering presence for as long as he can before it flits out of reach.

“Hope the potatoes can hear you, then.” Koryuu replies, his laugh echoing across the fields, “You really do love fieldwork, don’t you?”

Kuwana smiles, because it’s true, and the greatest joy he’s found since becoming alive is the feeling of soil beneath his hands.

“I was treasured by a farming family.” He says, adding more potatoes to his basket, “We fight our enemies on the battlefield, sure, but agriculture is about facing nature in its entirety. Besides, a healthy body is as great a weapon as your sword, don’t you think? It all starts from here.” He pats the freshly disturbed soil back into place, smiling down at it still like a proud parent, “Healthy soil, carefully cultivated, for a healthy diet and a healthy body.”

Koryuu’s looking at him now with a face Kuwana hasn’t learnt how to read yet, but it isn’t upset, so he doesn’t worry.

“I was with a farming family for a while too, but I guess I didn’t get all of that out of it.” Koryuu replies, but his hands are still gentle as he tends to the carrots, and Kuwana wonders if that is entirely true.

“What did they teach you?” Kuwana asks, because for all Koryuu talks of his journeys he rarely speaks of the particulars. Koryuu shrugs in response, tossing his long hair back over his shoulders from where it had fallen into his face as he leaned over.

“A lot of things,” He says vaguely, “but mostly that humans are full of mysteries, I guess. Can’t say I really get them, even after all this time - getting hung up on the weirdest things, like money and social status and who you or your parents or your parents’ parents were related to.” He shrugs again, pulls a face that makes Kuwana laugh, “It’s all kinda silly, right?”

“Yeah, I don’t get it either.” Kuwana agrees, and they both turn back to their task, silence falling between them again broken only by Kuwana’s quiet humming.

Kuwana finishes first, his basket full for the day’s harvest, so he wanders over to help Koryuu with the last of his own.

“Oh, thanks!” Koryuu says brightly, shuffling his own basket to sit between the two of them. It’s nice, Kuwana thinks as they work side-by-side, silent aside from the sounds of the harvest. Being with Koryuu was always nice, never complicated, always making the work days barely feel like work at all (not that it ever was, really, because Kuwana loved agriculture and he loved these fields). Koryuu’s presence was just warm, as if the sunset on the horizon that he chased had settled into his bones, and Kuwana thought he could spend endless days just like this one.

Koryuu sprawls in the dirt once he’s done, groaning with exhaustion and staring up at the sky.

“Now, Koryuu-san, don’t sit down after a long day’s work.” Kuwana leans down, stretching his hand out, “You’ll never get up again.”

Koryuu grins back, his hair stuck to his neck with sweat and dirt smudges across his cheeks, and Kuwana’s heart sings in harmony with the earth. Koryuu grabs his outstretched hand, letting himself be hauled off the ground and slinging an arm around Kuwana’s shoulder once he’s standing again.

“Fine work today again, Kuwana-san!” Koryuu pats him on the shoulder once and then lets him go, bending over to pick up the baskets that hold their harvest, and though he steps away the breeze blows his cape back towards Kuwana, the hem brushing against his ankles, as if to stop them from being truly separated. Koryuu straightens, baskets tucked under his arms, and then immediately laughs in frustration as the wind blows his long hair right into his eyes.

“Ahh, why’d I manifest with all this, huh?” He tosses his head, but the wind blows his hair right back across his face, “I should cut it all off, honestly.”

Kuwana tugs off his glove, somehow afraid of getting the dirt on Koryuu even though it’s already streaked across his skin and hair, and reaches out with his bare hand, brushing the hair out of Koryuu’s face and tucking it gently behind his ear. Koryuu lets out a breath as Kuwana’s hand continues on its path, following the cascade of hair down his throat, knuckles brushing the dragon that peeks out from his collar before it retreats back to Kuwana’s pocket.

“Don’t cut it off.” He says lightly, Koryuu’s cape still brushing his ankles and the setting sun casting their twin shadows across the fields, “It’s nice. Let it grow.”

Koryuu stares back at him, his fingers flexing on the baskets he carries under his arms.

“Okay,” he says finally, after the silence has stretched far beyond comfortable, “I will.”

Kuwana laughs, tapping Koryuu on the arm as he passes, leading him back towards the citadel.

“Kuwana-san?”

The breeze is nice through their little room, a cool balm for the sweat that trickles down his throat and soaks into his shirt, and Kuwana finds himself turning into it, trying to catch more of it on his skin.

“Kuwana-san?”

“Oh, sorry, Kotegiri.” Kuwana replies absently, turning away from the window again, “I got a bit distracted.”

Koryuu is working the fields again - Kuwana can hear the distant, joyous chime of the leaves, the sound of freshly turned soil. Kotegiri frowns at him, peering out the same window into the still horizon.

“Is there something out there?” He asks, turning his confused gaze back to Kuwana, and Kuwana just shrugs.

“I was listening to the earth.” He wishes they would understand sometimes, the ever-present hum beneath their feet that no one else seemed to hear, how his mind would run with its harmonies and leave him behind.

“What’s up, Kuwa? The earth?” Buzen interrupts, clapping him on the shoulder excitedly, “What’s it saying?” Kuwana opens his mouth, but Buzen barrels onwards, “Huh? What’s it say? Anything good?”

“It says you’re nosy, Buzen.” Kuwana replies, exasperated but smiling as Buzen nods enthusiastically.

“I don’t really get it, but cool! The earth talks about me!�� He says with a bright smile as Matsui laughs quietly on the other side of the room. He can hear Murakumo whisper something into Samidare’s ear, and Kuwana thinks that’ll be the end of it until the earth rumbles beneath his feet, discontented and amused all at once.

“Ah, Koryuu-san.” He blurts out in response, and he only realises he’s said it aloud when everyone else in the room stares at him again.

“Koryuu...san?” Kotegiri repeats, fixing him with a confused stare. Kuwana feels an odd burning sensation begin to rush across his cheekbones, and he swears the room feels suddenly warmer.

“Ah, it’s - he’s working on the fields today, and-” Kuwana tries to explain, tripping over his words awkwardly, but a loud gasp from Kotegiri cuts him off.

“Is that what you were looking at?” Kotegiri rushes forward, grabbing Kuwana’s arm and shaking him slightly, “Kuwana-san! Why didn’t you tell me?!”

“Tell you?” Kuwana repeats, because he had only just heard through the soil that Koryuu had tripped over a sleeping Akashi in the fields, hiding from his own duty, the earth resonating with concern and amusement.

“Do you like Koryuu-san?” Kotegiri’s voice is insistent, shaking him again, and Kuwana smiles at the spark of light in his eyes.

“Of course I do.” That seems obvious - Koryuu is his friend, after all.

“No, no.” Kotegiri leans further into Kuwana’s space, trying to stare past the thick veil of hair into his eyes, “Do you like like him?”

“He’s my friend.” Kuwana says, tone rising almost like a question. Kotegiri sighs, releasing Kuwana from his vice grip and gesturing animatedly as he steps back.

“Not like friends! I read about it in those magazines that Master likes.” Kotegiri’s hands are on his hips now, his presence much grander than his small frame as he stares Kuwana down, “It’s about love.”

Kuwana blinks, and he hears Matsui sigh behind him.

“Ah, it makes the heart race, pumping the blood faster and faster.” Kuwana turns to look at him and Matsui sighs again, staring dreamily out of the window that Kuwana had previously claimed.

