#That's what I was trying to get across anyway | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

haerenven · 2 days ago

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Pairings. M.D.Luffy - R.Zoro - V.Sanji - Nami - N.Robin - Shanks

summary. Them with curly headed reader

— (a/n): consider this a gift for my gorgeous curly girlies ₍^. .^₎⟆

MONKEY D LUFFY

- Endless Fascination with Your Curls

Luffy is obsessed with your hair—not in a poetic, admiring-from-afar kind of way, but in the most Luffy way possible. He tugs at your curls just to watch them bounce back, sometimes even poking them with a finger like he’s testing if they have a mind of their own. “Whoa… they’re like little springs!” he exclaims every time, as if he’s just discovered it all over again. And if you ever get annoyed? He just laughs, completely unbothered, and does it again.

- Zero Concept of Personal Space

If he’s tired? Your curls make the perfect pillow. If he’s hungry? He’ll lean against you, idly playing with a strand while thinking about meat. If he’s excited? He’ll grab you, spin you around, andsomehow get his fingers tangled in your hair in the process. Luffy doesn’t care about boundaries—he’s always close, always touching, always acting like he has every right to be tangled up with you, just like your curls are with each other.

- Unfiltered, Genuine Compliments

Luffy doesn’t have a poetic bone in his body, but when he compliments you, it’s so real that it sticks with you forever. “Your hair looks like a whole adventure!” he grins one day, staring at the wild way it moves. “Like if I followed every curl, I’d find treasure at the end!” It’s ridiculous, but he says it with so much excitement—so much Luffy-ness—that you can’t help but smile.

- Doesn’t Understand Hair Struggles but Tries Anyway

If you’re ever frustrated with your hair—too tangled, too frizzy, too much—Luffy doesn’t get it, but that won’t stop him from trying to help. “Just leave it like that!” he suggests with a grin, fully convinced that you look amazing no matter what. And if you insist on fixing it, he offers solutions that make no sense. “What if we dunk your head in the ocean and see what happens?” (Spoiler: Bad idea.)

- The Ultimate Protector—Even Against the Wind

Luffy doesn’t care much about the wind messing up his hair, but when it comes to you? Oh, he takes it personally. If a strong gust blows your curls into your face, he immediately stretches his arm out like a shield, standing in front of you with a dramatic stance. “I GOTCHA!” he shouts, as if he’s just saved you from mortal danger. It’s completely unnecessary, but he’s so proud of himself that you just let him have his moment.

- Plays with Your Hair Absentmindedly

Whenever he’s deep in thought—rare as that may be—his fingers somehow find their way to your hair. He absentmindedly twirls a curl around his finger, stretching it slightly just to watch it spring back. He’ll braid random sections (terribly), tie tiny knots (that you definitely have to untangle later), and sometimes just hold a curl in front of his face, squinting at it like it holds the secrets of the universe.

- Unapologetic About His Preferences

One time, Nami tries to brush your hair out into loose waves, and Luffy immediately pouts. “Nooooo, put it back!” he whines, reaching over to mess it up again. “I like it all poofy and crazy!” He doesn’t care about what’s fashionable—he just loves you, exactly the way you are.

- Loves How Your Hair Feels Against Him

If you ever rest against his chest, he immediately buries his face in your hair, rubbing his cheek against it like a cat. “It’s so soft!” he laughs, nuzzling into you without shame. If you try to push him away, he just stretches his arms to pull you right back. “Nope! I live here now!”

- A Love That’s Loud and Unshakable

Luffy doesn’t do subtle. If he loves you, everyone knows it. He shouts your name across islands, tackles you into hugs that leave you breathless, and brags to strangers about how cool your hair is like it’s his greatest discovery. And when it’s just the two of you, when the sea is quiet and the stars stretch endless above you, he tugs at a curl, grinning softly. “I dunno,” he murmurs, his voice softer than usual. “I just think everything about you is perfect.”

RORONOA ZORO

- Absorbed in the Movement of Your Curls

Zoro is not a man prone to idleness, but when it comes to you, he finds himself drawn to the subtle movement of your curls, as if they’re the sea itself—wild and free. In those quiet moments, as the crew rests, he may sit next to you, his hands absentmindedly finding a strand of hair to twist between his fingers. His touch is unthinking, almost a part of the background, but there’s a quiet fascination in the way he does it—his rough fingertips tracing each curl’s path, not because he’s trying to tame it, but because he finds it impossibly captivating. If you tease him about it, he’ll turn away, muttering under his breath with the same gruffness he’s known for. “It’s just… bouncy,” he’ll say, though the pink in his ears tells a different story.

- A Shield Against the Wind

Zoro observes, always quietly aware of his surroundings, and he notices how your curls seem to fight against the wind, their natural beauty battling the elements. While others may not notice, he does. When the wind picks up, he’ll subtly shift his position, always placing himself between you and the gusts, blocking the worst of it with his broad frame. If you ask him why, he’ll scoff, “You could move, y’know,” but his stance remains unchanged. It’s his way of silently protecting you—and your curls—from the chaos outside.

- Comfort in the Aftermath

After a fierce battle, when the adrenaline that had once sharpened his senses fades into a quiet exhaustion, Zoro finds solace in your presence. He doesn’t need to say much—his actions speak for him. With a quiet breath, he’ll reach for you, running his fingers through your curls, feeling the softness of each strand as his hand tangles within them. It’s not about comfort; it’s about grounding himself, reminding himself that you’re still there, still safe. In those moments, his touch lingers just a second longer than necessary, and though his eyes may not meet yours, the weight of his affection is undeniable.

- Uncomplicated Praise, Deeply Felt

Zoro is blunt, his words seldom adorned with the sweetness others might offer. But when he compliments you, it’s grounded in truth, uncomplicated yet deeply sincere. When you’re struggling with the tangled chaos of your curls, his gaze will lift to you, and with a grunt, he’ll say, “Looks fine to me. Don’t change it.” It’s not flowery, but it’s Zoro in its purest form—honest, no frills. On rare occasions when you take care more of your hair and styling it, his eyes might linger a moment too long, before he clears his throat and mutters, “You look… good.” Simple words, yet they carry the weight of his admiration.

- The Battle of Haircare

When you mention needing new hair products, Zoro’s mind immediately shifts into a mode of confusion. He’s never thought about something as trivial as shampoo, but his love for you has him trying—if only to see you smile. In the aisles of an unfamiliar island store, he glares at the endless bottles, trying to make sense of them. “What the hell is ‘hydrating curl cream’ supposed to do?” he mutters, but when you ask him to help detangle your hair, he takes the task more seriously than anything else. His brows furrow in concentration, fingers working through the knots with an intensity only rivaled by his swordsmanship. Each strand is handled with an unexpected patience, proving that even in the smallest things, Zoro will always give his all.

- A Silent Protector

Zoro’s way of protecting you isn’t flashy or showy. He doesn’t need to make a spectacle of it. But when your curls are threatened—by the wind, by the crowd, by something as simple as an ill-timed brush of someone’s hand—he steps in without hesitation. With a firm but gentle hand, he pulls you closer to his side, shielding your hair from harm, acting as if it’s no more than a casual motion. If someone dares to touch your curls without permission, his gaze is enough to make them rethink their actions, his glare sharp enough to cut through any pretense.

- Loyalty Shown in the Quiet Moments

Zoro’s love for you is shown in the quietest, most sincere ways. If you run out of your favorite hair product, he’s the one to notice, somehow keeping track of the small details that others might overlook. One evening, he’ll appear beside you with a new bottle of your favorite oil, placing it gently in your hands as though it’s the most natural thing in the world. If you’ve had a long day and your curls are more unruly than usual, Zoro will offer a gruff, “Sit down. I’ll take care of it.” The way he works through your hair is slow and deliberate, as if he’s taking the time to tend to something precious. It’s not about the task—it’s about the way he quietly shows you that, no matter the day or the chaos, he’s there for you, always.

VINSMOKE SANJI

- Adoration in Every Strand

Sanji’s fascination with your curls borders on obsession. The moment you walk into the kitchen or sit down at the table, he can’t help but be drawn to the way your hair naturally moves, the way it defies gravity, as if each curl is a work of art in itself. “Mademoiselle,” he’ll sigh dreamily, gazing at you with the adoration of a man utterly enchanted. “Your hair… it’s like a perfect symphony of elegance and chaos—so wild, so effortlessly beautiful.” He could spend hours simply staring, but when he’s around, you’ll always feel like the most stunning creature to ever exist.

- The Art of Curly Hair Care

Sanji may be a chef, but when it comes to your hair, he becomes a meticulous artist. He knows exactly how to make it shine, how to take care of it with tender touches, and he’s the only one you trust to give you the perfect trim. Whenever you ask for help with it, he responds with complete seriousness. “Of course, darling, it’s my honor to ensure your curls remain as perfect as they deserve to be.” His hands are always gentle but firm, his focus intense as he works on keeping your hair looking its best.

- Flirty Comments with a Side of Gentle Touch

His flirting knows no bounds, but with you, it always feels different—genuine, tender. If you catch him staring at your hair, he doesn’t even try to hide it. “How do you make your curls look so good?” he’ll ask, his voice thick with admiration, leaning in as if he’s trying to discover the secret. “Are you sure they’re just hair, or do they have a mind of their own?” he’ll muse, his gaze so intense it feels like he’s searching for the very meaning of life in your locks.

- Curly Hair, Perfect Partner

Sanji’s love for you goes beyond superficialities, but the way your hair frames your face? He can’t help but be captivated every time. You’re a vision—whether it’s in the kitchen, surrounded by the smell of his best dishes, or on the deck under the golden sun, your hair always perfectly wild and untamed. “How did I get so lucky?” he’ll whisper to himself, caught in a moment where everything seems to revolve around you. “My perfect, beautiful mademoiselle…”

- The Hair-Ruffling Ritual

On rare, quiet moments, when you’re sitting together or sharing a peaceful moment, Sanji has this little ritual. He’ll reach over, carefully running his fingers through your curls, smoothing them down as if it’s his responsibility to protect them. When he does this, there’s always a soft, affectionate smile on his lips, as if he’s savoring a secret joy no one else gets to see. “I swear,” he’ll say with a soft chuckle, “if I could, I’d make sure every curl stayed as perfect as the first time I saw it.”

- Teasing with Adoration

Even in his playful teasing, Sanji’s love for you is clear. If your curls are a little out of place, he’ll make a show of dramatically fixing them, acting as if it’s a matter of utmost importance. “There’s no way I can allow such disarray on my lovely lady,” he’ll say with a smirk, his fingers carefully tucking a curl behind your ear. You know he’s teasing, but the care with which he does it shows just how much he values you.

- A Man Who Wants to Spoil You

He doesn’t just want to cook for you—he wants to pamper you. He’ll surprise you with special oils, conditioners, or hair accessories that he swears will make your curls even more radiant. “Only the best for my queen,” he’ll proclaim as he carefully places a luxurious bottle of hair serum in your hands. “A woman as beautiful as you deserves the world, including perfect curls.”

- In Private, He’s Your Rock

When it’s just the two of you, away from the prying eyes of the crew, Sanji’s admiration for you feels like a soft, steady thing. In moments of quiet, when you’re lying in his arms after a long day, he’ll press gentle kisses to the top of your head, letting his lips linger just long enough to enjoy the feeling of your curls against his face. “You know…” he’ll say softly, “I’d protect every single curl on your head if it meant keeping you safe.”

CAT BURGLAR NAMI

- Strategic Observations of Your Hair

Nami is always keenly aware of your curls, though she rarely shows it. She’s more practical than emotional, so she admires the way your hair moves with the wind or the humidity with the same precision she’d use to study a map. “so gorgeous,” she’ll say, a faint smirk pulling at the corners of her mouth as she watches a few stubborn strands fight against the breeze. You can see that spark in her eyes—Nami loves a challenge, and your curls are one she enjoys mastering in subtle ways.

- Curly Hair Care Expert (Without the Compliments)

Nami isn’t one to shower you with over-the-top compliments about your hair—she’ll leave that to others like Sanji. Instead, she’ll approach your curls with the same pragmatism she applies to everything in her life. She’ll be the first one to suggest a new hair product when your curls are looking frizzy, her voice casual as if she’s offering you an extra map for your travels. “Try this—works wonders with humidity. Trust me, I’ve tested it.”

- The Subtle Tease

Nami loves to tease you, and your curly hair is a prime target. “It must take you forever to untangle that mess in the morning,” she’ll comment with a smirk, clearly enjoying the light-hearted jab. But when she says this, you know there’s affection behind the teasing—Nami isn’t mean-spirited, she’s just playful. Still, you’ll catch her grinning as she watches you attempt to fix one particularly stubborn curl.

