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hongcherry · 7 months

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to fall again || k.hj

Seeing Hongjoong thrive in his passion for creating music sparks a revelation within you. You're slowly losing your fervor for dancing, which shatters your heart more than you’d like to admit. Can Hongjoong help you regain your passion, or must he watch you say goodbye to your first love?

🩰 Pairing: musician!Hongjoong x dancer!Reader

🩰 Rating/Genres/AUs: PG15; Fluff, angst hurt/comfort; Non-idol au, established relationship

🩰 Warnings: Feelings of being unhappy in life, indication of not feeling good enough/lack of self-confidence, kissing

🩰 Word Count: 1.7k

🩰 Project: This is for @pirateeznet’s First Anniversary Project! My prompt for this was, "Fever (losing your passion and frantically trying to regain it)." Thank you for having me on board! 😉

🩰 Author's Note: This one hits close to home 🥺

ateez masterlist | main masterlist

The TV illuminates the dark room, various colors bouncing off the walls.

The volume is low since Hongjoong is sitting at his desk in the corner of the room. He has his headset on, but you still don’t want to be too loud.

A younger version of yourself dances across the stage on the screen. You’re dressed in a pirate costume along with your peers. It was a silly dance, but you were only six at the time. You thought you looked cool and were having fun moving your body. You didn’t care about much else.

“Yes!” Hongjoong exclaims suddenly.

Your eyes tear from the TV to look at him. He turns to you with a big smile on his face. It suits him well.

“I’ve finally figured out this section of the track,” he exclaims like a child who just got his first award.

“Oh? That’s great, Joongie,” you smile.

He takes off his headset and gestures for you to come over.

You clamber off the couch and make way to his makeshift studio. Your shared apartment is a decent size, but having one bedroom means your dining room has turned into his studio space. Not that you entirely care. You don’t need to eat there; there are other places.

“Here,” he says softly and guides the headset over your head. You adjust it slightly as he carefully lowers you to sit on his lap. You nod when you’re ready.

Music begins to play in your ears. You’ve heard this track before since he’s been working on it for a while. Despite this, you listen attentively—more so when it comes to the part he’s been struggling with.

Hongjoong massages the top of your thighs as he watches the track being played. He can faintly hear it from the headset you wear, and it makes him a little anxious to hear your opinion.

Once it ends, you carefully take off the headset and set it down.

“I think you have a winner,” you say and glance behind you.

Hongjoong beams, eyes wide with hope.

“You think so?”

You nod. “It sounds amazing. I can’t wait for others to hear it too.”

“Finally,” he sighs dramatically and hugs your waist tightly. “This damn track was starting to haunt me in my dreams.”

You giggle at his reaction and lean back into his touch.

Silence fills the room as you cuddle. Happiness for Hongjoong slowly fades and becomes replaced with your own sorrow.

Seeing Hongjoong so zealous for his dream awakened your repressed thoughts. Watching your old dance videos made your heart feel heavy. It was always nice to rewatch your past self, but now it just feels bittersweet. Almost… painful.

You feel like you’ve been dancing ever since you learned how to walk. Your parents are dancers, so naturally, you picked up the hobby. Only the hobby didn’t stay a hobby.

You got small gigs at local theaters; however, that career didn’t last long. You never made it to Broadway. Although it was never your goal to do so, there was a time when you were hopeful your talent would take you somewhere.

Now, you work as a part-time dance instructor and a full-time accountant. You’re not entirely unhappy. You enjoy sharing your passion with others as well as assisting with finances.

Though lately, your mood has been sour. You feel uneasy, a smidge guilty, and dreadful whenever you are inside the dance studio. You almost feel as if you don’t belong anymore. You can tell your students are worried for you, but you brush it off as being tired.

For a while, you believed that too.

You’re just tired. Some rest will bring back that happiness and thrill you felt when teaching.

Only it hasn’t.

“Are you ready to tell me what’s wrong?” Hongjoong asks calmly.

You sigh and pull yourself away from him to stand.

Hongjoong caught on to your gloomy mood in the early stages. You gave him the same excuses you gave to your students, but after a while, he knew it was more than just being tired. There was something deeper you were feeling.

There was some time when you didn’t even know what got you so upset. But tonight, after watching hours of your old dance footage, you discovered the reason.