“Come on, sit down.” Kotegiri tugs at Kuwana’s hand until they’re both sitting on the floor, Buzen joining them right at Kuwana’s side, patting him on the shoulder reassuringly, “What do you like about Koryuu-san?”

“This is a little embarrassing.” Kuwana says awkwardly, but Kotegiri frowns at him.

“Kuwana-san, this is important!” Kotegiri keeps frowning, looking a little disappointed, and Kuwana sighs.

“I like spending time with Koryuu-san.” He drags one hand across the flooring, wishing it was the familiar feeling of soil beneath his fingers, and continues with a laugh, “The earth likes him too. He’s gentle. I like it when we talk, no matter what it’s about.” He stops, feeling awkward again.

“And?” Kotegiri prompts, and Kuwana tries to continue.

“I like it when he smiles. He’s sadder than he looks, so it doesn’t happen as often as you think.”

He’s treading into territory he doesn’t really want to say aloud, like how he hopes Koryuu finds that feeling of home here at last, that he stops being adrift and lost - that Kuwana wants to reach out and take his hand and hold him here, but he can’t cage him if he wants to be free.

Kotegiri’s eyes seem to sparkle, and Kuwana thinks he might be tearing up.

“Oh.” Kotegiri says, taking Kuwana’s hand again, “I’m so happy for you!”

Kuwana blinks at him again.

“Why?”

“Because it’s love!” Kotegiri leaps to his feet, clapping his hands, “And that’s something very special.”

Love, Kuwana repeats in his mind.

He thinks he knows love already. He’s been human long enough, been among humans even longer, to know how love sits in the air. It’s comfortable - humans feel love every day. It sits in all the dusty corners of their lives, a foundation as solid as the earth to walk on.

Kuwana knows love. He loves so many things, after all - the earth, the fields, the other Gou swords, Tonbokiri-sama, all the parts of his everyday life. It’s ever-present, a constant warmth in his bones, and he never has to question it.

But does he love…

“Kotegiri,” Buzen interrupts, “why do you know so much about love?”

“When you sing and dance on stage, you have to make your audience feel loved!” Kotegiri responds enthusiastically, clapping his hands, “So I had to learn more about how to make that kind of atmosphere, right?”

“Sounds good!” Buzen stands, leaving Kuwana sitting alone on the floor.

“Let’s continue, everyone!” Kotegiri calls, and the others begin to re-assemble into their formation, “Now, repeat after me!”

“Two halves of a melon…” Samidare murmurs, and Kuwana stands to take his position.

“Five, six, seven, eight-”

There is always a comfort to be found with soil beneath his hands.

Another long day in the fields had passed, the sun beginning to set once again, and Kuwana feels that warmth in his bones.

“Kuwana-san, are you done?” Koryuu calls, and Kuwana nods slowly.

Love, Kotegiri had said.

“Kuwana-san?”

“Koryuu-san,” Kuwana says, rolling an onion between his palms, “what do you know about love?”

He hears a long sigh above him, the sound of boots crunching the soil as they walk over to him. Koryuu sits across from him, taking the onion gently out of his hands and putting it in his basket.

“You always ask hard questions.” He says with another sigh, reaching out and tugging at where Kuwana’s collar was slightly askew, patting it into place, and Kuwana smiles a little as the hand withdraws, “Love’s a pretty crazy thing, isn’t it?” Koryuu shrugs, pulling his now-tangled hair out from where it was stuck under his own collar, “Humans do all kinds of weird, extravagant things for love - leaving their whole lives behind, spending all their money, killing people, waging wars.”

“You think so?” Kuwana frowns at the ground again, avoiding Koryuu’s gaze. Kotegiri’s words feel like they’re ringing in his ears, rising above the ever-present song of the earth, but he doesn’t know what to do with them yet, “Were you ever loved by your master?”

Koryuu shrugs again, laughing, the sound carefree but with a note of something Kuwana doesn’t know how to handle.

“That’s different, isn’t it?” Koryuu replies, still with that same note in his voice, “A human will love a tool because it’s useful. It makes you rich, it kills your enemies. When it’s no longer useful, that love will wane,” Koryuu traces his fingers through the dirt beneath him, “like the moon. Maybe it’ll come back one day - or maybe you’ll be sold, traded, forgotten, left to gather dust somewhere. Humans are fickle like that, you know?”

“I was treasured.” Kuwana says firmly, because this is a thing that he knows, as certain as the sun setting in the west, “My former masters cherished me.”

Koryuu laughs again, clapping one hand on Kuwana’s shoulder as he rises, then extending it down to pull Kuwana up with him.

“They loved a sword they could wield.” Kuwana takes the hand and Koryuu hauls him to his feet, “It’s different when a person loves a person.”

Koryuu’s hand is still in his.

Kuwana wonders, absently, if the reason Koryuu can’t hear how loudly the earth sings of him is because he isn’t ready to accept that it loves him yet.

“Koryuu-san,” Kuwana says firmly, “you’re a person now, too. And the other people here love you.”

Plant your roots here, a part of him wants to say, but it’s selfish to keep a wanderer from the road. Koryuu’s smile is unreadable, tilting his head and staring as if he’s trying to see past Kuwana’s hair and into his obscured eyes, fingers shifting in Kuwana’s grasp.

“Our master loves a sword they can wield.” Koryuu repeats the words, but there’s a hint of uncertainty in them, a shakiness as he takes back his hand.

“There’s other people here, too.” Kuwana says, but that’s all he’s willing to say. He picks up his basket and Koryuu follows suit, leading him back to the citadel in silence.

Maybe that desire, selfish and selfless at once, is what Kotegiri had seen in him - wanting to spend every day just like this, the two of them wrapped in the endless song of the fields, Koryuu smiling at Kuwana’s gentle humming as the sun passes overhead. But more than that, just wanting Koryuu to know what it means to have somewhere to wander home to, for him to feel the same warmth that Kuwana feels whenever there’s soil beneath his fingers, knowing he belongs right here.

Perhaps you would call that love.

Kuwana’s walking past the kitchen when he hears a long, familiar groan.

“I don’t know what to do, Daihannya-saaaaan.” Koryuu whines, and Kuwana quickly flattens himself against the wall. He’s not eavesdropping, exactly, but the look on Koryuu’s face the other day was still bothering him a little.

“Now, now, Koryuu-kun.” Daihannya’s smooth voice is a little softer, and Kuwana tries to breathe as silently as he can, “Whatever is the matter?” There’s a scrape of cups over the table, Daihannya offering a drink to the other sword, “I’ve never seen you so despondent.”

Koryuu sighs loudly, and Kuwana hears fingers tapping on the table nervously.

“It’s about... you know.” Koryuu sighs again, “We had farm duty again.”

“Lucky you.” Daihannya replies, a note of amusement in his voice, and there’s a faint sound like skin on skin, “Come, now, I’m trying to help.”

“I’m glad this is funny for you.” Koryuu grumbles, but he continues more hesitantly, “He was asking me about...love.”

Oh, Kuwana thinks as a sinking feeling begins in his stomach, oh, no, I’ve upset him.

“Love? Well, there you go.” There’s a stronger hint of laughter behind the silky words, and Koryuu groans again.

“No.” There’s a thump, and then Koryuu’s voice sounds a little muffled, “I didn’t say it.”

“You didn’t?”