- The Subtle Compliment (When You Least Expect It)

While she’ll never openly gush about how beautiful your curls are, she’ll show her admiration in small, subtle ways. When she notices a particularly well-placed curl or a new style you’ve tried, she’ll make a nonchalant comment. “Okay, I’ll admit it,” she’ll say while adjusting a map or focusing on something else. “That curl right there—looks good.” She’ll never go overboard, but you can hear the sincerity in her voice.

- Curly Hair, Practicalities First

Nami’s practicality takes over when it comes to your hair. She’ll often have hair ties and clips on hand, offering them to you without hesitation. If your hair starts getting in the way during a storm or a chaotic situation, she’ll hand you one with a knowing look, as if it’s just another tool to make the day go smoothly. “Trust me, it’s easier when you don’t have a ton of hair in your face while navigating through this mess.”

- Shared Moments in the Sun

On those rare, peaceful moments when the crew is relaxing on a beach or under a tree, Nami will sit beside you, eyeing your curls with a kind of fondness. She’ll reach over to lightly tuck one curl behind your ear, the touch soft, almost intimate. “Your hair’s wild,” she’ll comment with a small smile, “but in a good way. It suits you.” These little moments of connection, where Nami’s usually cool demeanor softens, are a quiet but important reminder that she values you, in every sense.

- In Private, She’s Surprisingly Gentle

When it’s just the two of you, Nami can be surprisingly tender. If she catches you adjusting your curls in frustration, she won’t let you do it alone. “Let me help,” she’ll say quietly, gently moving to fix the curls you’ve been trying to tame. You’ll feel her fingers brush your scalp, working in silence with focused care. For someone who doesn’t always show her emotions, her actions speak volumes.

- Nami’s Way of Saying “I Care”

Nami doesn’t always wear her affection on her sleeve, but when she does, it’s in these small moments with you. After a rough day, when the rest of the crew is busy or unwinding, she’ll settle beside you. Without saying much, she’ll gently adjust your curls, fixing them in a way that feels almost soothing. “You’re fine. Stop stressing,” she’ll whisper with a calm smile, her touch tender but firm, reminding you that she’s there.

NICO ROBIN

- Admiring Your Curls from a Distance

Robin, being observant as always, notices the subtle beauty in your curls, though she’s not the type to openly gush about them. When she’s deep in thought, her gaze will often drift to you, to the way your curls frame your face so perfectly, as if each strand is in its rightful place. She’s not one to speak often, but when she does, it’s always with a calm, almost meditative tone. “You have a way of making chaos look beautiful,” she’ll say, the softness in her voice making it clear that it’s more of an observation than a simple compliment.

- Gentle Touch and Care

Robin isn’t the kind of person who’s outwardly affectionate in the traditional sense, but when she does show her care, it’s in the smallest, most delicate gestures. If you’re struggling with your curls, or if the wind has made them unruly, she’ll quietly take a seat next to you, her hands moving to adjust a few strands with meticulous care. She doesn’t rush, allowing the moment to feel intimate, her touch feather-light as she smooths down a particularly stubborn curl. “There. That’s better,”she’ll say softly, her eyes lingering on you with that serene, knowing expression.

- The Quiet Compliment

Robin doesn’t give many overt compliments, but when she does, it’s always in the form of quiet, thoughtful remarks. If your curls catch her attention—perhaps when the sunlight hits them just right—she might lean in ever so slightly, her lips curving into a subtle smile. “You always seem to look the most radiant when the wind plays with your hair,” she’ll comment, her voice low, as if she’s sharing a private thought.

- Her Subtle, Intimate Observations

Robin’s way of showing admiration is to notice the things that others might overlook, the subtle movements, the small details that make you unique. She’ll watch your curls bounce as you move, and though she might not comment on them every time, there’s a certain glimmer in her eyes that lets you know she’s taken note. “Your curls have their own rhythm,” she’ll muse, her voice a soft hum as she watches them shift in the breeze.

- The Quiet Protector

Though Robin is typically reserved, when it comes to you, she’s remarkably attentive. If she notices you becoming frustrated with your curls, especially in the heat or humidity, she might offer you a calming smile, her hand gently brushing your hair out of your face. “Don’t let something so simple trouble you,” she’ll say, her voice as smooth as silk, her touch both soothing and reassuring.

- The Curiosity About Your Hair

Robin’s intellectual curiosity extends to you as well, and she’s often fascinated by the way your curls seem to have a life of their own. “It’s remarkable,” she’ll say with a quiet tone of wonder. “How do you keep your curls so full of life?” She’s genuinely interested in your haircare routine, as it represents the unique qualities of your personality that she finds so intriguing.

- A Gentle Bond in the Quiet Moments

In private moments, when the noise of the world fades away, Robin enjoys the soft serenity of your company. She might run her fingers through your curls, not in a rush but with a calm, soothing touch, as if she’s cherishing the peacefulness of the moment. “Your curls remind me of the ocean,” she’ll say, her voice almost distant as if lost in thought. “Full of mystery and depth.” It’s her way of expressing how much she values you, in her own quiet, graceful manner.

- Noticing Your Efforts Without Saying Much

Robin is keenly aware of the effort you put into your appearance, especially when it comes to your curls. She notices when you take extra care, or when you’re struggling with them. If you’re frustrated with the way they’re behaving, Robin will gently offer assistance, her tone soft but sure. “I’m sure they’ll settle. It’s just a matter of patience.” She understands the small, quiet frustrations that others might overlook, and she offers support without making a big deal of it.

- The Protective Quietness

In the rare moments when someone else dares to make a comment about your hair—either teasing you or offering unsolicited advice—Robin is quick to defend you. She’ll raise an eyebrow and speak with calm authority, her words firm but never harsh. “I don’t believe they were asking for your opinion,” she’ll say, her gaze never leaving the person who dared to intrude on your space.

- Help with Your Curls

Nico Robin’s Devil Fruit powers, the Hana Hana no Mi, allow her to sprout extra limbs from almost any surface. She’s not one to show off, but when she notices you struggling with your unruly curls—perhaps a particularly stubborn knot or frizz—she’ll use her powers in a subtle, gentle way to assist you. With a calm, focused expression, Robin will sprout delicate, flower-like hands from the back of your head or from the side of your shoulder. “I’ll help you with that,” she’ll say, her voice serene. These hands will deftly smooth through your hair, massaging out any tangles or gently pushing stray curls back into place, working with the same care and precision she’d apply to her own tasks. The hands, sprouting from places like your shoulders or even from behind you, are soft and graceful—never overbearing or intrusive, but more like a quiet offering of help, her calm presence easing away any frustration.

It’s a gesture that’s almost poetic in its execution—Robin’s powers are used not for grand battles or dramatic displays, but to ease your mind and make your hair fall just a little bit more perfectly, with a soft smile on her lips.

RED-HAIRED SHANKS

- A Love as Wild as the Sea

Shanks has spent his life chasing the horizon, but when he looks at you—when he watches the way your curls catch the sunlight, wild and untamed—he swears he’s found something even more boundless. He cups your face in his one strong hand, his thumb tracing over your cheek as he gazes at you with that easy, knowing smile. “The sea’s spent its whole life trying to move like you… and it still doesn’t come close.” he murmurs, voice dipped in quiet wonder, as if he’s found the only treasure that truly matters. Your lashes fluttered as you blinked, once, twice, before giving him a look somewhere between amused and skeptical. “You always this smooth, or did the sea teach you that too?” Shanks’ grin deepens, his thumb still tracing lazy circles against your cheek. “Nah,” he muses, voice low and teasing. “The sea just taught me how to chase what’s impossible to resist.”

- His Fingers Lost in Your Curls

His hand is calloused, rough from years at sea, yet when it finds your curls, his touch is impossibly soft. He has a habit of playing with them absentmindedly—twisting a strand between his fingers while deep in thought, brushing them from your face with the backs of his knuckles. When you sit beside him on the deck, he leans in just enough to let the scent of salt and wind in your hair lull him into contentment. If you ever rest against his chest, his hand naturally moves to cradle your curls, holding you there like you’re the most precious thing he’s ever touched.

- A Sailor Who Studies the Storm

Shanks is a man who understands the sea—its tempests, its serenity, its unpredictability. And when he looks at you, at the way your curls shift with the wind, full of their own wild defiance, he understands you in the same way. He watches as they move in the ocean breeze, never trying to tame them, only admiring the way they mirror your spirit. There’s a quiet reverence in the way Shanks watches you, as if memorizing every twist and turn of your curls the same way a sailor memorizes the tides. He never tries to smooth them down, never seeks to control them—because to him, they are a perfect reflection of you. Wild. Free. Untamed by the world. When the wind picks up, pulling at your hair like the ocean reaching for the shore, he only chuckles, his hand instinctively finding its way to you. With an easy touch, he tucks a curl behind your ear, his fingers lingering just long enough to make you feel the warmth of his calloused palm against your skin.

- Sheltering You from the Wind, His Own Way

Shanks doesn’t just pull you close when the wind picks up—he does it casually, as if he has every right to. He’ll throw his heavy cloak over your shoulders with a smirk, shifting his body just enough to block the strongest gusts. “Can’t have the wind stealing my favorite sight,” he muses, tucking a stray curl behind your ear with his thumb. He may be missing an arm, but that never stops him from holding you the way you need—as if the sea itself could never sweep you from his grasp.

- The Scent of Salt and Memory

He’s drawn to the scent of your hair in the same way he’s drawn to the ocean—something comforting, something constant. When he embraces you after weeks or months apart, he buries his face in your curls, inhaling deeply before exhaling a slow, content sigh. “Smells like home,” he murmurs against your skin, his voice low and unguarded. If you tease him about smelling like rum and mischief, he only chuckles, pressing a lingering kiss to the top of your head. “Then I guess we belong to each other, don’t we?”

- Taming His Hands, Not His Heart

He may only have one arm, but when he touches you, he makes you feel as if he could hold the entire world. If you ever struggle with your curls, he’ll offer to help, his fingers threading through them with surprising patience. “You trust me with this?” he teases, though his touch is careful, reverent. If you let him, he’ll tie loose sections away from your face, securing them with a scrap of ribbon he cut from his own coat. And when he’s finished, he leans back, studying his handiwork before murmuring, “Still the most beautiful thing I’ve ever laid eyes on.”

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cavillscurls · 2 days ago

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Thinking about olderboyfriend!joel and reader celebrating all the holidays. Their first Valentine’s Day, their first thanksgiving together, their first Christmas together

this ask is so old, but i thought i’d answer given the nature of today 🥹💌… i don’t have a lot, but here’s some thoughts.

older!boyfriend joel masterlist

you met in the summer, a long ways before that holiday which always seemed to carry a heavier weight than it needed to. this connotation of perfection that hadn’t existed even in the best of your relationships.

but this one is the best. not one of, but the best. and you would be lying to yourself if you didn’t admit that, at times, it does feel perfect.

and you feel good. you feel certain. you have for a while now, but with the impending holiday that always felt more like dread than love, there’s a surge of reassurance when that usual doom never settles in.

you both agreed no gifts. funny enough, it was joel who put up a fight on this front. you could see him practically seething in his shoes, a crinkle in his brow and a pout on his lips as he bargained just one, you don’t gotta get nothin’, and there’s no guilt—just one.

but you shook your head and stood your ground; you would much rather spend the occasion splurging on dinner and drinks, an experience to share between the two of you.

he relented. even agreed to wear a suit—all black, and fuck, if that didn’t make you want to jump his bones on first sight—gelled back his curls, and wore that expensive cologne he saves for special occasions.

he shows up that night thirty-minutes before your reservation, and you’re popping a hand on your hip as soon as you open the door and find him standing there with a bouquet. a dozen red roses.

“i thought we said no gifts,” you huff.

he shrugs. “this ain’t a gift. it’s flowers,” he says, trying to play coy, but you can tell he’s rather proud of himself.

how are you supposed to argue with that?

you accept them, albeit a bit reluctantly, and bring them to your nose with a generous sniff. he’s eyeing you, all of you, the deep crimson dress you’ve chosen leaving little to the imagination. just the reaction you were hoping for.

“thank you,” you tell him, and he reaches out to place a hand at the small of your back, pulling you into his chest so he can lean down and press his lips to your ear.

“you’re welcome, baby,” he rasps, sending a shiver through you, and places a kiss on the side of your head.

dinner is tasty and decadent, made even finer by the company you keep. you split a bottle of red, and make room for dessert—freshly dipped chocolate-covered strawberries. he makes a show of leaning across the table to feed you the first bite, and you laugh so hard, you snort, the steady thrum of wine through your veins keeping you both buzzed and gleeful.

it’s starting to snow when you call a car from the restaurant. he offers an extension to the evening—catch a late showing of the rom-coms you know he can’t stand, but he’d tolerate (and has tolerated) for you. but the air is cold, and he’s so warm, and you’re feeling greedy. you want him all to yourself. that’s all you’ve ever really wanted from this, anyway. him.

you’re in his bed later that night, in his clothes, after he’s given you his real gift—satiating your needs, the desires he understands so well. you’re on your tummy, and he’s on his side, peacefully watching the path of his fingers that trace gentle shapes up and down your spine. you feel your eyelids grow heavy, shutting every few moments.