You were falling out of love with dance.

You didn’t feel that passion you used to feel. Witnessing Hongjoong’s excitement for making music, made you realize you don’t share that same excitement when you dance anymore.

“I—” you begin to say. Saying it out loud would make it all too real. You didn’t want to believe you didn’t love dance anymore. You didn’t want to believe you no longer found happiness in it.

Sure, people change their interests all the time. Hell, Hongjoong could decide producing music isn’t his cup of tea anymore and switch to playing tennis.

But if you admit how you feel, it’ll feel like you’ve lost a part of yourself. Dancing used to be comforting. Now, it just reminds you of what you used to have.

Hongjoong stands from the chair to come near you. He angles your chin so you’re looking at him.

“I’m here for you,” he reassures sweetly. “Whenever you need me. I’m here.”

You offer a sad smile and nod. You know he is.

“It’s not that I don’t want to tell you, I just don’t want to put it out into the world,” you explain.

He hums in understanding.

Slowly, your gaze shifts to the TV again. It’s a little difficult to see in this position, but you can still faintly hear the music being played. You recall the performance being at another competition, but this time dress like cowboys and cowgirls.

Hongjoong follows your gaze and exhales as he suddenly knows the problem.

You have this longing expression on your face that tells Hongjoong how much you miss it.

You miss being the one on stage rather than the one behind the curtains. You love teaching, but you also love performing.

Hongjoong steps away from you to pause the video.

You watch him confused. He moves to his desk again, fiddles with the keyboard, and then music plays. It’s not the same one as before, it’s slower. It’s one you haven’t heard.

“May I have this dance?” Hongjoong asks while he steps back in front of you, a hand outstretched.

“W-what?” you question, eyes glancing at his hand and then at his face.

He smiles. “Dance with me.”

“I’m not really in the mood, Joong,” you sigh.

Despite your rejection, Hongjoong’s grin doesn’t falter.

He reaches to grab your hand anyway, pulling you close and resting his other hand on your lower back.

“Then just let me hold you.”

You’re reluctant at first, but end up yielding to his request. The hand not in his hold raises to rest on his shoulder. You rest your head on his body and listen to his heartbeat.

You both stand still for some time, simply taking in the other's company as the music plays.

Eventually, Hongjoong begins shifting his weight. He’s swaying you to and fro, guiding you ever so gently to the looping track.

You don’t even realize what he’s doing until he starts adding some footwork.

One step back, you follow. One step to the left, you follow. Until he’s leading you around the room in small circles. You recall teaching him these steps one rainy afternoon. Plans for a picnic date soon detoured to ballroom lessons in the living room. After a couple of stepped-on toes, he eventually got it.

Hongjoong is a better dancer than he believes. Although you want to take ownership of that, you know he’s just a natural. Naturally born to be an artist in some way. Whether it’s through producing, singing, dancing, or fashion, he has that creative talent so many crave.

Hongjoong raises your joint hands and carefully uses his hand on your lower back to guide you into a spin. You smile at the action, following his lead and twirling under his arm.

In one swift motion after your twirl, Hongjoong wraps an arm around your back and tilts you back.

You laugh at him dipping you.

Hongjoong grins at the sound, leaning down and pressing a tender kiss on your lips.

You place a hand on the back of his neck as you return the kiss. He gradually raises you until you’re standing properly. His lips are still on yours, tongue slipping into your mouth. The kiss isn’t frantic; it’s passionate and sensual—reminding you why you fell for him in the first place.

Hongjoong pulls away and stares at you with love in his eyes. You expect him to say something thoughtful, but instead, he asks, “Can you dip me now?”

You smack his chest playfully while you laugh. Though despite the reaction you reply, “Fine.”

You raise your arm and watch as Hongjoong spins before you lean him back. You have to use more strength than him to hold him. After a few seconds, you pull him up with a grunt.

Hongjoong laughs and once stable, grabs your face in both his hands and kisses you again. You both have a goofy smile on your lips as you do. It was a silly thing to do, but at that moment, you feel happier.

For the next few weeks, Hongjoong signs you both up for various dance lessons. And when you aren’t at a lesson, he prepares another artistic activity. Be it painting or reforming clothes, he has something planned. He doesn’t tell you why, but you know he’s trying to ignite that creative passion in you. He wants you to be able to be the dancer rather than the teacher—be the artist you loved being. Although the art activities are not dance-related, they can still inspire you in some way.