“Noooo…”

“Koryuu-kun.”

“I know."

Kuwana’s breath feels shallow, his skin alight with nerves. What was it Koryuu couldn’t say to him? Had he upset him? Did Koryuu know?

He steps away from the kitchen, feeling like an intruder. He walks through the halls of the citadel, smiling faintly at those he passes, and finds a quiet spot on the engawa to sit and watch the sunset.

It’s not quite the same without Koryuu at his side, cheerful voice in his ears, but the quiet can be nice too. The earth resonates with dusk in time with the gentle breeze and there is comfort in the harmonies, so Kuwana hums along as softly as he can, laying his worries bare.

“Mind if I join you?”

The sudden, smooth voice makes him jump, and when he looks up Daihannya is standing above him, two cups in one hand and a bottle in the other. There’s a faint smile on his face but Kuwana feels his heart beat loudly in his ears, that prickling sensation creeping up his skin again.

“Sure!” He says brightly still, because he likes Daihannya, and he feels like this might be important.

Daihannya sits beside him and Kuwana stares back out at the sunset, listening to the sound of liquid pouring into the cups until Daihannya taps him on the arm, pressing one into his hand. Kuwana takes a sip and it’s a sweet, gentle sake, and he lets it roll around his tongue before he swallows it, savouring the flavour.

“You and Koryuu-kun have been doing more than your fair share of fieldwork lately.” Daihannya says, taking a sip from his own drink, and Kuwana tries not to react, “Thanks for your hard work.”

“Not at all,” Kuwana replies immediately, feeling like his mouth is moving on its own, “I like working in the fields a lot.” Daihannya laughs, nodding slightly as he takes another sip.

“I’ve noticed, actually.” Kuwana feels a heat rise in his cheeks as he ducks his head, but Daihannya pats him on the shoulder, “No, no, don’t be ashamed. It’s lovely, seeing how much you enjoy it.” There’s a wistfulness to his tone as the hand falls away, returning to twine fingers around the cup in his other hand, “There’s so much to discover about ourselves - what we like or don’t like, what to name these feelings we weren’t forged with, how to navigate the world on our own two feet instead of in our master’s hand. I envy how much you Gou swords seem to know yourselves.”

Kuwana blinks, confused, and the words bring back a question that had once floated distantly in his mind.

“Are the Osafune swords close?” He knows some of the others aren’t as close as the Gou swords, the bonds of their smith strengthened by the determined efforts of Kotegiri, but Koryuu spoke of such things in fleeting bursts that it was hard to tell how he felt.

“Yes and no.” Daihannya said slowly, a pensive look growing on his face, “We’re independent by nature, but not so much that we keep a distance from one another. Mitsutada would never let that happen.” He laughs, a more genuine smile taking over, “I think if Koryuu-kun really tried to wander off, Mitsutada would just go out there and drag him back for dinner.” He puts his cup down, shifting slightly so his eyes pierce right into Kuwana’s, ��But you can understand that, can’t you?”

Kuwana stills, his breath shallow, and he thinks ah, caught.

“Daihannya-san-”

“I’m not as wrapped up in my own world as he is.” Daihannya interrupts, but his tone is gentle, “but I hope you didn’t take his whining badly. He can be a bit dense sometimes.” Kuwana winces slightly, and Daihannya nods in response, “I see. Well, I’m not here to spill all his secrets, but I won’t reveal yours.”

“...Thank you.” Kuwana offers hesitantly, and Daihannya pats him again, this time gently on the knee.

“Don’t be so nervous, Kuwana-kun. I don’t bite.” He turns back to pick up his drink again, “But I do wish you would be honest with him.”

Kuwana lets silence stretch between them, unsure what to say. There’s a weight to the words he can’t quite lift yet, and it seems Koryuu hasn’t revealed everything either. He takes a long sip of his drink, hoping the alcohol will steady his frayed nerves.

“We may have long years ahead of us,” Daihannya said, voice almost reverently quiet, “but our joys are still fleeting, and our sorrows deep, as if our lives were as short and brilliant as a human’s.” His long hair spills over his shoulder as he leans forward, conviction threading steel into his words, “Don’t let moments slip by.”

Kuwana blinks once, twice, trying to gather his thoughts, but Daihannya is already standing, taking his drink with him.

“Oh, and Kuwana-kun?” He adds as he turns away, his last words thrown over his shoulder, “It’s not a coincidence it’s always you two on duty together.”

And with that he left, leaving Kuwana alone with the darkened sky and his racing thoughts, sake cup clutched in his fingers.

“What do you think happens to us when we die?”

The question breaks the quiet of their morning, Kuwana’s hands stilling and his hum catching in his throat. Koryuu’s leaning on his hoe, using one boot to worm it further into the soil, and Kuwana frowns at the furrow in his brow.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, like, do we leave a body like humans do? We are basically human now, so it’d make sense.” Koryuu shrugs, gesturing with one hand, “Or do we just, poof, the same way we manifested?”

It’s an odd question, but Koryuu wasn’t one to let a thought sit in his head for too long.

“I hope we leave a body.” Kuwana replies slowly, hands kneading the soil beneath him, “I want to be buried.” Koryuu laughs, flashing him a grin.

“Of course you do! You know, when I was with a sword-testing family, they used to try their swords out on dead people - well, dead criminals, but they were still people, right?”

“Yeah.” Kuwana says, his focus sharpening. He treasures every anecdote Koryuu shares, like precious jewels for how rare they were, little glimpses into a vast history.

“Well, eventually they had more swords than bodies, of course. So what did they do? Sewed the people back up and used them again!” Koryuu keeps laughing, shaking his head as he swings the hoe back up onto his shoulder, “It’s crazy, right? Looking back at it now, with my own body, it feels kinda wrong to me. They’d take all the bits out of them too, turn the organs into some kind of miracle medicine.” Kuwana pulls a face, and Koryuu gestures at him, “Right? Maybe you’re rubbing off on me, Kuwana-san, but I’d rather eat some good, hearty vegetables,” Koryuu picks a carrot out of his basket, waggling it in his direction, “than bits of dead people.” He tosses the carrot back in, shrugging.

“Well,” Kuwana says, “if we do leave a body, I hope I end up in a field just like this one.” The sun’s touch is gentle on his skin, the breeze making grass sway in the distance, and the peace that he feels at the sight runs as deep as his bones, “My body will be food for the earth, to make food for people. Would that be any different?”

“Nah,” Koryuu’s voice sounds a little wistful, a little distant, and Kuwana wonders where his mind has wandered to, “I guess it’s not so different.”

Kuwana hums in agreement, but then lets the sound stretch out as he turns back to his work, weaving in quietly beneath the harmonies of the soil. The earth sings out in joy as Koryuu’s attentions return to it, and Kuwana can’t help but mimic the soft melody, his own heart filled with warmth.

“You’re singing to yourself again.” Kuwana wonders if he imagines the fondness in Koryuu’s tone, the gentle hint of laughter that rolls beneath the words,

“Not to myself.” He says insistently, but then he hesitates, “I’m just...singing with the earth.”

“With the earth?” Koryuu repeats, and Kuwana feels a familiar burn in his cheeks. He knows no one else hears it, knows it’s strange and sometimes he’s still more spirit than human, but he hopes Koryuu doesn’t think it’s too weird.

“Yeah.” And to you, he thinks, because he still wishes more than anything that Koryuu could hear how much this land treasured him, “The earth is always singing.”