“hey,” he whispers at one point, voice low with fatigue.

“hm?” you murmur, raising your brows but not quite mustering the energy to look at him.

“i love you.” and it’s not the first time he’s said it, but it’s no less impactful. an iron rod to your chest, beaming and glowing from the inside out. “you know that, right?”

slowly, you open your eyes, and what you find turns the heat inside your belly up ten fold. he isn’t looking for reassurance or scoping out doubt. those are long gone with the passage of time. he just wants you to know—really know. hear him, and accept it for all it’s worth.

everything, really.

“i know it,” you whisper back, and a sleepy little grin erupts on his cheeks. you can’t help yourself. you lean forward and up, pressing a chaste kiss to his lips, and muttering against them: “i love you.”

he pulls you onto his chest, then. letting you smother him with your weight and wrapping his arms tightly around you. good. steady. real. perfect.

maybe valentine’s day isn’t so bad after all.

#happy v day 💌#older!boyfriend joel #joel miller imagine #joel miller fluff #joel miller x reader

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uhdrienne · 3 days ago

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the embodiment of grace and deviousness

⛓️ pairing: seungcheol x f!reader ⛓️ genre: sfw, fluff, angst, mafia au, soulmate au ⛓️ word count: ~8k ⛓️ warnings: mentions of violence, weapons, open wounds. do not interact if it can be triggering! there's going to be cursing too because seungcheol is a grumpy one :") ⛓️ summary: as an author, it's almost poetic that your soulmate tattoo would be a flower. actually... half a flower. a snapdragon, to be exact. the petals on your arm, the vines on seungcheol's. it's even more cliche when you meet him on valentine's day. to you it means grace, but for seungcheol, he still has zero idea on what flower his tattoo is. he'd be lying if he said he wasn't curious at all, but during this season of love, you're about to figure out exactly what this all means for you and him, the leader of the city's most dangerous mafia.

author's note: suuurprise! to commemorate my first valentines' on this platform, here is a fic, part of @ddeonghwa-s Secret Cupid Event 💌 thank you so much to @ddeonghwa-s for putting this event together, and of course to the wonderful @kpopflowerfield for giving me this opportunity to write for you, i hope you like this as much as i did💘

here is the event masterlist! do support the works of all other authors too, all of them are so so amazing <3 happy valentines' day!!

depending on the POV, italics signify either the author's writing or Seungcheol's thoughts <3

"Territory 13 is acting up again, sir."

"Are they?"

"They're giving trouble. Threatening to cut off our chain supply in the north."

“Hm.”

“We’ve lost a few men fighting them for the past few days. The situation doesn’t seem to be de-escalating, so we reported to you.”

“Nowhere else we can push to weaken them?”

“They seem to have it figured out, sir. They outnumber us at every turn.”

"Well, we can't have that, can we?"

"No, sir."

"You have three hours till dawn. Take the men you need and get it settled. It won't be pretty if I don't get better news by then."

"Yes, sir."

"Go."

He swings his chair around to the fading sky of the night, nursing his glass of amber. He looks down to his full sleeve of black, red, and blue ink. Zinnias, dahlias, rhododendrons, and in the centre, like the highlight of a Naturalism painting, a whorl of vines and small, green leaves, linked to the vines of other flowers. He has no idea what it means, has had no idea since the day he got it. Ever since, all he's focused on is getting it covered, blended in with other flowers on his skin.

What is the point of such a mark on his skin, he wonders for the umpteenth time as he runs his hands over the permanent imprint, if the universe won't show me what it means?

He glances at the corner of his screen. 1:30am. 14 February. Hm.

He looks away.

"I'm sorry, I don't think we can proceed with cover design and vetting for you, ma'am."

"Oh... Not possible? At all?"

"I'm afraid not, ma'am. Your drafts weren’t given the green light from our Head of Publishing, and our team can't exactly spare the manpower to help you right now."

"...I see. And there’s no one else I can look for? Or….. any contacts you may have?”

“We can try, ma’am, but we can’t promise anything. It’s busy period for us publishers at the moment.”

“Ah. Well, thank you anyway. I hope we can work together in the future."

You put your phone down and sink back into your chair, covering your face with your hands. Your most recent creative co-director pulled out two days ago, another graphic design deal fell through, and now this publishing company. At this rate, you don't know if your book will even ever reach the local bookstore across the street.

You blow out a breath, look down at the only black ink on unblemished skin, the one that's been there since the day you turned 20 years old.... the petals of a snapdragon.

Your phone lights up with a text from a friend, and as you unlock it, the date catches your attention.

14 February. Happy Valentines' Day to you.

Your final straw comes when you're walking home from your office the next night. You rub your tattoo, which has been irritated the whole of today. You have no idea what it means, just that it can't be good for your soulmate bond. But you've never been concerned for him, not the slightest bit, since the day you got the tattoo. Because he's not something you're looking for right now.

Then you hear scuffling, a familiar thing here in the rougher area of town where you live. Your only intention is to walk past and ignore everything. From prior experience, that's the best survival tactic you have: Don't go looking for trouble, and it won't find you.

A man appears on the sidewalk and walks towards you. You walk faster, calculating the distance it takes. Two hundred metres and you'll be under the safety of the street lights. One hundred and fifty. One hundred. The man seems to be getting closer.

You hear a thud. Fuck. What was that?

You squeeze your eyes together and turn around. It sounds stupid, but you'd like to at least see the face of your captor before you see darkness. You read novels about this. When a character gets out of a captor's grasp, they can never tell the police what the kidnappers look like. If now is your time, you won't go down making the same mistake.

Except there isn't a captor nor a body bag. It's just another man, hands in pockets, bending down to survey the unconscious lump on the concrete ground just behind you. He looks at you, the exact moment that you too meet his eyes. And you feel it. At the worst possible time in your life, ever, for crying out loud.

Hundreds, maybe thousands of volts of electricity. A rising and a pop in your head, a sizzling burn on your forearm. Who knew a soulmate bond snapping into place could be this painful? You choke out a gasp as the pain sears, brands itself into your arm. The outline of the flower appears in full glory, the vines entwining itself around your arm as it links with the petals. It's beautiful and horrifying, and you watch as the flower you've been waiting for finally, finally blooms.

Before long, the bloom appears on your forearm. A snapdragon.

The man seems to feel the same thing, as he doubles over in pain, pupils dilated in shock and clutching his arm. His face is covered by his hood so you can't see what he looks like, but he turns and runs, and before long he's disappeared into the darkness.

A few minutes pass before the pain finally subsides, and in its place comes a wave of exhaustion. You sink on the concrete, careful not to stir your unconscious stalker, who's still lying on the ground motionless.

You've found your soulmate. On the day of love.

You touch your mouth when you feel a smile creeping up your face.

--------------------------------

Seungcheol opens his door, barks an order to his guard outside not to disturb him unless "someone is bloody dead", sinks down on a couch and grabs a whisky. He downs it, the burn of the alcohol close to nothing as compared to that of the flower sitting oh-so-innocently on his forearm. He'll never forget the way the snapdragon petals appeared, as if they were burnt into his skin.

He stares at it, remembers the girl who gasped in pain just as he did. He never meant for this to happen. He was only passing by and saw a man from one of the local, problematic gangs sneaking up on you. He only meant to get the man away as he usually would for anyone else, because his principles, despite his rough line of work, never permitted him to disrespect women. He only meant to do one thing and go on his way. He only felt his arm burning right before he turned onto that damn street.

He glares at his arm, like the ordeal is its fault. His hand is shaking. It never shakes.

He didn't mean to feel his bond snap into place, never meant to meet you. He takes another long swig. This is the worst timing ever, he thinks darkly.

Meeting your soulmate on Valentines' Day can't be pure coincidence. If there wasn't a sign before that this was your chance, there very well was now. The next day you come up with a mission plan.

Find the man who is apparently my soulmate

...........

And that's when you sit down and have a good think. What are you even going to do when you do find him, anyway? Get together with him purely because he's meant for you, as the universe dictated? What if he's a rude jerk? What if he's ugly? What if... oh god, what if his breath stinks?

What if... he doesn't like you?

You continue writing on your notepad, absently, mindlessly writing sentences and paragraphs like word-vomit. Before long, you look down on the page to see almost a full journal entry, like you always do when you're anxious or stressed.

"Great," You mutter. "May as well write a book about this."

You enter the bookstore, waving at the little old lady who runs it.

"Good morning," She hums. "What are you looking for?"

You smile, thumbing through the different books on the shelf. "Morning. Something about flowers, maybe? I'm doing research... for a book I'm writing."

She nods. "Perhaps a book that explains the flower on your arm?"

You chuckle. Nothing could ever get past her eyes. "You caught me."

The lady laughs in return. "That," she says, hobbling out from the counter to rummage her inventory, "is a snapdragon. Yours is lovely -- a nice shade of red."

You smile. "Does its colour represent something, too?"

The old lady pulls down a thick book, flips through it and sweeps off the dust on the cover. "Every colour has its representation, but it's also your choice to decide what it means to you." She passes you the book. "In Chinese culture, it means prosperity. It's a lucky colour. For others, it could mean passion and love. It could also mean danger, perhaps courage..."

"Wow," You mumble, flipping through the book. "One colour and thousands of meanings?"

The old lady shrugs. "Colours and nature existed way before we did," She takes the book from you and goes to wrap it up in construction paper. "Is that the tattoo that brings you to your other half?"

"So the world says," You shrug, as you pay for the book. "I had the petals first, so the stem and leaves appeared when I met him, but I don't know where he is... or even what he looks like."

The lady nods in understanding. "I wouldn't worry. You'll find your way back to each other. I'd think that's what the tattoo's for."

"Do you know about them? What do they do?"

"Some stories say they help soulmates detect when one is in danger. Other stories say the closer you are, the warmer it feels... I've never tried."

Huh. You nod. "Thank you. So very much."

There is a soft shimmer of fascination in the old lady's eyes as she waves you goodbye. "I have faith that what's meant for you will come to you in due course, dear. Have a good day now."

------------------------------------

Seungcheol hasn't stopped glowering at his tattoo all day. It looks... out of place. The petals aren't supposed to be there. It looks like an outsider, a strange feeling he can't place. If this is the bond acting up, he surmises, it fucking sucks.

He needs coffee to cure the pounding headache building up.

He orders someone to get his coffee, and as he sits to wait, he taps at his keyboard impatiently, trying to figure out how the tattoo had built up.

The petals came later, he thinks. Is that supposed to mean something?

When his right-hand man, a freckled, tan man comes in with the coffee, Seungcheol is still none the wiser on the phenomenon. So he lowers his guard (for once, he thinks bitterly, for a soulmate bond of all things), and asks the man who's currently laying his coffee cup down. "Lee."

Lee looks up. "Yes, sir?"

"What do you know about soulmate bond tattoos?"

Lee looks visibly excited. "Did you get yours, sir?"

"Asking for a friend," Seungcheol deflects immediately. "So, what do you know about it?"

"I have one, sir," Lee says, and rolls up his sleeve to reveal a... half-faded anchor tattoo. "I was so.... it felt so strange to meet my other half."

"Strange. What was it like?"

Lee shrugs as he sets down a serviette. "Can I speak freely?"

Seungcheol waves at him to go ahead. He's usually the man who acts like he has a stick up his ass, but this time, he wants to find out everything he can about having a soulmate. Just so I don't drag the poor girl down with me for no good reason, he reasons to himself.

"It wasn't all good feelings," Lee explains thoughtfully, hands pausing mid-air. "My soulmate... he was an underground weapons dealer. And you know people in our circle, we don't do feelings. They're liabilities, it's another thing enemies can use against us." He chuckles bitterly. "That was one of the only things we had in common."

Seungcheol doesn't miss the way he's speaking in past tense. "You don't have to explain yourself," He says cautiously.

"No, that's okay," Lee says. "It was a while back. See, I have fading scars to prove that."

"What did it... feel like?"

"It started fading and it hurt so much, I knew something was wrong." Lee shows his arm again.

"What happened?"

Lee shrugs. "He died in an underground turf war. One of those."

Seungcheol makes eye contact. "Did you at least have good days with him?"

Lee looks at him, then looks away. "We did. Almost left the circle for each other, but..." He shrugs again. "Time just wasn't on our side."

"No," Seungcheol agrees. "It wasn't."

His fists clench. So this is what could happen to both parties who were in the circle, nevermind a civilian. He nods. "Thank you for telling me."

Lee gives him a half-smile. "So is this about your tattoo?"

"Y- No, for my friend," Seungcheol replies, cursing himself at the slip-up.