Even if your passion for dance hasn’t fully come back, you believe you can find it again with Hongjoong’s help. That, or you can let it go with gentler arms.

But with each dance lesson, you’re feeling that happiness you used to feel. You’re falling in love with the artistry all over again, and along the way, you’re falling for Hongjoong even more.

A/N: "A dancer dies twice—once when they stop dancing, and this first death is the more painful." - Martha Graham

For my “shy/silent” readers, I’ve created a feedback form where you can share your thoughts on my fics in a more anonymous and private way. ^-^

©️hongcherry // DO NOT REPOST OR MODIFY Please consider reblogging if you liked this work to show your support. Feedback/commentary is always welcomed.

#pirateez1year #pirateeznet #hongjoong fluff #hongjoong angst #hongjoong fanfic #atz fanfic #ateez fanfic #ateez fluff #atz fluff #ateez angst #atz angst #hongjoong x reader #hongjoong x you

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writing-after-midnight · 5 years

Note

If you're taking prompts, can I get some Feysand fluff? or angst either one

I Can’t Help Falling In Love With You

Of course! I love taking prompts and asks, send me one any time! 💖💖

Okay so this is set as an apocalypse au, and I went for the angst. It’s probably going to be relatively long? Hope you enjoy reading, and thank you for sending an ask!!

Btw I also seem to have an obsession with Rhys singing to Feyre? Sorry boiiiiiss

WRITING MASTERLIST

**********

The air chilled Rhys’ bones as he and Feyre trudged through the woods. They had both lost track of time months ago, when all power had cut out, but the shorter days indicated they were nearing winter. The backpack carrying most of their supplies weighed down on his shoulders, while Feyre scouted a few metres ahead, and his legs ached from their constant use. Since the world had gone to shit, they had both been forced to trek through dark forests and abandoned towns to survive. They had been separated from Cassian, Azriel, Mor and Amren days ago when a horde had passed their camp, and they hoped to make it to an old high school they had spotted on their travels to regroup. If they weren’t killed on the way there.

Feyre reached the top of a hill a few metres in front of him, and pointed. Rhys ran the last few steps, to see the school they had been looking for for days. He kissed the top of her head.

“We’re almost there, darling. When we find the others, we could set up a base there for a while.”

“Sounds like a good idea. My legs are going to fall off soon.” Feyre smiled. They stayed there for a moment, looking at the view from the top of the hill. They had both learned to enjoy the peaceful moments in this new life they had been shoved into. But they couldn’t stay there for long, so they kept moving.

He didn’t want to upset Feyre, but he was doubtful that the rest of the group all got out alive. The last glimpse he caught of his friends before the horde descended was Cassian jumping in front of Mor, holding off the first few Dead for her. It hadn’t looked good from where he stood, but the crowd of writhing bodies had forced them apart. If they ever did find each other again, how many of their group would be left?

Rhys didn’t let his fear show as they carried on in the direction of the school. Hopefully, it would be a school that hadn’t been used as a safe place while the disease was still spreading. All the ‘havens’ ended up practically being vending machines for the Dead, and quickly became overrun.

To calm himself, he took Feyre’s hand in his, and started to hum “I Can’t Help Falling In Love With You”. It had been the song he had sang to her all around their house before the world turned upside down. When they were waking up, when they made pancakes in the kitchen, when they were snuggled up on the sofa, enjoying each other’s presence. It always made Feyre grin, and her smile each time he sang it was imprinted into his memory. Even now, the corners of her mouth tugged up, and Rhys couldn’t help but smile too.

What felt like hours later, they reached the clearing. In front of them stood the small school. Rhys weighed up their options. The school was out of the way, and was too small to have housed a lot of people for safety, so they stood a fairly good chance of not walking in to a horde straight away. Still, they both grabbed their knives, and cautiously made their way out of the clearing.

Rhys lead them to a back door he had spotted. It must be an entrance to the kitchens, meaning they could hopefully stock up while they were here. Rhys entered first, silently placing one foot in front of the other, machete raised high. A couple of work tables had been tipped over, and a few cans were strewn across the floor, but as his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he saw stacks of large industrial cans filled with food. It looked like someone had been there before them, but had left the food behind.