“Well,” Koryuu stops his work again, dusting off his soil-stained hands, “I always wondered what it would say when you asked it something.” Kuwana laughs, delighted, and Koryuu continues, “What’s it singing about?”

Kuwana pauses again, unsure what to say, and Koryuu looks over at him when the silence stretches a little too long.

“You don’t have to-”

“Everything, all the time.” Kuwana lets himself sink into the sound a little bit, focusing on it, trying to find the words even though he knows he can’t describe it, “The sun, the rain, the things that are growing or dying, the insects that crawl between the grass. It sings about me, about you.” He shrugs, gesturing at the field that surrounds them, the line of the horizon in the distance.

“About me?” Koryuu repeats, finally putting his tools down and coming to sit next to Kuwana, brow drawing together, “What’s it saying about me?”

The question makes Kuwana’s heart thump loudly in his ears, almost drowning out the ever-present hum beneath his feet. Koryuu’s eyes sparkle in the morning light, his hair tousled by the breeze and stuck to his face with sweat, and he looks so beautiful Kuwana fumbles for his words, feeling them trip and tangle on their way out of his mouth.

“Everything here wants to grow for you,” he starts awkwardly, “You’re good in the fields. You care for this land.” Kuwana pauses, swallowing, aware suddenly of the sweat down the back of his neck and how thirsty he is, “Whenever you’re out here it sings endlessly for you, even though you can’t hear it, because the earth loves you. It just wants you to be here, and even if you don’t feel like it’s home it always wants you to come back.”

Koryuu is staring at him with a face Kuwana can’t read, eyes wide but intent, and Kuwana has to look away before he speaks again. He’s so nervous he thinks his hands are shaking but the words are suddenly clear in his mind, Daihannya’s voice ringing in his ears, don’t let moments slip by.

He wonders if this is the secret Koryuu was keeping, the same fears in their mirrored hearts, both of them too afraid to speak it aloud.

“That’s why I sing with it.” His smile feels fragile even though it spreads wide across his face, a secret freed from his heart at last, “Because I feel the same way.”

Koryuu had been leaning forward, but at Kuwana’s words he sits back, hands grasping at the fabric of his pants tightly. He looks dazed, a little frightened, and Kuwana feels a spike of fear in his stomach, I hope I haven’t ruined it. The wind has died down and the field is still, so still, and Kuwana abruptly feels like he’s breathing far too loud in the sudden silence. Koryuu shifts, the sound of his boots scraping against the earth grating across Kuwana’s ears.

His hand reaches out, gently working the hat off Kuwana’s head and placing it to the side, but then returning to Kuwana’s face. The knuckles brush against Kuwana’s cheek and he holds as still as he can, almost afraid to breathe as long fingers push the hair in front of his left eye to the side. He feels exposed, goggles still hanging around his neck and trying not to shy away, letting Koryuu find whatever he’s searching for.

Koryuu’s eyes are fixed on his exposed one and he holds the gaze, feeling like the moment is stretching into eternity.

The hand on his cheek trails further down, letting his hair fall back into place, breaking the raw gaze between them as Koryuu’s hand fits gently around his jaw. The other hand comes up to mirror it, cradling Kuwana’s face, the touch impossibly gentle as if Koryuu was afraid he’d break him.

“Sometimes I really don’t know what to do with you.” Koryuu says, the words almost like a sigh as he leans forward to kiss him.

Their lips meet hesitantly, chaste and nervous and Kuwana is almost thankful for it because the feeling of slightly chapped skin against his mouth is so odd and unfamiliar. But when Koryuu leans back Kuwana chases the feeling, not wanting to let him go, pressing their lips together again with more force. There’s something so sweet it makes his heart ache about the nervous way Koryuu’s hands shift on his skin and Kuwana kisses him harder, his heart racing, trying to tell him don’t worry, me too.

They break apart as slowly as they came together, Koryuu’s hands leaving Kuwana’s face to take his hands.

“Well,” Koryuu said, a veil of false bravado not quite hiding the shakiness in his voice, “okay. That was, uh, nice.”

“It was nice.” Kuwana agrees, because he liked it and if Koryuu liked it, they could do it again. Koryuu pulls a face, fiddling with Kuwana’s hand, a nervous energy taking over.

“I don’t know what we do now.” Koryuu continues with a nervous laugh, and Kuwana squeezes his hand reassuringly.

It was hard, piecing together how to be human from fragments of centuries, an ever-changing puzzle with thousands of pieces.

“Does anything have to change right now?” The sun had shifted now, their twin shadows harsh against the field, side by side, “I am Kuwana Gou, and you’re Koryuu Kagemitsu. Today we have farm duty, and afterwards we’ll watch the sun set, like we always do.”

Koryuu’s gentle smile could outshine the sun, his eyes soft and fond, and he nods slightly at Kuwana’s words.

“Like we always do, yeah. You’re right.”

Kuwana takes a moment just to hold Koryuu’s hand a little tighter, commit the feeling to his memory, that fickle presence no longer just out of reach. But he lets go as Koryuu stands, following suit, both of them returning to their patch of field as if nothing had happened.

And at the end of the day Kuwana carries his harvest back to the citadel, following the bright stream of Koryuu’s hair in the afternoon breeze. They sit side by side on the engawa, the sun just beginning to set, and the earth sings of the same happiness that Kuwana feels in every corner of his heart.

“Daihannya-san said something to me I was wondering about.” Kuwana says once their silence had stretched on long enough, watching the grass sway in the breeze as Koryuu’s legs swing idly off the edge.

“Oh, geez, what did he say?” Koryuu sighs, and Kuwana shakes his head.

“Nothing bad. It was just about we’re on field duty together.” Kuwana shrugs loosely, “I like working the fields, so I don’t mind, but we do it a lot more than the others.”

Koryuu’s silence is a little longer than usual, and when Kuwana turns there’s a light dusting of pink forming across his cheeks.

“I...may have asked the Master to give us more farm duty. You and me, I mean. Together.” Kuwana’s face almost hurts from how widely he grins, unable to stop the smile from blooming, even as Koryuu continues, “But I can talk to them if you don’t want to, it’s-”

“Koryuu-san,” Kuwana says firmly, taking Koryuu’s hand that rests between them and tangling the fingers together, “I want to.”

Koryuu’s answering grin is almost blinding in its radiance, a mixture of joy and nerves, and as they turn back to watch the sunset Kuwana keeps a tight hold on his hand. They’d figure the rest out tomorrow, and the day after that, and every day after, unending years ahead of them to learn more about living.

But right now, Kuwana wants to hold onto this one, perfect moment for as long as he can, until the sun sets.

#koryuu kagemitsu #kuwana gou #tkrb #touken ranbu #strife writes

2 notes · View notes

pinkykitten · 4 years

Text

HiGH

13 reasons why

Scott Reed x female! reader

Warning: getting high, vomiting, cursing, partying

Specifics: comedy, fluff, one-shot, race neutral reader

People: scott reed, jock dude, your friend, red haired cheerleader

Words: 1,854

Requested: By anon 😍😁 I'd love a Scott Reed one with fem reader. Since its getting close to Halloween how about how they got/ get together at a Halloween party?

Authors Note: sorry guys for not posting a lot here ive been studying for exams and just my life is so complicated atm so forgive me i know i should post more its just all the stress ya girl sometimes gets writers block. i appreciate u guys still sticking w me reading my stuff and im glad to be posting something and feel good about it.