"I see," Lee says, the mischievous glint in his eyes returning. Seungcheol knows Lee doesn't believe him. As his right-hand man for years, how could he not see through Seungcheol? He starts walking towards the door. "Well, tell your friend that if there's anything I learnt, it's that time is a bitch. There's going to be a lot of fear, and it won't be pretty. But... take it from me," He smiles sadly. "It's going to feel worse when you don't treasure time and lose them. After all...." He opens the door. "I lived to tell the tale."

When the door closes behind him, Seungcheol leans back into his chair and rubs his temples.

"Some soulmates you find in the lecture hall of your school. Some you find along the way of life. Some... are pre-ordained by the universe, in the form of a snapdragon tattoo.

But are these... pre-meditated, pre-planned people meant to stay?"

You put down your pen.

You're curious. At the world, for giving you a person. How that system came about. About your soulmate. What he's like, what he looks like.

But there's no straightforward way to find him. No instruction manual that tells you where to go and what to do.

You decide to take a walk that evening. No distance limit. Just wherever your feet takes you.

And it brings you to this cafe on a street you've never been, with soft music and oak furniture, and a smiley, freckled and tan man behind the counter grins at you. "Welcome to Choi's."

"Hello," You say, smiling a bit. "Could I get a latte, and... that croissant? It looks amazing."

"Of course," He says, before turning to another burly staff that just appeared. "Get her a latte, will you?"

The staff nods, and disappears behind the coffee machine.

You take a seat, and hum as you wait. When the pastry and drink appear on your table, you thank the staff and look down to see the milk foam in the shape of a heart. Mmm. You take a sip, already feeling a lot better.

The bell jingles, and a man steps in, hands in his pockets. and heads for the counter. By force of habit, you look up and send him a cursory glance. And then you freeze. The man has rolled up his sleeves as he speaks to the staff, as if they already know each other, and on his arms....

A full tattoo sleeve of flowers. Zinnias, dahlias, rhododendrons, and in the centre, a whorl of vines leading to the most prominent flower. It looks fresh, like it was inked in a mere five minutes earlier.... in a shade of brilliant red... a snapdragon.

It's him.

The man must have excellent situational awareness because he acutely notices someone staring at him and he turns to you. Your shell-shocked face, your trembling hands... and his eyes fall on your forearm.

Choi Seungcheol had never felt this thunderstruck, not even when he found out half his men had been bought over by rivals years ago. He knows he'll never forget this feeling.

So he does the next best thing. He excuses himself from his staff and leaves.

So you get up and run after him.

Seungcheol's in the middle of cursing himself and the world out when he hears your voice calling for him.

"Sir...?"

He can pretend he doesn't know you're calling him. Sure. He can do that. Keep on walking, Seungcheol.

Until he hears running, and a tap on his shoulder. Ah.

He swallows, closes his eyes, and turns around. "Yes?" He asks coldly.

Ah. So he's not in the habit of making conversation, you think. "I'm really sorry about this, but can I...."

"Can you what?" Seungcheol replies, even though he already knows what you're going to say.

"Can I see your arm? For a second? I just wanted to make sure I wasn't seeing wrongly."

"No, you may not."

You cringe. Silence dwindles between both of you. "Uh... right."

Seungcheol reaches for his car key. "Why do you want to see my arm, love?" He casts a cursory glance at your arm. "To see if I'm your soulmate?"

You look down, then at him. "...Yeah. I got this tattoo, and I don't know what my soulmate looks like, so..."

"So you're trying to find him in me, huh?" Seungcheol doesn't mean to be rude, but this is the only way to get you off his back, at least until he knows how to move forward. The least he can do is to warn you. "News flash, love. I'm just a man who enjoys flowers. But me as your soulmate?" He chuckles and presses a button. From a distance, his car makes a beeping sound and unlocks. "I highly doubt it. You'll need to know who we are before you enter our world."

"And who are you?" The words come out before you can stop them.

Seungcheol supposes it doesn't hurt to establish who he is, just so you'll have enough sense to stay away.

"The mafia, love," He says softly, as he walks towards his car. "I'm the leader, here. I'd advise you to stay away from me, soulmate or otherwise."

When his car pulls away, you sigh and look at your tattoo.

The biggest joke the universe could have pulled on you. Making a mafia leader, out of 8 billion other people, your soulmate.

When he reaches home, Seungcheol reaches for his phone. When Lee answers, Seungcheol gives him a long list of things to do, for the cafe and for the mafia.

"Has anyone caught on the cafe yet?" He asks.

"Nope," Lee answers. "It was a good front to keep track of the public, but it seems like a normal cafe to them. So I'd say everything's fine, boss."

"Good."

"Anything else?" Lee says.

"....One more thing." Seungcheol says, sighing through his nose. "A girl came to the cafe tonight."

"...Uh-huh."

"The girl in the white cardigan and jeans."

"Right."

"Warn her not to divulge who we are and what the cafe really is. With any luck, she'll figure out that the cafe is protecting us."

"Protecting us..." Lee gasps. "Sir, you told her who you are? Why?"

"To get her to leave me alone," Seungcheol mutters. "Anyway, just tell her to zip her mouth. I don't care how you do it."

He regrets the words once they exit his mouth. "Just don't hit her or anything. We're not in that business."

A soft laugh comes over the phone. "She your soulmate or something, boss?"

Seungcheol pinches his nose. "So she thinks. Just because we have a matching..."

An idea hits him. "Do me another favour."

"Name it, boss."

"Find out where she was last night. Just to make clear something for me."

"You got it."

A knock on your door sounds in the middle of the night. When you open the door, rubbing the sleep out of your eyes, you flinch when two burly guys flanking the same freckled, tan man from the cafe last night step in your doorway.

"Uh...you're from the cafe, aren't you?"

"I thought a familiar face might help matters," The freckled man says. "My name's Lee. And you?"

You introduce yourself cautiously, but you look at the two men. "So... what the man said yesterday was true? You're not really a cafe, are you?"

Lee shrugs. "Nothing you need to concern yourself with, anyway." He nods to the men. "We just came here to give a little warning."

You have a feeling you already know. "What warning?"

"Don't pry, and don't tell," Lee says, still smiling, but you sense the underlying threat within. "I don't know what business you have with us, but it should end now." He nods at you. "For both yours and our good."

The burly man on the left makes a point of nodding towards your home. "We know where you live, and we can find you no matter where you go. Don't complicate things for yourself. You won't like what comes next."

And they leave, leaving you shaking in the doorway. Anger courses through you. Your soulmate sent people after you to push you away.

You don't know everything about soulmate bonds, but what you do know is that soulmates are drawn to each other: to protect, and to take care of. Either your soulmate is very, very clueless; or he just doesn't want anything to do with you. You have to find out which answer it is before you decide whether to let go of him or not.

Alright, Mr. Mafia Boss, you clench your teeth. I don't have to deal with your mafia directly to get an audience with you. Let's see how far this game can go.

Moonlight slants through his ceiling-to-floor windows. Seungcheol grits his teeth as he watches the surveillance that Lee found for him. You, walking home the night of 14 February, around 10pm, going faster and faster as that son-of-a-bitch followed you. His arms rest on his chair as he sees himself appear and knock the guy out cold.

He sighs. So it really was you. He'd recognise that face anywhere.

He looks at his tattoo once more, hating how perfectly it entwines with the rest of his tattoos. So much for covering it up. He turns his arm around again and again. It's exquisite, but it lies there like a burden.

And it picks the perfect timing to start burning. Seungcheol grunts in pain, clutching his arm as it burns, sears with the same pain it did that night. He doesn't know how the system came about, but what he knows is this: You're in danger. And as annoyed as he is about this whole situation, he has to find you. If only to make the pain stop.

He reaches for his telephone, and when the other line picks up he hisses: "Find her. Now. Scour all the surveillance in the city. I don't care what you have to do, but find her."

He can hear his man barking out orders in the background, and he shakily puts the phone down. Lee comes bursting into the room, grabs Seungcheol's arm to check on him. Normally, Seungcheol would have the head of anyone who dared to touch him without permission, but given Lee's position in this predicament, he allows him to.

"Is it supposed to be like this?" Seungcheol groans out. "It hurts like hell."

"Yup," Lee mutters. "It is. Looks and seems exactly like mine whenever Bri got into danger."

"Danger--" Seungcheol scowls and tries getting up. "You mean she's injured?"

Lee shrugs. "I don't know if it extends to normal minor situations, but whenever Bri got into a fight, I'd feel my arm burning."

"Her, fight. Don't make me laugh," Seungcheol scoffs, then grunts again as another wave of pain hits him. "She looks like she couldn't hurt a fly."

"We've located her, boss," Another man comes into the room, holding a laptop towards him.

"Where?"

When silence answers him, he hisses. "I didn't ask you this question for you to not fucking reply. I asked where?"

"The border of Territory 7, sir."

"What the hell is she doing there? Is she an underworld member, too?" Lee wonders out loud.

Seungcheol pushes himself up off his seat, wincing as his arm throbs slightly. "Fuck if I know. But I guess I have to find her if I want this pain to stop."

"I'll get men and go with you," Lee starts, but Seungcheol waves him off. "No need. We don't need to stir up a fuss, not when the territories are already misbehaving these few weeks. I'll get her, and... figure it out later."

You're tapping your foot as you wander the edges of the city's largest turf. It's well-known that civilians shouldn't pass by here if they want to get home alive and well, but with the recent news of unrest stirring in such turfs, you figure that it's the best way to seek Seungcheol out. It's stupid, but it's your best bet. Plus, you figure that the nearer you are to

You must be near a group of militants on patrol duty, because you can hear hushed orders and boots crunching. You sigh and look at your watch.

"Are you actually stupid?"

You raise your head. "So it worked. So nice of you to join me this evening."

Seungcheol storms towards you. "So you tricked me?"

"Wasn't a trick." You mutter. "I'm here, aren't I?"

"You are a nutcase," He seethes, as he grabs your arm and starts dragging you away. "Do you have any idea what would happen if anyone caught you? These few places are red-light districts now. You're not supposed to be here."

"I wouldn't know. You came anyway."

Seungcheol lets you go and huffs at you. "Go home, and don't get any more stupid ideas. Yes, I'm your soulmate. Yes, my tattoo is also a snapdragon, and I guess I can sense when you're in places you shouldn't be because my arm fucking burns, okay? Got your answer?"

"No," You say defiantly. "I haven't found out one thing. Why were you so desperate to deny that you weren't my soulmate? But you still came running anyway."

"This," He hisses, stepping closer to you, "is a pain in my ass. I can't work if my tattoo's going to start hurting every half hour. So for god's sake, please stay out of anything that doesn't concern you. Do not run into a lion's den to get an audience with me."

"So you're going to give me a way to contact you?" You shrug. "Sure, if that will keep me from making rash decisions."

Seungcheol furrows his brows. "What gave you that idea?"

"Well, you can't think I'm going to let you go after all of this, do you?"

What??

"Did I not make myself clear en-"

"Oh, you did," You say. "Like you said, you came running because you could sense I was somewhere I shouldn't be. So you can't stay away no matter how much I piss you off, can you?"

"I nev-"

"That's how soulmates work, Mr. Mafia Boss." You say smugly. "We can't stay away from each other, like a moth can't stray from the light."

Seungcheol scowls at you and then proceeds to maintain a ten-second glaring competition until he blows out a breath.

"Ten more reasons why I hate this bond so much," He mutters, before pulling out a business card and shoving it into your hands. "I've got ground rules. Don't call me for stupid reasons. Do not call to ask me out privately. Do not give my number to anyone for any reason. No exceptions, unless you want a bullet through your brain."

"Did you just threaten to shoot me...." You peruse the business card. "Choi Seungcheol?"

"Yes, and what about it?"

"You know nothing about being a gentleman."

"Never said I was one. Get in the car."

"You''re going to shoot me in there? With the expensive leather?"

"I will if you don't keep your mouth shut and start moving."

You zip it and follow him.

Success. You've met your soulmate. (You're sitting in his car, too.)

He said you couldn't call. But texting exists, so.... You're determined to bug him until he takes notice.

"It's me."

He leaves you on read.

The next day you add another message. "I guess I'll write to an empty chatroom. I'm doing good, I just had a sandwich for breakfast and I'm going to continue writing now."

5pm: "I'm done with my next chapter. Trying to find an illustrator for the cover. I'm craving soup."

11pm: "goodnight! hope your work or whatever's going well. You can't tell me anything about what you're doing?"

And so it continues, for a full three days, with silly texts about a sentence error you wrote, or a funny thing you ate, or asking him what he's doing at work, until you get a single response from him that has you rolling your eyes: "Be quiet."

You do not, to Seungcheol's chagrin, keep quiet.

He didn't think you could talk so much to someone who never replied. In a week he'd all but figured out your life pattern: wake up, eat, write (he had no idea what you were writing), find publishers and illustrators, take a walk maybe in the late afternoon, eat again, and write until it was time to sleep. You lead an awfully idyllic life compared to him, he thinks as he closes your text.