“Feyre,” Rhys whispered, “I think we just hit the jackpot!”

Feyre padded in and saw the cans, and her jaw dropped open. They hadn’t found proper food like this for months.Her eyes lit up.

They couldn’t help but practically run towards the food, their growling stomachs goading them to be quicker. But this momentary loss of control stopped them from seeing a long piece of wire connected to a door on their right side. Feyre caught her leg on the wire and was sent careening into the cans.

“What the –” Feyre started, but then looked up to see the door that had been connected to the wire crash open, revealing hundreds of the Dead, processing the loud noise. They turned and started to shuffle through the door.

A trap. It had been an elaborate trap, set by the last person who stayed here. Rhys didn’t know why someone would do such a thing, but he didn’t have time to contemplate before the horde started to close in. He dashed towards Feyre, hauling her up from the floor.

“Go for their heads!” Rhys roared as they circled them both. He wished he had time to get the handgun out of his backpack. Would they get out of this alive?

Rhys didn’t stop swinging, and neither did Feyre. But when one of the Dead fell, another one took its place. More and more poured out of the door way, overwhelming them. They needed to cut a path through and get to the exit on the other side of the room.

Before he could put his plan into action, however, he saw one of the Dead break off and lurch toward an unsuspecting Feyre. No!

Rhys turned and swung his machete into the side of the Dead’s head, but didn’t realise another took its place and lunged towards him.

A sharp pain flashed through his forearm, before Rhys used his other arm to elbow the Dead off his arm and grabbed Feyre. They needed to get out. Now.

The next minute was a blur. The movement swirling around them almost putting in a trance. Swing, thud. Swing thud. The Dead were groaning all around them, the noise almost deafening. But they made it closer and closer to freedom with each sickening crunch. They shoved the last of the horde away from them and dashed for sunlight. Rhys tugged on Feyre’s hand, insisting that they keep running until they were lost in the trees.

Finally, they both collapsed on the ground, exhausted. Feyre panted, sucking in the cool air beside Rhys.

“I’m sorry I set that trap off; I should have checked.” Feyre wheezed.

“It’s alright. If you hadn’t, I would have anyway.”

An almost hysterical laugh bubbled out of her. “We survived, though! When we find the others, we’ll have to tell them.”

The laugh warmed Rhys’ heart slightly, but it didn’t outweigh the crushing weight forming over his heart. He managed to smile at Feyre, before he told her they needed to find some water and walked off.

He didn’t dare to even acknowledge his arm until he was out of sight from Feyre. Please let it be a scratch. Rhys prayed, but he knew deep down that it wouldn’t be. The Dead’s teeth had been too close to his arm.

Rhys peeled back the sleeve of his coat and stared for a moment. Blood oozed out of the punctures in his arm. Teeth punctures. Mother above. He sank to his knees, and a tear slid down his cheek. How would he be able to keep Feyre safe when he was going to die?

**********

Rhys returned to find Feyre sitting against a tree, sorting the supplies in her backpack. He plastered a smile on his face and wrapped her in a hug. He must have sat in the woods for the better part of an hour before he steeled himself to go back to Feyre. He couldn’t tell her. She would only get upset and insist they go to find a derelict hospital to find medication that worked. Nothing worked against the infection once you were bitten.

She pulled away, but Rhys held on for a moment longer, trying to ingrain the contours of her body into his mind. If he was going to die, he would remember every little thing about Feyre.

“I didn’t find any water, but I have a bit left in my bottle if you need it.” Rhys offered.

“Thank you. We should rest now, it’s almost dark. Maybe the others will still be around the woods tomorrow?”

“Good idea. There’s a tree with some branches we could sleep on down the hill. It’ll keep us off the ground.” As if Rhys needed to be careful any more. It didn’t matter to him; he only cared about Feyre now. He needed to find somewhere safe for her to live, but where was safe anymore?

They climbed up the tree’s limbs towards the ones that intersected. Rhys’ arm screamed in agony each time he pulled himself up on it, but he refused to make a sound about it.