The different array of colored lights shone brightly as a hit pop song blasted loud through the speakers. The party everyone at school was looking forward to. Only the best out of the best was present, stuffing their faces with alcohol and booze to wash down the pain and stresses of school and life.

You were content with staying home, wanting to open a bag of chips and really experience Netflix and chill. Solo. Alone. By yourself. A lone wolf. Why in the world were you really here at this party? You were a nobody compared to all these wannabes.

You were fidgety, playing with your fingers to control your anxiety of all these people and the atmosphere. It was so unlike you. Then you remembered. The only reason you were here was because your friend - not really - needed to trade with you the history paper you lent her. She was very persistent to get you to come to her rather than drive her car to your house. You were a very simple girl, you hated teenagers - even though you are one of them - and high school. But why did you dress your best to come to something you cared so little about? You had spent a little more over ten minutes just to pick your shoes! Did this gathering really matter to you?

“Okay y/n you’re gonna go in there and swipe that paper out of her hands and go straight back home. You’re not going to look at the food, not going to be deceived into drinking and you are certainly not going to look at a boy and dance with them because you are better than that,” you spoke aloud to yourself walking up the stairs to the house, getting some cat calls and whistles sent your way. Opening the door you were greeted by a shirtless jock. He dripped with sweat or was that beer? He was dancing as if he was experiencing a seizure.

“Remember what you gotta do, y/n,” that phrase echoed in your head. You crawled past the dancing, then squeezed past the horny animals making out by the bathrooms. “Where the f*ck is she?” Your head whipped back and forth in search for your “friend.” You landed on her doing a chug contest. “Excuse me,” you would say periodically, shoving yourself beside hollering people. You stood beside her and tapped her on the shoulder. She didn’t want to mess with her chugging so she pointed on the table by the drinks. “Thanks.” The table was littered with people f*cking like they were experiencing sex for the first time. Moaning and groaning really wanting nerdy, single people - like yourself - feel very alone and really praying they would get that action tonight. You grabbed your paper having to really pull as there was an a*s cheek of a red haired cheerleader plopped on top of it. You grimaced as you pulled the paper, making note to wash your hands when you have the chance.

“Now time to go home,” your determined self wiped your jacket getting ready to depart but your e/c eyes caught sight of a delicious looking drink. It was aqua blue with chunks of who knows what fruit in there. It was placed proudly on top of the kitchen counter.

“Wipe out!” The jock screamed on the top of his lungs, sounding like an alarm.

You covered your ears, annoyed. A group of teens took their cups and splashed some of the drink inside, enjoying the taste. “Why’s its called wipe out?” You asked the jock. Curious.

The jock raised his brow, taking you in.

“Pitiful,” you thought.

“Its because, babe, there is a secret ingredient in here.” He motioned to you.

Placing your palm on his chest you pushed him away, “I swear if its your jizz, count me out.”

“Its not, unfortunately, but just try it.”

You looked down and bit your lip. You were having a full out debate in your head, going back and forth with yourself. You had to do this paper. The party side took control of you and you snatched a cup from the table and poured yourself some “Wipe out.” You were totally going to regret this later.

A boy stood beside you, filling his cup as well. You weren’t going to lie to yourself, he was a cutie. From the way his f-boy, blond hairstyle stood still with either hairspray or gel or who knows what, to his baby blue eyes. Your eyes traveled to his lips. He saw you staring and presented you with a smirk. A sexy smirk at that. You almost fainted!

“This is bad,” your eyes widened as you felt light headed. You knew you could only keep away for so long.

“Hey, I know you. You are in my bio class. You always sit up front.” No way this boy was Scott Reed. He was the talk of the school, having to be entwined with the drama of Bryce. “I’m-”

“Scott Reed. I know and I’ve seen you in class.”

“And your name is,” he pondered for a moment. “Y/n l/n.”

Oh dear. You were starting to sweat from the realization that you and Scott were on a knowing name base. That was enough to start something. Something you didn’t want to start because you didn’t know if you could finish it.

“Wow didn’t think you were into this party life.”

“I’m not,” you took a large chug of your drink and Scott’s face looked disgusted. “What?”

“You’re not supposed to drink it that fast or all of that, for that matter. Okay you may experience being very...high.”

“High?” Yep it was truly a mistake for you step foot into this party. “There were drugs in that drink?”

“...yeah?”

“Scott!”

“Okay yes there was. I think only a little. Also alcohol, of course. It may not effect you though. Each person is different.”

You were feeling already dizzy. The world spinning but in a good way. As if you were on a ride. You were overwhelmed with the feeling of happiness and you were very, terribly hungry. The overpowering, booming music was low and muffled when it traveled through your ears. You were stoned and you wanted to dance. “DaNcE wHiP mE bAbEy.” You staggered back and forth.

“You sure?” Scott asked, holding onto your arm.

“Of CoUrSsSsSsSsSsSsSsE sCoTtY mCsNoTtY. GrInD wIf mEh.”

“Alright, if you say so.” Scott and you danced in the living room.

With the shake of your hips and the pumping of your fists you felt like you were on cloud 9.

There was a sea of fans, cheering your name. “Y/n! Y/n! Y/n!”

You performed on stage. Basking in the limelight, the attention. You were a star, a performer. You sang and danced on stage with your backup dancers giving it their all. Everyone in the crowd sang along with you, knowing every word. It was perfection.

Then you threw up and blacked out.

The pounding of your head woke you up, your eyes getting adjusted to new lighting. An unfamiliar jacket was on you and you heard the engine of a car. We’re you being kidnapped? You shot up and saw Scott - the boy from earlier - sitting beside you in his car.

“You are not used to drugs,” he chuckled.

“What happened?” You laid back calm. You touched your head thinking that was going to stop the pain.

“You threw up. All over me.”

Eyes widening in horror having the knowledge that you threw up all over the cutest boy in school. That party was cursed. You covered your mouth seeing the stain on his shirt, “I am so sorry Scott. Lets go to Walmart right now, I’ll buy you a new shirt.”

Scott touched your hand to calm you down, “its fine y/n, really. How are you though?”

“Well, lets just say I’m never doing drugs,” you sighed. “I feel really bad for doing that to your shirt. I bet you wish you never met me.”

“I would never wish that. We all make mistakes and to be honest you are the good one out of all of us. Don’t worry about this. You live and learn.” Scott drove to a drug store. “Wait here.”

Waiting for what felt like hours you imagined Scott as your knight in shining armor. You were hating yourself for feeling this way about some boy but you couldn’t help but get butterflies in your stomach when you pictured his eyes, lips, face, and even his smirk in your head. He was like another drug.

Finally, Scott returned to the car and with him was a couple of bags. “I got you some medicine to help with the mess and the feeling like you’re gonna throw up every minute.”

Scott was a lifesaver!

“I got you medicine also for the pounding in your head. I also got you water and this,” he scooped up a stuffed raccoon (ik this is weird but its the first thing i can think of) placing it in your arms.

“Aww this is so cute Scott. Thank you for all of this, really I truly appreciate all you’ve done from driving me to getting me these meds. Its means a lot.”

“No problem y/n. I always wanted to accompany a beautiful lady in distress.”

“Well you picked the right one.” Nausea was the symptoms you were feeling at that moment. It was unknown to you if it was the drugs, alcohol, or Scott.