You also seem to have a love for soup, he realises. The weirdest fucking craving.

And croissants from his fake cafe. You sent him photos of it across the week, and he wonders how you never get tired of the damn thing. Your food cravings change from soup to something else every now and then, getting more bizarre with each one. (Pasta with pickles? Really?)

It was cute. (He cursed himself out after thinking about it.)

And so it goes for two more weeks until Seungcheol decides this has to stop. He texts you back for once, and you're elated as you read his text.

"Be ready Saturday night. Zip it for now, will you? I'm trying to work."

You're waiting outside your house when he pulls up. You already know that he knows exactly where you live, so you never bothered texting him your address. You get in once he stops the car, his grumpy face still on full display.

"Thanks for taking me out," You say, smiling at him, and he grunts as he pulls out and steps on the accelerator. "Isn't that exactly what you wanted?"

You shrug. "And you gave in. Is that a soulmate thing?"

"I will drop you off right this second if you say 'soulmate' one more time." He threatens.

He rubs the sleeve covering the skin on which his tattoo lies, and you frown. "Is it causing you trouble? I haven't gone anywhere weird recently, though."

"No. And you better not have."

He doesn't say much after that, simply drives about twenty minutes to a sleek, al fresco restaurant. The neon lights, warm-looking space draws you in, and when you read the menu outside while waiting for him to park...

"Soup? So you did read my texts!"

"You won't shut up about it. A little hard to miss it even if I wanted to."

You chuckle and flip through the menu. "So what're you getting?"

"You pick, you're the one craving soup of all things," He mutters absently. "Don't really care. Just came to get a message across."

"What is it?"

"Sit first before I tell you."

And so you do. He lets you get tomato soup and grilled cheese, pasta and a soda, and says absolutely nothing. He eats a little, rolling his eyes at the amount you inhale. Finally, you put down your fork. "So what did you want to tell me?"

He swallows his water before putting the glass down. "Just one thing."

You cock your head. "I'm listening."

"Why are you contacting me personally, so often? I'm sure I said not to do that."

"You said not to call," You reply, smiling. When he looks like he's about to protest, you smile again. "So I texted."

"You're fucking impossible," He mutters.

"Sorry, what was that?"

"Nothing. Anyway, stop that. I'm a busy man."

"I know. That's why I text, like, three times in a day. It's not a lot, is it?"

His hand comes down on the table, not loud enough to cause a scene but firm enough to catch your attention. "I don't have the time to entertain you, Miss Y/N. You know who I am, and that was my fault, and I think it would do you good to remember that."

"Pulling the mafia leader card on me, again?" You sigh and shake your head. "I don't know what you do, and you won't tell me. I write about people like you and mobsters. You're exactly what I write in my books."

"I am not one of your little book characters," Seungcheol hisses back. "I am not a work of fiction or something you pull out of your imagination and twist about like your plaything. I am real, and I am someone who can hurt you if I want to. And I don't owe you any information. Stop bothering me, got it?"

"Is that why you brought me here?" A surge of confidence and defiance grips you. He couldn't have taken you out to somewhere he knew you'd enjoy for no reason.

He scowls. “I can go wherever I want. Don’t read too much into it.”

You grin. “Sure.”

He nods.

“So can I continue messaging you?”

He groans. “Did you not get any of what I just said?”

You shrug. "Guess you’ll have to tell me a few more times.”

He sighs loudly, and his fingers drum the table as he seemingly goes deep into thought. The scowl is almost becoming a permanent fixture on his face, you think.

After a long moment, he groans and utters: “Next Sunday. 6pm.”

He takes you out two more times. The next Sunday, to a small restaurant you chose. This time he ate better, the consistent strain in his forehead almost easing as he bit into the lasagna.

He answered your questions, albeit grumpily, and when you got off his car that night, you thought, as you opened your journal up again, that he was finally, finally warming up to you.

But the next time he brings you out, he is visibly in a stormy mood, barely making conversation and stabbing his meat with his fork.

“Is there something wrong?” You ask.

“No.”

And there the conversation ends.

As dessert rolls in, you try one more time.

“So… how’s work lately?”

“Fine.”

“Ah.”

Please talk. Please.

“You know, I always wonder what a mafia boss does,” You pick up your spoon. “Like, order kills or something?”

Seungcheol picks up his glass. “I remember telling you not to ask about what I do.”

“And you don’t have to give me a full answer,” You shrug. “I’m just asking for a general idea. I thought it’d be nice if I got to know what you do.”

Seungcheol sits back in his seat. "Don't read too much into what I do, love." He takes another sip of water. "You can't honestly think I'm interested in you enough to reveal myself after a few meals. You said you're a writer. You shouldn't be this easy to lie to, you know that?"

Yeah, screw this.

Any confidence you had sizzles out. Easy to lie to. He thinks you're a gullible, small girl eating up every morsel of attention he deigns to give you when he feels like it. Red-hot, burning humiliation and shame rise in you.

After a long pause, you nod. "Alright. Fine. I get it. I apologise for occupying your time."

He surveys you for a second, then nods, like he just made a good business deal. "Just so we make things clear with each other."

"Crystal," You reply, no warmth in your words. "I think I finally got what you wanted to say. I thought you just weren't used to this... idea of having a soulmate, so I wanted to warm you up to it. But now I see you never wanted one in the first place."

Seungcheol furrows his brows just a fraction.

You push your chair back. You're careful not to look or seem angry, in part not to show him you're affected, and also to just... save face. He already embarrassed you. No need to do it again in public. "Take care, Mr. Choi. Thanks for putting up with me, anyway. It won't happen again. I’ll get the bill."

Soulmate, my ass.

----------------------------------

It wasn't supposed to be like this. It wasn't supposed to be like this. It wasn't supposed to be like this. It wasn't supposed to be like this. It wasn't supposed to be like this.

It wasn't supposed to turn out this way.

Glass meets the plaster of the wall. His tattoo lies there, barren, lacking its usual warmth even though nothing was taken away.

----------------------------------

Ladies and gentlemen, this is perhaps how the story goes. He pushed her away, and she realised how the universe’s plan, this whole concept, had utterly failed. There were never meant to be pre-ordained people. People change, and oftentimes they disappoint…

The journal remains open, the last sentence discontinued.

T w o M o n t h s L a t e r

Soft, oozing vocals of Clara Bow fill your apartment as you pack your writing materials. You're done writing for the day.

You glance at the clock. Nine p.m. In time for a snack and TV before you head to bed.

When you turn on the TV, the news catches your attention. Another territory struggle, another turf battle for control. You shake your head and switch the channel. Typical.

As you settle down into the cushions with chips and a glass of white wine, sudden searing pain, hot and white and agonising, shoots down your arm. You gasp and grasp it in your other hand, almost keeling over at how painful it is.

Something is wrong. Very, very, wrong.

You sink to the floor, clutching your arm and sweat starting to bead your forehead. It hurts, your arm hurts, everything hurts.

Is Seungcheol in trouble?

His name card. Right. You can just find out for yourself, and if he asks, you could just say the tattoo's causing you a lot of pain. Yes. That's it.

You stagger to your drawers to find his card, messing everything up in the process. You fumble for your phone and dial his number, again and again and again, but all you’re greeted with is a beep and an automated voice instructing you to leave a message.

You don’t know what to do. No emergency contact, no one you can find… hell, you don’t even know where he is. As you’re standing, getting ready to run out and search, there's a pounding on your door.

You barely make it to the door and open it, and there stands the freckled, tan man whose name you never got. He looks awkward, eyes racing to your tattoo. "I'm sure you must be in a lot of pain," He says. "Mr. Choi ordered me to check on you."

"Check on me?" You almost wheeze. "What's going on that my arm hurts this badly?"

Lee shakes his head. "Not right now. We will talk in the van."

"Of course you can't say." You snap, patience wearing thin, temper as riled up as the pain in your arm. You're done with his secrets. "I can't know what he's doing, I can't know where he is, or if he's alive or dead, even if the pain he's causing may very well kill me too."

"You won't die," Lee says, a little more kindly. "If this comforts you, my soulmate's gone, and I'm still here."

Your anger evaporates a fraction. "I'm sorry about that."

"No need to be." Lee sighs, then reaches his own arm out. "Hold on to me, I won’t do anything weird. I'll take you to him. He's going to be a bitch when he sees you, but... I think it would be good for both of you. More often than not, distance breaks things apart."

"He's enough of a bitch even when I'm around," You mumble, but you take his arm anyway as he helps you out.

Without much effort, he gets you into the van he came in, and barks out an order to the curious men inside to drive into what he calls "The Heart".

"What's the Heart?" You ask, as he passes you a canteen of water to drink from.

"It's what it sounds like. The heart of our territory." Lee explains, eyes trained in front. "Mr. Choi's there when we... have scuffles, and that's usually the place where security is tightest, so he can be near to us to get updates and give orders, and still not get into danger."

"So he is a leader."

"He is, and one of those you wouldn't want to cross. He's quick with his work, and he can resort to getting his hands dirty if he has to. His network and connections are... frighteningly impressive, to say the least."

"Funny how I'm hearing it from you and not him," You huff as you lay your head back, trying not to think about the pain.

"He hasn't had the experience of telling people about his life, Miss," Lee chuckles. "But I figured you'll know eventually, so better sooner than later, right?"

"Sooner than later?"

"You're meant to stick around him, Miss. For the good and bad. You're his soulmate, after all."

"I don't know if we'll get there." You sigh, and close your eyes. "Is he badly hurt? Will me being there even help matters?"

Lee shrugs. "We'll find out."

Lee gets six men to flank you both as he walks you in. Up ahead, there's a building seemingly made of unforgiving steel, it's blank canvas looming in the dark red, streaked sky.

"That's the Heart?"

"That’s the one. Unpenetrable, Miss. Let's go in."

You pray for all your sakes it really is as Lee takes you up into the elevator. When he opens one of the (almost) hundreds of similar doors to lead to an empty, cell-like room, and inside sits Seungcheol, with a red fabric pressed---

"You're bleeding," You blurt. The pain in your arm subsides just a fraction, perhaps jarred by the sensation of finally, finally, meeting him.

He looks up, eyes twisting in furious shock as he glares at Lee, and then you (you don’t know why). "Exactly which part of my order did you not understand, Lee?"

Lee bows his head in apology. "I'll never take away a chance to meet your soulmate away, you know that, sir."

Seungcheol scowls hard, and you're almost afraid he's going to shoot Lee there and then.

"Get out."

Lee smiles, ushers you in and walks out. "I'll be back in half an hour to report. I'll call for the doctor again."

You bend and peel aside the fabric. Once white, it's now soaked red, it's warmth unsettling. There's blood, so much of it, and on his once unblemished skin now contains a mess of open flesh, blood, and a...

A bullet.

"A gun." You mumble.

"Try not to throw up." He replies, ever-so-gently nudging you away. "This is Armani."

"You jerk."

His face twists in surprise. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me." The anger is returning. "You say all sorts of fucking nonsense to keep me away, and we meet again months later because you're shot. And that may be a normal day for you, Mr. Choi, but us civilians don't go about our day-to-day expecting a bullet hole to appear in our skin."

His hand clenches up.

"This is why I said everything I did," He snarls in return, putting more pressure on his wound. "I knew I would never want you to try to handle what I am!"

"You never let me try," You hiss. "You refused to tell me anything, to let me see what your life was like. No, you chose to shut me out! And don't you dare tell me what I can or can't handle."

He huffs. "I see no reason in dragging you, or anyone else, in when it isn't needed."

"Yet Lee brought me here tonight." You point out. "He knows something you clearly don't."

"Lee is a nosy fucker." He snaps.

"He's someone who's experienced it all. His soulmate is gone, Seungcheol."

"And look at the pain it caused him. At least if anything happens to me, it's no love lost for you."

"Shut up."

"What?"

"I said shut up. Sometimes people want to help you. Sometimes people wouldn't actually mind, I don't know, going into this Heart place to check on you. Sometimes, you need to get it into your thick skull that I actually want to be here, to make sure you don't die while this stupid snapdragon is burned into me!"

His eyes meet yours.

"But you won't get it!" You chuckle. "You send men to check on me when I’m in pain, but I doubt you have any intention of finding me after all this gets better."

"You think I wanted to?" He shoots back.

"And you think I had it all settled for me? That I was better off not knowing the person that was meant for me, this whole time?"

"I never wanted that." Seungcheol insists hotly. "Look at my world, it's a mess, a violent place, a--"

"And there has to be a reason I'm the one picked out!" You defend. "Do you have any idea what snapdragons stand for?"

When he doesn't reply, you continue. "It stands for grace and strength. I can handle all of this. I'm not meant to measure up with your headstrong personality anyway."

"Then what are you meant for?" He asks, tone now soft, dejected.