Feyre nestled herself into Rhys’ lap, murmured a “good night” and placed a kiss on his cheek. She fell asleep in his arms immediately, but Rhys stayed up most of the night, partly from the pain in his arm, partly because he was so afraid he might go in his sleep and harm Feyre. He stared at her blonde waves, and the spattering of freckles on her cheeks. Why did the Cauldron have to be so cruel? He loved her so much, and soon, he wouldn’t be able to see her anymore. He whispered the lyrics to their song.

“Like a river flows surely to the sea, darling so it goes, some things are meant to be.” His voice cracked on the last line.

They were meant to be, so why had their time been cut so short? He wanted to grow old with her. He wanted to make her grin everyday with his singing. He wanted make sure she didn’t have to worry about surviving the hell they had been plunged into. But when he went, what would happen to her? She would be on her own if they didn’t find Cass, Mor, Az and Amren. The thought made his stomach churn.

Rhys looked up to the the stars shining in the pitch black sky through the few leaves left on the tree. It almost looked like they were twinkling for just him, waiting for him to say something. On their first date, Feyre and Rhys had looked up to the sky together and each made a wish. They had felt such a strong connection in those moments, that Rhys always looked up to the stars now and remembered that night.

“Someone, anyone… Please looked after her when I’m gone. She doesn’t deserve to be by herself.” Rhys sobbed quietly, trying his best not to wake Feyre. More tears ran down his face, and his face crumpled. “I would do anything.”

The stars only twinkled in return.

**********

The punctures in Rhys’ arm seemed to sap all the energy from him with each passing hour. Even in the freezing air, Feyre remarked how warm he felt when she woke up. He checked his arm in the morning light after not getting much sleep. It still seeped blood, and the flesh around the wound had gone from red to purple. He managed to swallow a few bites of a granola bar before giving it to Feyre, insisting he wasn’t hungry. He would only be able to keep up his facade for so long.

Feyre had pulled back to his pace for a while, the crunch of leaves under their boots the only sound in the silence of the woods. The quietness became unbearable, so Feyre started to sing their song quietly, waiting for him to join in. He could barely process his feet plodding on, one after the other, but for Feyre, he would sing.

“Take my hand, take my whole life too, for I can’t help falling in love with you.”

His heart cracked at those words, but he stumbled on, showing no pain to Feyre.

**********

The second night wore on, but Rhys hadn’t had one minute of decent sleep. Every time he closed his eyes, visions of clouded eyes, ripped skin and cracked teeth flashed by. That could be his end, if he didn’t finish it before the infection changed him into a creature like that. He had seen the effects of the infection on everyone around him. He would become paralysed for the last few hours of his life.

Once again, he wept under the stars, sending as many prayers he could to the Mother. Feyre never woke; she just lay there, nestled in his arms. Would she be able to understand? He needed to stay as long as he could to help Feyre. Rhys just hoped he could hang on.

He fell into a restless doze, still humming their song.

**********

The day seemed to pass in a haze. Rhys couldn’t shake the fuzzy feeling in his head, and his legs felt leaden. The bite mark pulsed with heat and pain, and it took almost all of his energy He clung onto his backpack for dear life, hoping it would give him some semblance of stability.

He was pretty sure Feyre was starting to become suspicious. She kept at his steadily slowing pace, looking at him with concern. He couldn’t even bear to look at her. Couldn’t bear to let her see the sorrow or the growing terror in his eyes.

The daylight was beginning to fade, when Feyre stopped.

“I think we should rest.” She said, eyeing Rhys’ slouched posture. He almost sighed in relief, but he cursed himself when he remembered they had still not found anywhere safe yet for Feyre. He felt dizzy, and pressure had been building in his head for most of the day. She decided to set up a small camp, while she allocated him to get the firewood. He made it all of two steps before his vision went black around the edges and his knees felt like jelly. He fell to the ground, and didn’t have the energy to move. He knew it. This was the end.

“RHYS!” Feyre cried as she rushed towards him, dropping down next to him. Tears streamed down his face, but his throat felt dry as he whispered “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry”.

“What’s wrong, Rhys?!”

He couldn’t sit up or move his limbs, so he dropped his gaze towards his arm. Towards the terrifying truth they would now both have to face. Feyre reached over and gently pulled back the sleeve of his jacket. This time, he couldn’t stop the groan that rattled out of his mouth. Feyre winced at the pain she caused him.