“What are you going to name the little guy?” Scott pretended to pet the fake raccoon.

You stared at the stuffed animals eyes and knew what the littler vermin would be called. “Veneno. Its means drugs in Latin.”

Scott giggled. His smile making you weak in the knees. “That’s perfect.”

“I know right-” You hurled on the floor beside his car. It was almost like a continuous cycle. You, vomit, him, help. It was compared to a endless waterfall.

“Thats it.” Scott rubbed soothing circles on your aching back. “Let it all out. I’m here for you and not going anywhere.”

Feeling very sick at that moment, you clutched his hand for support. Finishing letting the drugs exit your body, Scott handed you the water bottle. “You know, you’re one of the good ones as well,” you croaked as your throat was burning.

You drank, letting the cold liquid slide past your throat. Your eyes kept opening and closing. Throwing up takes a lot out of your body. You felt you were used as a punching bag and all you wanted to do was get some sleep.

Scott got in his car and started it. You were a fallen leaf, a wilted flower. Your head fell against Scott’s shoulder - like a dropping petal - and there you fell asleep.

“I think its time to take you home,” Scott whispered.

Starting something with Scott meant something to you. Yes, you may have gotten high at a cheap, smelly party but at least you had the pleasure of meeting a young man who cared.

Tag list: @harrington-lover, @angelgl16, @perfectlybeautifulsuit, @hyehoney, @haven-prelude (wont let me tag), @leasly, @totally-alexa21, @creamy-pasta-boi, @multireese, @fanfictionrecommendations-com, @prentisskelley, @malereaderforkpop (wont let me tag), @guardian-of-cookies, @justafangirl-97, @teenageshitposts (wont let me tag), @dippergravity (wont let me tag), @some-booty, @fromfoolishpeopletodeadpeople, @collectiveyou, @wtfisalltherandoms, @dirbel, @eastcoasthaven, @fangirl-4-life415 (wont let me tag), @melonreblogsstories, @reginalinettis

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#13 reasons why #13 r w #13 reasons why fanfiction #13 reasons why imagine #fanfiction #imagine #x reader #scott reed #scott reed x reader #scott reed imagine #scott reed fanfiction #race neutral reader #netflix #requested #HiGH

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greekgeek21 · 4 years

Text

The Codependency Competition Ch. 10

Ok, so I just realized that I'm way over 1M readers if I add all of the websites I have this story on together. And I'm in shock. You guys are so great, and I love the support I always get. It's really reassuring to have people say that they like my story because, to be honest, I was really nervous about posting this story. And now that we're on the last chapter, it's a little surreal to have so much recognition. But enough of the sappy stuff. I can do that after the actual chapter. So be ready for the spillage of my heart. Oh and the pic at the top does not mean anything, just in case anyone is hyperventilating right now.

Also, I just got a new keyboard for my monitor and I'm not quite used to it yet, so if I make a mistake, please don't point it out. I appreciate it. That's also why this chapter took longer than usual to finish BTW.

Oh and if you still reading these, good for you! Not like you wanted to know or anything, but I'm eating a whole lot of Sour Punches right now. It's extremely unhealthy, but do I care in the slightest? No. Not at all.

Stay safe and happy reading!

– your author

P.S. go to FF and answer my poll there. My name is Ocean.breezzq cuz for some reason they don't allow underscores on FF.

ΩΩΩ

How did he end up in this position? Honestly, Percy could not for the life of him figure out how he got himself into this one.

He is currently standing in front of a full-length mirror, with his mother trying to figure out which tie he should wear. They had narrowed it down to two: a deep blue or a thin black one. He didn't see how it mattered, but apparently it does because his mom had been fussing over it for the past ten minutes. He was about ready to just not wear one. It was already bad enough to have to wear a dress shirt and pants (he had adamantly refused to wear anything but his converse).

But of course he was standing around and taking it because it was what Annabeth wanted, and what Annabeth wants, she usually gets.

"Mom! Just choose already! At this rate, we're gonna miss the dance altogether!" he exclaimed.

Sally sighed, "Oh, Percy. I can guarantee that you're going to be a little bit late. Annabeth still has a lot to do before you kids can leave!

He resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Clearly, his mom did NOT know Annabeth. She's the farthest thing from a girly-girl, only Clarisse could beat her. There's no way that she's fussing about getting ready as much as his mom is. If anything, she's already done and is just sitting in their room watching Youtube. Yeah, that's what she's doing...

That was NOT what she was doing.

In fact, Sally wasn't far off. Annabeth was on a FaceTime call with Piper, Thalia, and Hazel trying to figure out which lipgloss she should wear. She already had her hair and dress done. Her hair was styled in just a simple French braid, and her dress was nothing special. She was sure it cost a lot, but Sally hadn't let her see the price tag.

As soon as her and Percy had agreed to going to the dance, Sally had dragged to the mall to find a dress. She seemed so excited, so Annabeth had just let her shove dress after dress onto her until they found "the perfect match." Whatever that meant.

Anyway, Annabeth had only called her friends because she wanted to get their opinion on how she looked. However, she had ended up getting into an argument about when the appropriate time for makeup was. In her opinion, it wasn't required for school dances. Piper and Thalia thought differently. Hazel didn't want to voice her opinion because she was still getting used to common modern practices.

And that's how she ended up here, fretting over what lipgloss she should use. Sally had let her borrow her makeup bag because Annabeth's consisted of a single tube of mascara and an unused clear lip gloss.

Piper thought that she should use the pink lip gloss that Sally gave her, but Annabeth didn't want to be too flashy, so she wanted the clear one.

"You NEED to use the pink one, Annabeth!" Piper said.

"You already forced me into putting on mascara and blush, so I don't think you have the right to make me use the pink one," Annabeth stated factually.

"Oh my gods, 'Beth! Can't you just use the pink and get it over with? This conversation is exhausting," Thalia sighed.

Annabeth resisted the urge to stomp her foot like a child and responded with, "No! I can't! It's my body, so my decision!"

Piper was almost literally pulling her own hair out, but she told Annabeth in a deadly calm voice to "Put on the dam pink lip gloss before I charmspeak you into doing it."

Figuring it was an endless cycle, Annabeth just sighed and applied the pink lipgloss. When she finished, she stood back from the mirror, and gave herself a once-over. She would never admit it, but the pink kinda looked good.

"Happy?" she asked Piper.

"Extremely," was the deadpan reply.

"Ok, guys. I've gotta go. Talk to you later," Annabeth said, moving to sign-off.

Before she could, Thalia screeched, "Don't forget to tell me what Percy's reaction is! I want details!"

"Yeah, sure, Thals," she said and finally ended the call.

That was exhausting. And she still had a long night ahead of her. Great. Why did she want to do this again?

Back with Percy, his mom had chosen the deep blue tie. She said it brought out his eyes, or something like that. He honestly started tuning out what she was saying after she mentioned hair gel.

They had thirty minutes until the dance started, so he wasn't exactly joyous. In his ADHD brain, he was wondering if there was some way that he could skip the dance without being in trouble. Probably not.

And that's when he saw her.

She looked more than beautiful in her grey and gold dress and silver heels. Percy was pretty sure that his mouth was hanging open, but he physically could not close it. Sure, he'd seen Annabeth a little dressed up before, but never like this. For one thing, she'd never worn heels before.

He was speechless.