"To complement you," You reply. You've never been this sure in your life. "To make up for the traits you lack. I'm not supposed to be as strong, or as fierce as you are. I'm meant to... ground you. That's what soulmates are. To... allow each other's strengths to shine and make up for what they don't have yet."

Seungcheol goes quiet.

"And you?" He asks, after a long pause. "What do I complement you in?"

You survey him again. "That's something I can't discover yet, because you won't let me."

“So what do you suggest?” He continues.

“No more hiding. Show me who you are. No restraint, I don’t need you to keep anything secret.”

“What if you end up like Lee?”

“Then it would have been a life well spent, at least.”

Seungcheol grunts with effort as he leaves his seat and stumbles to you. "And if I obeyed, and let you in?"

You look at him square in the eye. "Then it would be my honour to stand with you... or in the shadows, or wherever you make me stand."

"This sounds a lot like an induction of one of my men," Seungcheol murmurs. "I don't want that."

"Then what do you want?" You ask softly.

Seungcheol looks down at you, emotions warring in his eyes. After a while, he slumps and turns away. “Fuck. I can’t do this to you.”

“Tell me what you want, Seungcheol,” You say quietly. “You order people around for a living. I’m telling you to be honest with me, too.”

"…You. With me. Wherever you, or I, want to be."

You shrug a little as he cups your face. "I can live with that."

"You better," Seungcheol mumbles, as his mouth finds yours at last, burning more than any wretched tattoo, warmth spreading to your fingertips. "After everything you just said... I don't imagine you're going anywhere for a while."

February 14, 2026

The doctor came to patch him up. His hand squeezed yours hard as the bullet was finally pried out of him.

It's honestly a blur to you now when you think about it, but all you remember is his eyes boring into yours, his unwavering, callused grip on your hand.

"The snapdragon symbolises strength and grace reflected in their tall, strong stems, blooms and resistance to colder temperatures. Others believe they also represent deception and deviousness.

She embodied grace. She was his missing piece, the trait he needed to complement his headstrong nature. But he also needed someone strong enough to stand with him, through every obstacle his work throws him in. And she... she needed his courage and unwavering will to stand with her through it all."

You put the pen down. Mmm. Not too bad for a closing chapter. You send a text to the new publishing house that you contacted two weeks ago. They had seen your draft, and they loved it. Two weeks from now, when everything is settled, you promise yourself, you will show Seungcheol. He'd been curious for a while now about what holed you up in your writing room.

"Love?"

You look up from biting into your croissant. "Well, look who's back from Sicily. How did the meetings go?"

Seungcheol smiles and opens his arms. "Not too bad. I suppose the love you share for novels, along with the Don's* wife, was a selling point. She was most keen on sending you," He cocks his head to the pile of books at his feet, "this. She said it'd make a good Valentines' gift, since I've been poor at accompanying you these few months."

"That sounds perfect. We're both suckers for romances."

As you sink into his embrace, the tattoo once again burns, but it's not the passionate, red-hot zealous heat. It's warm, comforting, like a hot chocolate in winter.

He sighs. "Happy Valentines', love. I'm going to lose my girl to a bunch of fictional mafia men again?"

"You know it."

"I still don't understand why. You have one right here, next to y-"

"Softer! Do you want the whole town to hear you?"

fin.

*Don = the highest role in an organised crime family

thank you for reading 💟

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ilikelookingatthings · 3 days ago

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ahhhhhh! That last panel just wrecked me. Ford's going to feel the guilt with his whole ass chest. The TEARS. The more safe stan feels the more on edge he will feel thinking it will break because his trust was broken before...when he never thought his dad would kick him out or that ford would close the curtain...he has worried abd been nervious but deep down he had trusted them.

Even if he felt like ge messed up and hurt fird with the project and feels guilt over it...I like how Stan knows its unfair he feels like he is waiting for the next shoe to drop...like he will always be making it up to ford chz ge won't know if he is fully forgiven...abd even then what about the next mistake he makes?

I like how ford is worried and alarmed because stan can be good at hiding how affected he is....just damn....ford trying to sooth stan but a bkt slow to it cuz Stan isn't fully listening due to the panic abd due to ford's surprise since Ford feels guilt about ruining stan's life iver a mistake and he's surprised stan still feels like he ruined ford's life even as stan is trying to get across his own hurt.

Just for Stan to admit ge'd rather Ford throws him out now before he starts feeling safe or has hope because stsn KNOWS how much it hurts. To have the rug yanked out from under you. Stan wants to feel safe in the unconditional security that Ford loves him and won't just lock him out or give up on him or throw him away....but that's hard when Ford doesn't tell him enough and when Stan himself still feels like he has to earn his place and his trust had been broken before. Heck stsn probably feels like he hasn't even proven his dad wrong yet or earned millions which was the random goal post filbrick threw at him for tan to come back.

Something exaggerated that Filbrick said in the heat of the moment of stubborn anger that Ford hadn't disputed. And stan was called a burden or leech to Ford....so as much as Stan wants to be happy being around Ford and helping.....last time he thoight he could exist with Ford was the boat dream....I wonder if that's why just helping around the house doesn't put Stan at ease. Cuz Stan doesn't know if he WASNT useful that Ford would want him to stick around anyway. Just AHHHHH the TEARS! I feel like Ford's face feels like it doesn't quite match that Ford was listening and getting more distressed seeing Stan lose it in the panel before the tears but it doesn't matter when the panel of Stan crying will haunt my and ford's angst dreams!

*bats eyes at you* OwO

#stanley pines #uwu #stanford pines #Ford pines #Stan pines #Stan #Ford #Gravity falls #mullet stan #stan twins #grunkle ford #gravity falls fanart #comic #misunderstandings #Hurt #Abandonment issues

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themeeplord · 1 day ago

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The orca, pelican, gila monster "dragon" is finally done!

I don't know if I should call this a dragon. It could be a sort of serpentine dragon? Maybe not.. Anyway, I'm happy with what I came up with. :p

Info under the cut~

They can grow to be around 8 to 10 meters long.

Their scaly hide may be pretty to witness, but with the strength of an orca and the personality of a pelican that will try to eat anything no matter what size or shape, this creature is not something you'd like to come across.

Its teeth are sharp and act like hooks, keeping whatever is in its mouth from escaping. It won't chew its food, instead it will simply swallow anything it deems edible and whatever fits, letting its stomach do the work.

It breaths air and must surface for air. It mostly stays near the surface but will dive if forced to or when chasing prey.

It can move surprisingly well on land by using its feet and powerful body muscles, but it will get exhausted fast and must return to the water before then so it won't get stuck.

#like last time! feel free to suggest names in the comments :>#art #my art #creature design #creature design challenge

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simp-for-love · 2 days ago

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Looks better on you

Mattheo Riddle x Reader

Mattheo lends you his sweater on a cold day without much thinking. But when you keep wearing it, he starts to realize that maybe he doesn’t want it back.

Warnings: none. Pure fluff

A/N: Happy Valentine's Day, my lovelies 💕 A bit cliché, but I wanted to post something short and sweet today.

The wind cut through the Hogwarts courtyard with an unforgiving chill, and you regretted your decision to leave your scarf in the dorm. Hugging your arms to yourself, you tried to focus on the conversation around you, but the cold made it really difficult.

Mattheo leaned casually against the stone railing, hands stuffed into the pockets of his sweater, looking completely unbothered by the weather. You weren’t sure how he managed that — maybe pure arrogance was enough to keep him warm.

He was talking to Theo and Enzo about some ridiculous bet they had going, but you weren’t paying much attention, too busy trying to keep yourself from shivering, but too lazy to go to the dorm and dress something warmer. Apparently, though, Mattheo noticed.

Without a word, he pulled his sweater over his head and, before you could even protest, dropped it onto yours.

You blinked. "What—?"

"You’re freezing. Just wear it," he muttered, shaking out his curls.

The wind was still relentless, and as much as your pride wanted you to decline, the warmth from the fabric was already sinking into your skin. The sweater was warm, soft, and — most notably — it smells like him. Hesitantly, you pulled it over your head, and immediately, you were enveloped in his scent — something woodsy with a hint of smoke, like firewhiskey and late-night trouble.

The sleeves were too long, swallowing your hands completely, and when you glanced up, Mattheo was watching you with a smirk tugging on his lips.

"Looks better on you anyway," he said before turning back to the conversation, as if he hadn’t just casually sent your heart into overdrive with his sweet gesture and boyish smirk.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ * ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ *

It was supposed to be temporary. Just until you got back to your dorm. But somehow, you kept wearing it.

It started that evening when you curled up in the common room with a book, still wrapped in the warmth of Mattheo’s sweater. He didn’t say anything about it, just raised an eyebrow as he passed by, a flicker of something unreadable in his expression.

Then it was the next morning at breakfast. You were too tired to notice, but Mattheo definitely did, his usual smirk faltering slightly when he spotted you across the Great Hall.

And then, in the library, when you absentmindedly pulled the sleeve over your fingers while reading a book with focused expression on your face.

By the third day, it had become a thing.

"You do realize that’s mine, right?" Mattheo finally asked, sliding into the seat beside you in Potions.

You glanced down at yourself, feigning innocence. "Oh, is it? I must’ve forgotten."

He let out a short laugh, shaking his head. "Right. You forgot."

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ * ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ *

It wasn’t until a few nights later, when you were both sitting by the fire in the common room, that he finally said something real about it.

You were curled up on the couch, absentmindedly tracing patterns into the fabric of his sweater. The fire cast a golden glow over everything, making the room feel warmer than it probably was. Mattheo, lounging in the chair beside you, was watching you — not that you noticed at first.

But when you finally looked up, you caught him staring.

"What?" you asked, raising an eyebrow.

He didn’t answer immediately. Just tilted his head slightly, a lazy smirk playing at his lips, but there was something softer in his eyes. Something hesitant.

"Nothing," he said at last, voice quieter than usual. "Just thinking I might never get that sweater back."

Your fingers froze against the fabric. The way he said it — it wasn’t teasing, not really. There was something else there, something unspoken.

You swallowed, suddenly hyper-aware of the weight of his gaze. "Do you… want it back?"

Mattheo studied you for a long moment, then let out a slow exhale, shaking his head slightly with a small smile tugging on his lips.

"No," he admitted. "I think I like it better on you."

And just like that, the warmth in your chest rivaled the fire crackling beside you.

#mattheo riddle x reader #mattheo x reader #mattheo riddle #Kat's write

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overadores · 3 days ago

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. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁only star ✮ manon bannerman

She may be the reason I survive

pairing.ᐟ actress!manon bannerman x reader

about.ᐟ when actress Manon Bannerman walks into your record store searching for a rare vinyl, she doesn’t expect you to be clueless about her fame. the brief encounter turns intriguing when a fan outs Manon’s identity, leading you to chase after her and get her number, but the connection is quickly tested—paparazzi ambush the both of you, forcing an escape to your apartment, where you bond in private. As you get a glimpse of Manon’s chaotic world, the reality of dating someone famous becomes overwhelming and just when things start to feel real, Manon’s girlfriend returns from L.A., ready to reclaim her place.

genre.ᐟ fluff, kind of angsty

wc.ᐟ 1094 words

a/n.ᐟ the song isn't really necessary, but i just want to appreciate this song cuz it just make me feel something, also i might not post or i'll try to post another angst today (thesis been biting me in the fuckin ass). anyways, happy valentines, my lovely peepz!

The why and wherefore I'm alive

The bell above the door chimed as Manon Bannerman stepped into the vinyl shop, the scent of old records and dust filling her senses. She wasn’t sure why she chose this particular store—maybe it was instinct, or just blind luck—but she was searching for something rare. Something special.

Rows upon rows of vinyl stretched before her, a collector’s dream. As she made her way to the rare collections section, she was greeted by the shop’s owner, a charming individual with a welcoming smile.

“Looking for something special?” a warm voice called out.

She looked up to see the owner behind the counter. You had an easy confidence about you, a quiet charm. Not someone who immediately recognized her, and that was refreshing.

“Yes, actually,” Manon replied, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “Do you happen to have The Beatles’ Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band, signed by all four Beatles?”

You frowned, tapping your fingers against the counter. “That’s a deep cut. Let me check.”

As you sifted through your catalog, Manon watched you. There was something about the way you moved—calm, deliberate, unaffected. She could tell you weren’t used to dealing with celebrities, and for some reason, she liked that.

“No luck,” you finally said, glancing up. “But I can put out feelers.”

Her lips twitched in amusement. “You really don’t know who I am, do you?”

You shrugged. “Should I?”

Before she could respond, a high-pitched squeal rang through the shop. “Oh my God, Manon Bannerman?” A young woman clutching a stack of records gawked at her. “I love Uncharted! Your performance was unreal!”

Manon stiffened slightly, her expression flickering between amusement and frustration. That was when it hit you—she was famous. Like, really famous.