But then she saw the bite marks on his blackened skin, rotting his arm away, and she gagged.

“Mother above! Rhys… why didn’t you tell me? Cauldron damn it!” Her voice was getting higher and higher in her hysteria. Her voice cracked as her eyes brimmed with tears.

“I wanted you safe.” Rhys replied. Numbness was spreading up his legs, and when he tried to move them, they wouldn’t budge.

“We could have found you help!”

“There’s no cure Feyre, you know that.” He rasped. It killed him to say it, but he carried on. “My gun is in my backpack.”

“No, I can’t, Rhys. You can’t make me do that!” Feyre caught on to the implication. She was sobbing now, face crunched in panic and horror.

“Please Feyre, you have to. I don’t want to turn out like one of… them. Please.”

Feyre took a few calming breaths and pushed herself up, shaking, and went over to retrieve the discarded backpack. Rhys lay still on the floor, the numb feeling snaking its way up his legs. She pulled the gun out, and dropped it on the ground between them.

He had so many things to say to her. He wanted to tell her about the way she had always made him smile after a rough day at work. The quiet evenings that they spent together, that repaired his weary soul. How he would never stop loving her, even when he passed on, to whatever came next. He couldn’t put all of his feelings into words in time, so he hoped that his eyes conveyed all of his emotion as he started to sing.

“But I can’t help falling in love with you.”

Feyre finished the last lines of the song for him, and burst into tears. She placed a long kiss on his forehead, and he savoured one of the last touches he would receive from his love. It was dark now, and Rhys could see the stars twinkling back at him. He sent up one last silent wish, and hoped that the stars were listening. Please protect her.

Feyre picked up the gun, hands shaking almost uncontrollably. It took all of Rhys’ strength and willpower to lift his arm and place his hand over hers. He gently tugged her hand to the side of his head, and lined the barrel of the gun to his temple. He had to stay calm, for her.

“I love you Feyre, and we will find each other in the next life, I promise. I will never stop loving you.”

“I love you too, Rhys. Too much to even comprehend.” Feyre sobbed. Her hand was still shaking, but she almost looked more determined. She wanted to carry out his final wish, even if it killed her.

He looked up at the stars for the last time, then focused his eyes on Feyre’s. He wanted them to be the last thing he saw.

“Good night, Feyre darling.” He whispered.

“Good night, Rhys.”

Her face crumpled as her hand steadied. He stared into her beautiful eyes as he felt her hand squeeze the trigger underneath his.

Rhys heard a loud bang, before his vision went black and he was swept into oblivion.

**********

Okayyy!! I had fun writing this (I have no idea about how it reads though hahah) and I tried my best! Hope you enjoyed, and thank you to @highladyofthesith for sending me the ask!💖💖

#thank you so much for sending an ask!#so happy!#feel free to send asks #asks #ask #feysand #feysand au #apocalypse au #angst #death #oof #zombie #feysand angst

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gutterballgt · 7 years

Note

12 for the chaleigh ask meme if you're still taking these/if inspiration strikes from this prompt? :DD

From the ask meme: writer and editor AU. I LIKE IT. This one was so fun to write!

Chuck stared at the screen with its multitude of commentindicators and tracked changes and let his irritation grow. Next page, morechanges. Next page, more changes.

Who the fuck did this wanker think he fucking was?

A published author several times over, Chuck Hansen wasfairly confident about his writing skills. Every writer had their doubts, ofcourse, and their periods of “why do I even fucking bother because I CAN’TWORD DAMMIT??”, but overall, his stories about mecha pilots and Lovecraftianleviathans from alternate dimensions sold well enough and got rave enoughreviews that he could usually mute that annoying, nay-saying voice and carry onwriting.

But this fucking guy.

His new editor was a wanker. No other word for it. Tendo hadnever nitpicked every single word choice. Tendo had never suggested he questionhis characters’ motivations and try to find something deeper. And Tendo hadnever, ever accused him of misusing verb tense.

Apparently, “R. Becket” had never read a goddamnbook in his entire life besides Simon & Schuster. Why, oh why did Tendohave to move up to senior editor and leave his entire roster to some fuckingnoob?

Fuck this guy. Fuck this whole situation.

Standing away from his desk, he snatched up his keys,growled at his old man’s questioning grunt, and strode out of the house on agoddamn mission. He was done trying to communicate via email with the uselessfuck. This shit needed handling in person.