"You're drooling, Seaweed Brain," Annabeth stated, walking up to him.

That shocked him out of his reverie, "Huh? Oh! You look amazing, Wise Girl."

Annabeth laughed. It sounded so carefree, but on the inside, she was a nervous wreck. Just as she was about to walk out to meet Percy, butterflies swarmed her stomach. There were so many ways this could go wrong, and she hadn't even thought past seeing Percy yet!

"Thanks, Perce," she said, a little tersely.

Percy picked up on her mood, "Relax, 'Beth. Everything'll be fine. This was your plan, remember?"

"Yeah, you're right. Athena always has a plan. We're going to be fine," thought she sounded like she was trying to convince herself more than anyone else.

They both turned to leave, but was abruptly stopped by a yell of protest from Sally, "Just where do you two think you're going? We still have to do pictures!"

Percy groaned, and Annabeth looked like she was trying to suppress one. Sally is great and loving, and kind, but she could be really embarrassing sometimes (especially when it came to Percy).

"Really, Mom?" Percy asked, turning back around to face his mother.

Sally sighed, 'Teenagers', she thought.

"Yes, really. This is one of the few times you get to act like a normal teenager, and I want to capture the moment ," she responded, "Plus, this'll be useful when you get married!"

Both Percy and Annabeth blushed bright red. Leave it to Sally Jackson to make a perfectly casual dance into a conversation about marriage.

Even so, they stood through the seemingly endless amount of photos. Once they were finished, Percy was practically dragging Annabeth away from his mother. The faster they got out of there, the least likely they would be ambushed for pictures again.

In the car, Paul's Prius, they were discussing their plan for the night.

"Ok, so what's the game plan?" Percy asked Annabeth, keeping his eyes on the road. (safety first kids!)

Annabeth sighed at her boyfriend's immaturity, but answered nonetheless, "We act like everything is normal. Well, our usual normal. We show up together, and stay together. Got it?"

"Yeah, I think so," he answered.

"Good, because I made it foolproof for your sake, Seaweed Brain," Annabeth teased, taking one of Percy's hands in hers.

Percy grinned that dopey grin that always made her heart melt, and then her mind clouded over, as per usual. How can he have this effect on me?, Annabeth wondered as she struggled to come back to herself.

Unbeknownst to her, Percy knew exactly what he was doing. It was all part of his charm, as Leo so tactfully put it once. Slowly, Percy was coming to realize what little action he could do to break through that rough shell that surrounded Annabeth. Not many people could claim to have that ability, so he was grateful he was one of the chosen few. Then again, they had been best friends for almost six years. He had some experience to put it lightly.

Anyway, they were almost at school. Time seemed to slow down as they pulled into Goode High's parking lot. Every step towards the gym–which was where the dance was being held–seemed to last an hour. The anticipation was rising in both of the demigods.

Percy and Annabeth both looked over at each other for comfort at the exact same time, as if their thoughts were one and the same. They didn't even have to speak for them to understand what was going through the other's head. They were both nervous beyond belief.

As they approached the double doors with colorful lights pouring out from under it, Percy squeezed Annabeth's hand, glancing at her and asking, "Ready?"

"As I'll ever be," she muttered, reaching to open the doors.

Annabeth wasn't sure what she was expecting...maybe a movie moment where the music stops and everyone moves to stare at them? Or for everyone to start bombarding them with questions as soon as they stepped through the door? Whatever its as, she was sure it couldn't have been what happened.

Nobody noticed them.

The dance just continued as if nothing had happened. Maybe one person here or there would do a double-take at seeing Percy Jackson with his arm wrapped securely around Annabeth Chase's waist, but nothing more than that.

It was all very disconcerting. Or maybe the proper word would be anticlimactic? Yeah, that sounded better in Annabeth's head...

Oh! There she goes again, letting her control slip from her ADHD brain! Get a grip, Annabeth!, she practically screamed in her head.

She hadn't even realized that Percy was pulling her by the hand somewhere until they had already got there. He had spotted their friends talking to each other at one of the tables. That brought another question to mind: When did that happen?

"Hey, guys!" Percy greeted, high-fiving one of his friends (Annabeth was pretty sure it was the one named Jack), "What's up?"

All of their friends gave Percy incredulous looks. Percy was just trying to act normal, like Annabeth said, but apparently they hadn't gotten the memo.

"What's up? What's up?! You too are dating, and you're just acting like it's no big deal!" Nora exclaimed.

Oh, that's right. Most of Annabeth's friends hadn't been briefed completely. They must still be stuck in the shock of the reveal. Annabeth wasn't sure why they were making such a big out of it. It wasn't like they had announced they were getting married, or anything. They were just dating. What's so surprising about that?

And Annabeth asked exactly that, in her best accusatory tone.

Nora looked a little shocked before stuttering out a response, "Well-I mean-um...he's him and you're you!"

Not the best answer, Nora, Percy thought before grabbing Annabeth before she decided to gut her friend. He made it look like he had just casually given her a hug, but if you looked closely you could see how Annabeth's nails were digging into his wrists.

"Easy there, 'Beth. She didn't know what she was saying," Percy whispered in his murderous girlfriend's ear.

With one deep breath, Annabeth relaxed her rigid posture, finally letting it go.

"I apologize for keeping something as big as a relationship from you. I hope you can forgive me," she forced out in a robotic voice, clearly rehearsed beforehand.

Percy smirked, but didn't comment on it. He just went over to talk to his friends while Annabeth caught her group up on everything.

The rest of the dance went pretty smoothly. There was SOME dancing, but not much. Annabeth and Percy may have improved on their dancing skills slightly since Westover Hall, but it was still a little awkward. Even after almost 2 years of dating...

Just as they were about to retire for the night, the casual mood changed. Well, more like the entire gym's atmosphere darkened.

Kelsey Evans was blocking Percy and Annabeth's path.

Annabeth outwardly groaned when Kelsey started to advance toward them. Just as things were seeming like they would work out fine, the devil incarnate had to show up.

"Hey, Percy!" Kelsey chirped with her too-high voice.

"Hi, Kelsey. We were just on our way out, so can you move please? Or is there something you wanted to say first?" Percy asked, strangely diplomatic.

"Well, you see. I've been hearing about some CRAZY rumor going around that says that YOU are dating HER," she answered, saying 'her' with an expression of disgust.

Annabeth internally seethed. She was having to dig her nails into her palms just to keep herself at bay. She was so close to snapping, it's a wonder Kelsey was still breathing.

"It isn't a rumor. We are dating, and have been for almost two years. Can you move out of our way now?" Annabeth said, forcing herself to not call Kelsey some nasty words in Greek.

Kelsey faced Annabeth, her flirty look changing into a pitiful glare, "No. You don't deserve him! He belongs to me!"

Even Percy was having a hard time not punching the girl, and he's been taught not to hurt women that can't defend themselves. Well, that last part was added after he had first sparred with Annabeth.

"First of all, back off. Second of all, Percy isn't an object, he's a person. More specifically, he's my person, so you can go away now before I do something I can guarantee I won't regret," Annabeth walked up close to Kelsey, voice deadly calm.

Of course Annabeth was aware of the crowd around them forming, but that wasn't going to stop her. After 'that place' nothing could scare her up here, especially not a weak mortal girl.

Before Kelsey could respond, Annabeth shoved her out of the way and tugged Percy through the door.