A beat of silence stretched between you before she sighed, muttering, “Well, that answers that.” Then, with an apologetic half-smile, she turned and slipped out the door

You hesitated only a second before following. “Hey, Manon!” you called, jogging after her.

She glanced back, surprised.

“At least let me get your number for when I find that record.”

She studied you, lips quirking. Then, as if making a decision, she plucked the pen from behind your ear, grabbed your wrist, and scrawled a number across your skin.

“Good luck,” she said before disappearing into the city.

A week later, you were sitting in your apartment, sipping whiskey with Manon while hiding from a pack of paparazzi who had caught you outside a café. What started as a casual text about the record had spiraled into something else entirely.

She sat cross-legged on your worn-out couch, flipping through your vinyl collection with a lazy smile. “You really don’t care about all this, do you?”

“The flashing cameras? The tabloid buzz?” you mused. “Not really. I mean, it’s a little surreal, but you’re just… you.”

She exhaled, relaxing. “I like that.”

And for a while, it was good. Until reality crept in.

So it went, an unusual romance blooming between a quiet vinyl shop owner and a Hollywood star, but dating someone famous wasn’t all stolen moments and whispered secrets. It was dodging paparazzi in alleyways, waking up to your face in gossip columns, strangers dissecting your relationship online.

Just last night, you had booked a secluded part of a restaurant—minimal windows, barely any people. Yet somehow, the paparazzi still got in and if that wasn’t enough, a waiter had kept pestering Manon for a picture, completely ignoring the fact that you were trying to have a normal evening.

The night was ruined.

Afterward, you hadn’t spoken much. She tried to explain, insisting this was inevitable, that she couldn’t escape the spotlight.

“I just want a goddamn normal life and a non-showbiz girlfriend,” you had snapped in frustration.

Her face fell, the words cutting deeper than you had intended. Without another word, she walked out, leaving you alone with your regret.

The next day, armed with a bouquet, you knocked on her hotel door, ready to apologize. But instead of Manon, another woman answered—wearing Manon’s shirt.

Your heart clenched. “Hi, is Manon here?”

Before the woman could respond, Manon appeared, eyes widening when she saw you. She quickly pulled the other woman back inside and stepped into the hallway with you.

“Who the hell was that?” you demanded.

She hesitated. “That was my ex. She showed up causing a scene, and I let her in to calm her down.”

You didn’t believe it. “Really? Wearing your shirt?”

She sighed, exasperated. “It’s not what you think.”

You exhaled sharply and shoved the bouquet into her hands. “You know what? I give up.”

“No!” She grabbed your wrist. “Please, can we just talk?”

You contemplated, then shook your head. “I need to think this through. Can we take a break?”

She swallowed hard but nodded, stepping back into her room.

That night, you found yourself at your sister’s house, breaking down in her arms.

“Oh, darling, everything’s going to be fine,” she soothed.

You sniffled. “It doesn’t feel fine.”

She sighed. “You either accept her for who she is or find someone who fits your idea of normal.”

The words lingered in your mind.

The next day, you dragged yourself to work. It was quiet, save for the occasional customer. As you searched for Manon’s record, someone cleared their throat.

Looking up, you found her standing there—natural hair, no makeup, a soft, hopeful smile.

“Hi,” she said. “Can we talk?”

You led her to the back office.

“So, how was your weekend?” you asked lightly.

“Spent it in my hotel,” she admitted. “Thinking about how I messed up.”

Silence stretched between you before she continued, “I’m leaving today, but I wanted to see you—maybe to remind you that I still like you. A lot.”

You stared at her, heart pounding. “Manon…”

She bit her lip. “I know I come with baggage, but I don’t want to lose you. Maybe we can find a way to make this work?”

You hesitated, but then you thought of her smile, her laugh, the way she felt like home despite the chaos. Maybe your sister was right—you either accept someone for who they are or you walk away.

You reached into the drawer, pulling out a package. “I found something.”

Her brows lifted as she unwrapped it—The Beatles' Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band, not signed, but still pristine.

She laughed, teary-eyed. “It’s perfect.”

You grinned. “So, should we give this another shot?”

She nodded, stepping closer. “Yeah. Let’s try.”

And as she kissed you, soft and slow, you knew—you were all in.

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hrrtshape · 2 days ago

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so let’s talk severance. and shifting. and briefly about loa.

because. i'm confused. this is an open forum for anyone who has ever stared into the abyss and had the abyss stare back, except the abyss is a fluorescent-lit office cubicle and the abyss is also your bedroom, and you are in both places at once, except not really.

quick recap for the uninitiated: in severance, employees undergo a procedure that splits their consciousness in two. the ‘innie’ only exists at work, the ‘outie’ only exists outside of it. neither remembers the other’s life. a clean, surgical divide. a self cleaved in two like some corporate-cooked ouroboros. make sense? no? yes? congratulations, you are alive.

now. shifting. shifting isn’t exactly that. but. isn’t it a little bit that? just a fraction? a sliver? because your dr self isn’t some blank-faced mannequin waiting for cr you to clock in and take over. they’re not a placeholder, not a consciousness-on-pause. they exist. fully. they are you in the same way you are you. and when you shift, you don’t overwrite them. you sync with them. it’s stepping into a river that was already rushing, already frothing, already carrying you forward before you even realized you were ankle-deep.

so no, your dr self doesn’t ‘know’ about shifting. until you shift. unless they were already aware of shifting. but let’s not go full inception just yet. because before that moment, they were just living, unbothered, thriving, possibly drinking a very good martini, possibly about to be hit by a cab. and now, here you are. a new awareness superimposed onto the old. which begs the question: if you can shift into them, could someone shift into you? could cr you be the outie in someone else's severance? is some other version of you sliding into place, right now, reading this, wearing your socks, stealing your morning?

let’s get messier. let's talk homework. let’s talk clones. let’s talk about whether or not i would even know if i had shifted. because. okay. say cr me is the innie. and the shifting me.....the one actively intending, scripting, affirming....is the outie. would my innie know the outie had shifted? would i know? or am i a paper doll, neatly folded into a reality i had no hand in choosing, while some other me slides into the cockpit?

because let’s discuss. people talk about clones. about leaving something behind to keep up appearances. but are they aware? do they feel it? do they have the creeping suspicion that reality is off by a fraction of a millimeter? do they ever get that thing where they walk into a room and forget why they’re there, except it’s their entire life? if shifting is severance, who's the innie and who's the outie? is cr you the outie, with full agency, only vaguely aware of the other? or is cr you the innie, there in a single slice of reality, while your dr self gets the full panoramic view? maybe it’s neither. maybe the whole premise collapses because, unlike severance, the connection is never actually severed. i think that this can be applied to manifestation too. because. if you manifest, say, a different face.....is the you with the old face aware that it worked???

maybe you are both. maybe it depends on where you stand. maybe it depends on where you shift. maybe none of us know what we’re talking about and reality is a mobius strip we’re all just scrambling across in different directions, trying to make it make sense.

anyway. thoughts? feelings? a growing sense of dread?

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604to647 · 2 days ago

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Crawling Back to You (Dieter’s Version)

3.7K / Dieter Bravo x fem!reader

Summary: A moment of weakness could lead to lifetime of regret unless Dieter can set things right with you.

Warnings: Angst, pining. Mention of drug use. Reader has a purposefully vague production/behind the scenes job because I don't know anything about movie production. Eventual HEA. One Friends reference - see if you can find it 😉

A/N: This was written for @happypedrohours’ Bouquets of Pedro Challenge. My Valentine’s prompt for Dieter was PDA. I’ve never written for Dieter before! I know he’s a chaos gremlin (affectionate), but I really like fics I read of him where he just wants to be loved? So, that's the Dieter that I wrote - I hope it's okay 🥹 (Sorry if he’s too OOC 😭) Musical inspiration is Hozier's cover of Artic Monkey's "Do I Wanna Know."

Dividers by @saradika-graphics / Many thanks to @morallyinept for your character and dialogue database to help me try and get into a Bravo state of mind 😘

He considers doing something big and splashy, of course. And public - very, very public. Afterall, not being P with his DAs had been what tore the two of you apart.

Well, part of it, anyways.

Double-paged feature in Variety. Highway billboards with matching ads on the side of buses. Live poetry reading on the big screens in Time Square.

But all of that would be very old Dieter Bravo of him and he was no longer that man - in large part because of you, for you.

Dieter had met you many, many moons ago. Always a friendly face on whatever set or industry event it was where you might cross paths, the two of you had gone from familiar acquaintances, to friends, to someone the other actively sought out for good company or shelter when the bright lights got too hot, the clamouring crowds too loud.

When you first met, Dieter thought you must be an actress - you were too beautiful, too captivating not to be onscreen. But while you did have a few extra credits to your name, he soon learned that your ambition lay behind the camera. He remembers the first time he heard your melodic voice ring out across set - like a drunken sailor to a siren’s call, he followed it without question in a semi lucid state (Hey! What’s a little marijuana between a movie star and the teamsters?). But upon the lifting of his fog, Dieter found not his destruction, but salvation: a sympathetic ally on set, someone with whom he could be a team – a calm in the chaotic storm that was most movie productions,

You worked hard at learning and mastering your trade, and your keen eye and intuitive sense for movie making sang your merits louder than that hypnotic voice of yours that first drew Dieter (and others) to you; that you were easy to get along with and impossible to say no to was no small feat in this business – especially for a woman. Dieter watched as you dogged forward, paying your dues and solidifying your reputation and resume – whenever he hears your name being bantered about behind the doors of Hollywood’s most coveted meetings, he feels only excessive pride. He would tell you himself if you were speaking to him.

Dieter still remembers the night when the two of you crossed that unspoken line for the first time; even now he’s not sure what he would have done if Cupid hadn’t been on his side. There had been some studio gala, nothing special – or so he thought. Slipping away from the endless shmoozing and sycophantic hoards that tend to overrun these gatherings, Dieter escaped through the catering entrance in search of some obliging venue service staff (Hollywood hot tip: the wait staff always have the best drugs!). Instead, he had found you - sitting on a table pushed to the side of the corridor, fancy ballgown fanned out, eating popsicles, legs swinging without a care in the world.

“Dieter!” your cheer was infectious, your smile mischievous and joyful, “I didn’t care for any of those tiny finger desserts they had going out on the trays so I asked the wait staff what they kept in the back for dessert and they gave me a whole box!” His search for extracurriculars forgotten, Dieter happily joined you, choosing instead to get drunk on your pretty face, happy chatter, and the completely innocent yet salacious way your mouth worked that frozen treat.

About three popsicles in (each) the icy desserts began melting – you managed to save yourself and finish yours just in time, but Dieter’s blue-raspberry concoction was rapidly disintegrating and about to make a guaranteed mess of his dress pants when your hands darted out, catching the slush midair.

Dieter cackled, marveling at your wide-eyed expression and hands, now wet, sticky and blue, “What did you do that for?”

“I don’t know," you crowed, eyes crinkling, still holding your cupped hands out in front of you, "I just didn’t want them to make some kind of 'blue balls' joke about you and your stained crotch in the tabloids tomorrow!”

He clasped his clean hand in yours, adhering himself to you in more ways than one - the two of you giggling and giddy as you re-entered the ballroom. After finding a free table, some clean napkins and a pitcher of water, you sat as Dieter lovingly washed and cleaned your hands so that they wouldn’t be stained with Blue Dye #1. He was on his knees, drying and holding your small delicate hands in his much rougher, clumsier ones, when he happened to look up to see you gazing adoringly down at him, eyes grateful and looking at him like he was hanging the moon for you.

Dieter lifted up and unable to help himself, connected his lips to yours – hoping against hope that he wasn’t ruining one of the few precious, genuine connections in his life. His relief was soon overtaken by desire when you kissed him back – the two of you somehow managing to make your way back to the service hallways, lips crashing together over and over like unstoppable waves of an inevitable ocean. The kisses were sensual and messy, pure and happy – it made Dieter feel like a teenager again.

“Is this weird?” he whispered at one point - vulnerable, no bravado.

“Yeah, it’s weird,” you breathed, though your voice was soft, your touch reassuring, “but don’t stop.” So, he didn’t. He kissed your lips swollen, pressing you up against the wall and succumbing to the intoxication of your pretty noises and tender affection.

Nothing else happened that night, and in fact, you had run away! After getting a text that your friend was currently giving birth, you rushed off to the hospital like Cinderella, ballgown skirts gathered in your careful hands while darting away in the night. Dieter, dazed and higher than he’s even felt, caught the kiss you blew him, and while pressing it to his slackened, blissed out face, vowed to become your Prince Charming.

He found you on set the following Monday and for the first time in a long time, Dieter Bravo, famously chill Cool Dude™ had felt shy, nervous. He needn’t have been – you responded to his earnestness with sweet generosity, only ever honest and non-pretentious; it was clear that for the both of you, there was no going back to just friends.