Thus, a ten minute cab ride later, he found himself on the lifton the way up to the Shatterdome Publishing offices, wondering whether or notpunching an editor would get him blacklisted from the publishing world. Mightbe worth it. He could self-publish. He was pretty damn prolific.

He exited the lift like a summer thunderstorm looking for aplace to loose his bag of winds and fistfuls of lightnings. The receptionisttook one look at him and picked up the phone, talking nervously and earnestlyinto it, then hanging up just as Chuck reached her desk.

“Mr. Becket will be happy to see you in his office, Mr.Hansen. Just down that hallway, second office on the right.”

Without slowing down, he marched in the indicated direction,gearing up for what his old man would likely call a tantrum but Chuck knew wasa much-needed lecture on exactly what an editor’s place was in thewriter/editor relationship. It was notrewriting an entire goddamn story from scratch and calling it“revision”.

He started talking even before he got to the doorway.“Oi, listen up, fuckface. You got a lot of–”

He came to an abrupt halt just inside the door, eyes wideand rant dissipating like a fart in the wind. He didn’t know what he’d expectedto see, but it definitely wasn’t this.

R. Becket, wanker extraordinaire, was fucking hot.

Like… stupidhot.

And smiling faintly while his pretty blue eyes snapped withannoyance and at least as much piss and vinegar as Chuck had entered the roomwith.

“Mr. Hansen, I presume.”

Oh, fuck, he even soundedhot. This was not at all what he’d wanted. Speechless, he could only nod likean idiot.

“Please. Have a seat. I think we ought to get betteracquainted.”

Struck stupid, he meekly did as suggested, eyes wide andbrain sending out distress signals he was too gobsmacked to attend to.

“I imagine it was something of a shock to get yourmanuscript back with so many edits.”

Right. Edits. The word rang a dim bell somewhere far away. Thewanker had a tiny, faint mole just at the crease where cheek met mouth. It wasfascinating.

“When Mr. Choi was reassigning his authors, I requestedyou specifically. You’re an amazing author, Mr. Hansen.”

He blinked. It appeared the wanker’s mouth was good for morethan staring at and wishing for.

“But you’re undisciplined. It’s in a way that readswell, thankfully, but I think you could be better. With a little focus, I thinkyou can be one of the best authors currently writing.”

The irritation slowly trickled back, and he remembered hewas here for a reason. And not just to stare at the pretty bloke in hisexpensive, sharp suit who unfortunately had veto power over whether or notChuck ever got published at this house again.

Because couched in the compliments was an implicit insult:Chuck wasn’t good enough.

The trickle became a rush, and he was angry all over again.“Oi, who the fuck do you think you are?”

Instead of answering, the irritatingly beautiful blokereached down, opened one of his desk drawers, and pulled out an old paperbacknovel. Still smiling faintly – but with less of that snapping hostility that,okay, had maybe been earned by Chuck’s unfortunate entrance – he dropped thenovel and scooted it across the desk to Chuck’s side.

The Fall, byRaleigh Becket. The cover was a swirling maelstrom of eye-gouging color leadingdown to the dimension into which the main character fell, screaming andhelpless.

Gaping, Chuck looked up from the book, stared at the R.Becket that had shat all over his masterpiece, and let the pieces connect. “R”for Raleigh. This wanker with the over-eager red pen was the best goddamnscience fiction author he’d ever read.

But five years ago, Raleigh Becket – who had faithfullypublished every year of his brief but glorious four year career – suddenlydropped out of sight. No more books. No more press tours. No more signings.

Half his fans assumed he was dead.

Chuck was one of them.

And yet, here he was. In a swank suit and understated tie ina sober but inviting office in Chuck’s publishing house.

“If you’re wondering, a traumatic brain injury fiveyears ago impaired my ability to write. Car wreck. Bad one.” The prettybloke wasn’t smiling now. “But I still wanted to be in the publishingindustry, so Mr. Pentecost gave me a trial with editing.” The broadshoulders shrugged. “Tendo said I had a natural talent at it, and I’vebeen an editor here ever since.”

Well. That fucking sucked.