Nobody spoke for a long time, but eventually Percy got up the courage to say something, "That was BA."

Annabeth smirked but didn't say anything. She was still coming down from her adrenaline/anger high, and she was afraid that what came out of her mouth would start a fight, even if it was with Percy.

Then Percy couldn't think of anything else to say, so he just shut up. At least, he did until they were changing out of their formal clothes into their pajamas. Annabeth was in their room, and Percy was in the bathroom.

"Are you done?" he asked.

"Yeah, come in," Annabeth responded.

Percy then walked in, threw his clothes somewhere near his overflowing hamper, and plopped down on the bed next to Annabeth. She was sitting up in bed reading some architecture book that he could never understand.

"Hi," he said, turning onto his side and looking up at her.

"Hello, Seaweed Brain," she said, not even glancing up from the words.

Percy sighed, So it's gonna be one of THOSE conversations, huh?

"You know I love you, right?" he asked, smirking his troublemaker smirk.

This tactic usually works the best when he's stuck in these situations.

A small smile played on Annabeth's lips, but she still refused to look up. However, she did respond with, "Yes, and I love you, too."

Percy pouted, stumped. What is so exciting about architecture? The only thing he likes about it is the way Annabeth's eyes light up as she rants about some random building he's never heard of before. That's the only reason he puts up with it. Or it's the only reason he'll admit to, anyway.

Just then, an idea popped into his head. And when ideas pop into Percy's head, everyone within a five-mile radius better clear out cuz' they can be destructive. However, this one was not that bad.

He gave Annabeth a light peck on her cheek, then slowly moved down to her jaw, then her earlobe, and then her neck. He could tell that it was starting to get to her because she hadn't turned the page for a while.

"Percy...," she warned.

He just smiled against her neck. Annabeth rolled her eyes, but relented. She set her book on the bedside table, and turned over to face Percy, giving him a deep, passionate kiss.

She pulled away for a second, "You're such a Seaweed Brain, you know that?"

She only saw a glimpse of his dopey smile before she went back to kissing the love of her life, stress nonexistent in her mind.

ΩΩΩ

Omg omg omg! It's over! I don't even know what to say! I just want to thank all of you guys, my wonderfully supportive readings, especially the ones who've been here since the beginning. You guys are amazing. I don't even know if I would've been able to make this story without the encouragement from you. So thanks.

Now, I think that's all the sappy stuff. I'm looking for a good beta, so if you are or know one who might be interested, please let me know. I'm also going to shamelessly promote my original series. Go check out "Secret Powers" and "Frozen Secrets"! They are the first two books in my three story series.

If you want to know this is Annabeth's dress and shoes from the dance:

Now for the good stuff. Somebody mentioned that they would be interested in a Percabeth proposal, so I'm going to give it to you. Here's a little BONUS SCENE set in their future, but I'm not giving it a specific date, so use your imaginations and decide for yourself. Hope you like it!

ΩΩΩ

Percy and Annabeth were visiting Camp Half-blood, and they were enjoying a nighttime walk along the beach. Annabeth was remembering all of the wonderful memories she had at this beach. Her underwater kiss with Percy, birthdays, all of her dates with Percy. Nothing but happiness came with being at the beach when you love a son of Poseidon.

Percy was in a completely different headspace. His mind was full of nervousness and worry. He was so distracted that he didn't even realize when Annabeth stopped and turned to look out at the water. When he bumped into her, she just gave him a weird look and went back to her previous position.

His hand was distractedly fidgeting with the small, velvet box in his pocket. It felt like it weighed more than the sky, and he should know! What if she says no? What if I mess up? What if the ring doesn't fit? Oh, gods, she's going to say no!

Those were the thoughts swirling around in his brain, making it a whirlpool of stress. He knows that Annabeth loves him, and that he loves her, but she could still say no!

"Seaweed Brain? Earth to Seaweed Brain! Percy?" Annabeth's concerned expression brought him back to reality.

"Huh? Oh, fine. Just-I'm fine!" he said quickly.

She gave him an unimpressed look, but didn't push it. Truthfully, Annabeth had noticed his odd behavior recently, but she still hadn't figured out what was bothering him. But, she knew that he would tell her eventually, so she was REALLY trying not to figure it out beforehand. The last time he'd been this nervous, he was asking her to move in with her!

Ten minutes passed before Percy worked up the courage to do it. His reasoning was that he just had to get it over with. Annabeth's told him she loves him so many times, why would she say no? There was nothing to worry about! Nothing!

"Hey, Wise Girl?" he asked, turning to face her fully.

"Hmm?" she hummed.

He was about to just ask the question, but his stupid Seaweed Brain got there first, "Wanna go for a swim?"

Annabeth furrowed her eyebrows, "Umm...it's 7:30 PM and I'm not wearing a bathing suit. What about this scenario makes you think that we should go swimming?"

Percy decided that he might as well work with what he's got so he went with the first backup plan that came to mind: the best underwater kiss of all time. Ok, not the ACTUAL one, but he could make another air bubble. It's not like he hadn't done it before.

"I'll keep it warm and dry, I promise. Come on! It'll be fun!" he started pulling her towards the water, himself already ankle-deep.

Annabeth started to protest, but he had already gotten her in enough for him to be able to pull her in with his powers. And just as promised, she was still completely dry. She could feel the water on her skin, but it wasn't wet. She had long-since gotten used to the feeling, after so many years of dating Percy, but it still shocked her for the first couple of seconds.

"Fine," she said, and Percy pulled them both all the way under, quickly forming a bubble of air around them.

"I love you," slipped out of his mouth.

It wasn't like it was a big deal, but the way he said it, with so much love, froze Annabeth. What is he planning?, she thought.

An idea began to form in her head, but she pushed it away instantly. Better not to get her hopes up. That way there's no chance of disappointment.

"I love you, too, Seaweed Brain," she said, trying to slip back into her casual tone of voice.

They sat in a silence for about a minute, just watching the scenery around them, before Percy finally ACTUALLY worked up the courage to do it.

"I've been thinking..." he started.

"Uh-oh," Annabeth teased with a smile.

"About us. And our future," Percy said.

Annabeth instantly sobered. He sounded serious, and a serious Percy was a SERIOUS Percy. There was no in-between.

"Yeah?"

Percy took a deep breath, "Yeah. And I know we're a little young, but we've been together for so long, and I just think that it's time. And you've always wanted something permanent, and I want to be that for you. I want us to be that for you. So, Annabeth Chase...will you make me the happiest demigod in the world and marry me?"

It might not seem like much, but to Annabeth, it meant the world. This was exactly what she had been dreaming of for her entire life. She was so full of emotions that she could barely speak, but she was able to get one word out...

"Yes."

ΩΩΩ

Ok, that's it! I'm officially done with this fanfic! I feel like I could've gone on in the bonus scene, but I think that you guys should get to come up with your own version of their happily-ever-after. Anyway, there's a poll on FF and you should go do. It's about my next story.

And you guys know I need to give special recognition to my amazing beta reader! JJ, you took me on when I refused to edit my own work, and you made everything WAY better! You should ALL go check out nightskywithrainbows on Ao3. They write, beta, AND are a student! So kudos to you, JJ! You're the best!

I hope you enjoyed this! Stay safe and happy reading!

- your author

#percabeth #percy jackson #annabeth chase #Percy Jackson and the Olympians #Heroes of Olympus #high school #teen

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