The rest as they say, was history.

Except being with you felt completely new to Dieter – for the first time in a long time, maybe ever, he looked forward to waking up to the start of each day, genuinely excited for its possibilities, and even more to coming home every night, grateful for the newfound comfort of life’s simple pleasures.

Grateful, yes. If there was one thing Dieter wishes he could tell you it’s how grateful he is for you. While you were blazing your own path to success, you had also helped him redefine his - believing in and supporting the seemingly unflappable Dieter Bravo when he admitted to wanting more. Hollywood’s unbothered bro, Tinseltown’s perpetually aflame trainwreck darling was capable of and itching for growth, who knew? You did.

You read scripts with him and talked through his needs and ambitions; finally having a sounding board with no self-serving stake in the financial success of his career choices, Dieter began choosing increasingly more varied and interesting projects with your encouragement and support. He’s happier now, more fulfilled, challenged, engaged.

And he got sober (Well, he still drinks, but that doesn’t really count, right? It’s Hollywood). Detox had been a fucking nightmare but Dieter likes the voices in his head now. They’re gentler with him, more forgiving, thoughtful. They sound like you.

Dieter loved you so much, he wanted to climb to the top of the Hollywood sign and shout it all the way across the Pacific; he thought a love such as yours was limitless.

His publicists discouraged it. The world loved the Dieter they knew: eccentric, sex-crazed, tabloid staple, a spectacle. They weren’t interested in another middle-aged actor trying too hard to be taken seriously, who had seemingly left his wild days behind for a boring, stable relationship with a non-celebrity. The public wanted ✨salaciousness✨glitz✨scandal✨.

You had gone along with keeping your relationship hidden, valuing your privacy and preferring to keep the sacredness of your love for one another only. “I love you, Dieter,” you vowed, “I don’t need everyone to know it, but I don’t ever want to feel like your dirty little secret, okay?”

He promised you without really understanding what that meant.

Your relationship blossomed behind closed doors. Both of you walked red carpets alone, careful not to get papped together, and on sets, remained cordial and professional until you got behind Dieter’s closed trailer doors where his affection for you knew no bounds, even when contained. You would tell each other that your love wasn’t a secret, it was private, protected and kept safe from the prying and critical eyes of the public.

When his PR team arranged a fake relationship with the young and upcoming nepo baby starlet with whom he acted opposite in his latest movie as a means to promote the film, Dieter had reservations. But he hadn’t said no.

And after several long and serious conversations with his management about his fading relevancy and the exposure that the arrangement would net him, the starlet, the film, Dieter eventually relented and agreed to go along with it. It seems that fame was the one drug that he hadn’t quite kicked.

Dieter will never forget the look on your face when he brought up the PR campaign – the way your eyes crinkled in disappointment and the curve of your pretty lips pulling down your entire face haunts him every night.

“What happens to your real girlfriend when you’re out with your fake girlfriend, Dieter?”

He couldn’t even bring himself to ask you to wait, or stay by his side, but hidden. It was beneath you, insulting. And to ask was to break his promise.

Turns out he didn’t even need to ask for you to feel the full weight of his betrayal.

The last words he ever spoke to you had been uttered pathetically to the front door you shut in his face, “Baby, maybe I can fix it. Let me try.” Their only registered response was the sound of your sobs getting softer and softer as you walked away, shutting the doors in the house he could no longer call home.

He hadn’t been able to fix it. By design, Hollywood’s PR machine is a force, the joint efforts of Dieter and the starlet’s teams a runaway train. Their “relationship” had been Page Six news before Dieter even had the chance to call his publicist to say that he couldn’t go through with it. The public ate it all up just as predicted:

Dieter Bravo, Hollywood Chaos Prince back at it again, charming and capturing the heart of Tinseltown’s newest princess.

His mind swims of you. During every press tour interview he does with his pretend girlfriend, Dieter cringes at the fake touches and gestures of affection choreographed for the cameras; all the scripted flirting and empty terms of endearment taste like acid on his tongue (and not the good kind either). But none of this compares to the shame he feels at having hurt you, the owner of his heart, and that he likely continues to do so with every orchestrated date night photo-op for TMZ, every “happy couple” glambot he poses for on the red carpet.

Dieter finally sees you again six months into his fake relationship.

At the MTV Movie Awards, he’s waiting for the starlet to finish her solo shots, rubbing his temple at the too bright lights, the garish and loud décor, the music that doesn’t even sound like music, when he sees you stroll in on the arm of a man he doesn’t recognize. But Dieter couldn’t care less who the man is - it’s you he can’t look away from; you’re laughing, radiant, soft. Unchanged. Ethereal.

Dieter thinks he might vomit. He thinks he might need to do a line. He can’t let you see him.

Without excusing himself, Dieter leaves the red carpet and locks himself in a bathroom, trying to push down his bubbling panic attack. He knows his “girlfriend” is probably beside herself, and that his unexplained absence is likely giving rise to new rumours and speculation that he’s on some kind of drug-fuelled spiral, but he can’t bring himself to come out.

Someone slips a KitKat under the door of the bathroom.

Dieter knows it’s you; only you would be so subtle, so gentle, so reassuring with one simple gesture. Only you know him and what brings him the most comfort. He picks up the chocolate bar and stares at it for a while before biting into it, thinking about how he got himself into this mess.

A moment weakness. A lifetime of regret.

Not if Dieter could help it.

He “breaks up” with the starlet the following week; it would have been handled even sooner if he didn’t have to fight and threaten to fire his entire team, eventually dragging in Legal to help him break the marketing contract he had unknowingly signed in blood.

Immediately Dieter starts planning how he will make things up to you, beg for another chance – apologize; drafting and discarding every over-the-top gesture that pops into his buzzing mind, each more theatrical and outlandish than the last.

He finally settles on a letter – one that Dieter can’t stop writing after he starts and ends up being eighteen pages (front and back). It begins with an apology – for having hurt you so callously, for breaking his promise to you, and for, even if only a second, ever making you feel like you weren’t important or enough. Especially when it was his own bruised ego that had needed the stroking – this entire disaster a result of his own weakness, born from a dark place inside where he had been made small by an industry that thrived on the insecurities of its so-called stars, and Dieter’s fear of feeling even smaller. You made him feel so good while the two of you had been together, he naively thought that your light had eradicated all such voids and pits within him – but it was unfair to heap the responsibility of his growth and self improvement onto you. And though he knows that he still has work to do, he credits your influence and compassion for the progress he’s made so far. Around page six of the letter Dieter’s Sorrys transition into Thank Yous.

Dieter thanks you for every way you’ve made him a better man, made him want to be a better man. He thanks you for all the times your unparalleled support, kindness, and generosity have gotten him through the day on set, or through his self doubts at night. Words of gratitude overflow from his pen, pouring out nearly faster than he can write – you, you, you. He’s thankful for you.

And he misses you. And not just all the ways you meshed your gentle life with the squishy bits of his, but just you. Your sweet laugh. The crinkle of your nose and the watering of your eyes at his farts sarcastic jokes. And your mouth. Great Paul Newman, he’s always been obsessed with your mouth – and not just what he knows it can do and how it tastes, but everything that comes out of it. Dieter could listen to you talk about anything for hours – he might not know a single thing about what you’re talking about, but he understands eloquence, passion, and the artistry of words when he hears it. Having spent most of his adult life around industry blowhards, Dieter knows that intelligence without pretension is a rarity - fresh air that he longs to breathe in again.

On page twelve, Dieter tells you he loves you - loves you for everything you are and what you stand for. He loves how you’ve remained gentle, even though the business of show makes it its mission to sharpen everyone and everything it swallows. He loves that your default is always thoughtfulness and compassion, that you embody a quiet type of beauty that doesn’t need to be paraded about or loudly lauded in order to shine. How do you make even the mundane so fascinating? It must be that confident grace of yours. Dieter writes an entire two pages on how he just wants to watch you wash dishes again – he tries to describe the meditative calm that comes just from seeing the soapy water bow to your whim, as if it knows the power and majesty of its bender; understanding as he does now the magnanimity it takes to ensure that no small movement is wasted, to make every action purposeful. He’s enraptured by you. Admires you. Worships you. So, so in love with you.

He reads the letter over a hundred times before tying the folded pages together with a bright red bow. Using his Bravo charm, Dieter sneaks onto the set of your latest movie and leaves it in your trailer on top of a jewelry box that holds an ostentatiously luxurious diamond necklace he bought you before everything had gone to hell. He had kept it all this time, unable to bring himself to return it, never even considering giving it to anyone but you.

Three weeks pass and Dieter hears nothing back.

He had tried to prepare himself for this possibility – that perhaps you might never forgive him, want nothing more to do with him, but still, it’s with a heavier than expected heart that he gets ready for his movie premiere, the very same film he’d promoted with his fake relationship. Dieter didn’t expect any drama at the event – he and the starlet spoke last week and agreed that arriving separately but acting like friends was the best way to quell the outrageous reasons for the “breakup” speculated in the gossip rags. In truth, even though they had grown to become actual friends during the meshugana of the last few months, Dieter can’t help but associate this entire project with his own regret and shame - he can’t wait for this evening to be over.

He goes through the motions of the red carpet. Greeting his co-stars with boisterous cheers and hard gripping handshakes. Hitting his marks and smiling almost manically for the cameras. Waving to the fans and signing every piece of paper shoved towards him (this part he really did not mind; you always said that his fans were the best and they are). Doing his time in the interview pit. When he’s near the end of the gauntlet, with only the Entertainment Tonight interview to get through before he can (blessedly) retreat to his seat in the theatre, a vivid glimmer of brilliance catches Dieter’s eye. Unlike the near blinding flash of a photographer’s camera, this sparkle beckons him, brightly winking – he almost puts up a hand to shield his eyes before he realizes what it is.

It's you.

You’re at his premiere. Gorgeous, breathtaking, elegant – you’re walking down the arrivals promenade… and you’re wearing the diamond necklace Dieter left with your letter. Inadvertently tuning out the ET interviewer, he stares, awestruck, mouth agape – hopeful. The interviewer can’t help but follow Dieter’s gaze and asks him who you are.

“An angel,” he answers honestly.

At that same moment, you finally spot him and your face breaks into a big smile, the luminosity of which nearly drops Dieter to his knees. Instead, he breaks out into a sprint, running towards you.

When you see what he’s doing, you pick up your skirts and start moving towards him as well. Dieter dodges and weaves between the bodies on the red carpet, trying not to slam into any of the people that stand between him and his everything, only vaguely aware of the Entertainment Tonight interviewer and her cameraman hot on his heels.

Suddenly, the crowd seems to part and there’s a clearing right where the two of you finally meet, stopping only inches from one another. Dieter’s panting (fuck, he’s out of shape!) but grinning like a fool when you drop the fabric of your dress to bring your hands come up to cup his face, thumbs running lovingly over his unkempt scruff – a familiar gesture that feels better than any high he’s ever experienced. Your face is flushed bright and content, home.

“You got my letter.”

“I did.”

“You’re wearing the necklace.”

“I am.” Your eyes twinkle, complimenting the serenity and invitation of your countenance - both saying everything without even a word. It gives Dieter the boost of confidence he needs.

“May I kiss you?”

“Even though we’re in public?” You’re being cheeky on purpose.

But for once Dieter won’t play - there is nothing except sincerity in his response, “From now on, only ever in public. No more hiding.”

An orchestral movie score heard only by the two of you swells as you both move to close the remaining distance between your bodies, crushing your mouths together. The kiss is passionate, deep and heated – leaving no doubt of your feelings for one another; not even the gawking onlookers can deny what you mean to each other. Camera bulbs pop and bright lights flash all around as your lips settle and mold in a tender slow dance, loathed to be parted ever again. Your hands card through Dieter’s soft curls, delicate fingers cradling his head soothingly, warm; his hands spread wide to cover your back, covetous and protective.

“No more hiding,” you whisper, face lit with joy at the adoration and promise reflected in Dieter’s mirrored expression.

He nods and tightens his arm around your waist, love and resolution coursing through his veins. Sharing one last private look, the two of you turn in unison, a team, towards the awestruck Entertainment Tonight interviewer whose microphone is practically shaking with excitement. Dieter beams his megawatt Bravo smile at her, “Is this what the kids call a hard launch?”

🎶Artic Monkey's "Do I Wanna Know" lyrics (Hozier's version):

Crawlin' back to you Ever thought of callin' when You've had a few? 'Cause I always do Maybe I'm too Busy bein' yours To fall for somebody new Now, I've thought it through Crawlin' back to you 🎶

#Dieter Bravo #happy pedro hours #bouquetsofpedrochallenge #Dieter Bravo fic #happypedrohours #Dieter Bravo fanfiction #dieter bravo x reader #dieter bravo x you #dieter bravo x f!reader #pedro pascal characters fanfiction #pedro pascal characters

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