Clearing his throat and hoping he could maybe clear the airbetween them, because he very much wanted to hear more about what had happenedto his favorite author who had been such an inspiration for his own writing,Chuck shifted in his seat. He needed to backtrack his terrible firstimpression, and fast.

“Uh.”

Well. That was a promising start.

“Can I get your autograph?”

Jesus. What the fuck was wrong with him?

Luckily, the bloke just chuckled and leaned back in hisexpensive office chair. “If you still want it, you can have it. But fromthe look on your face before you got an eyeful, you might not.”

Blushing miserably, he squirmed again and tried to think ofsome way to salvage the situation. Unfortunately, eating crow was not hisspecialty.

“Right. About that.”

Another chuckle, and the urge to deck the wanker came back,if only for a moment.

“Look, mate, you gotta know that seeing all thosechanges was….” Overwhelming? Upsetting? Frustrating? Daunting? “Abit much, yeah?”

Surprisingly, the bloke just nodded. “I understand. Ifelt the same way when my first manuscript came back from Stacker with all thered ink he could find.”

It earned a wry grin that Chuck couldn’t help. While he wasstill raw about the nasty shock of all those edits, he was grateful his editorwasn’t the holy terror known as Stacker Pentecost, who had started this companyback when Herc was still writing and had made celebrities and politicians alikecry with brutal, non-negotiable edits to their vanity pieces.

“But I promise you, Mr. Hansen, if you look at them oneat a time, they aren’t so overwhelming. And while you can veto any change youwant to, I want you to keep an open mind. I really think that if you tighten upyour narrative and really focus on what your pilot wants, you’ll make her amuch stronger character in a clearer story.”

Slowly, grudgingly, he nodded. Raleigh Becket had writtensuch brutally tight stories that universities almost immediately added them to theircurriculum for study. His style was likened to the brevity and clarity ofspeech of Hemingway with the imagery and thematic style of Poe or Lovecraft.There was a sparse poetry in his tales of aliens and drones and the resilienceof the human spirit that readers and scholars alike latched onto and couldn’tget enough of.

If the bloke felt Chuck could come anywhere near thatnarrative brilliance, he’d be a fool to ignore his guidance.

So: “Yeah, alright.” He nodded again with lessreluctance. “I… uh… sorry. About the attitude.”

The pretty sod grinned. “Don’t worry. I waswarned.”

“Oi!”

Waving the protest – more embarrassed than offended –away, Mr. Becket stood from behind his desk and buttoned his suit jacket.Jesus, but the bloke was pretty. Filled out the suit like a hand in a glove.Broad shoulders, narrow waist, handsome face, low and pleasant voice. Perfect,really.

“If you want, we can meet up after you’ve given the editsa look and talk them over. Maybe… dinner?”

He’d started to stand up, as well, but paused because… wasthat…?

Sure enough, the pretty sod smirked. “Do you likeItalian? I can get us a table at Galliano’s.” The smirk sobered. “Butfeel free to say no. I really want to keep you as a client, and I don’t wantanything to distract from that.”

Narrowly avoiding the urge to gape, he snortedincredulously. “Are you taking the piss? Fancy dinner with my favoriteauthor who turned out to be gorgeous as fuck?”

Oh, shit, now the wanker grinned sunnily, and it was just asattractive as the smirk from before. “Your favorite author?”

Blushing again, he grunted and kicked at the plush carpet.“Shut up. It’s a yes, yeah?”

“Good.” Reaching across the desk, his gorgeouseditor offered a hand to shake. “Galliano’s at seven, then. We’ll eatbefore we talk about edits.”

In a weirdly delighted fog, he shook hands, nodded, and leftthe office with the stupidest grin on his face. The ride down on the lift feltlike descending on a cloud, and he exited the huge multi-office building intothe near-noon sunshine feeling like he’d just stepped out of a dream.

His new editor was tough but fair. His new editor believedin him and wanted to help him be a better writer.

And his new editor was fucking hot as hell and had asked himto dinner.

Life… was a fucking dream.

Eschewing a taxi when he felt too goddamn great to sitpassively while the world passed him by, Chuck Hansen walked home toward thedreaded edits with a huge, ridiculous smile. He couldn’t wait to get started.

THE END

#ask meme #striker-in-the-sky #chaleigh #chuck hansen #raleigh becket #pacific rim #I love a good AU!

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