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writingbakery · 5 years ago

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“the ballerina & the nutcracker”🩰

this is a work that’s very dear to my heart that i’m finally releasing to the world! i abandoned it for a while, but my heart has returned - as has my love for the story. loosely based on several versions of the nutcracker, and heavily inspired by the ballet classical soundtrack; i highly recommend listening to it as you read. if there’s enough interest, this will become a chaptered fic!

wherein reader is a lonely, lost ballerina, thrust into a world where rats don’t only talk, but wield swords - and is that their toy nutcracker, alive and fighting? this adventure has only just begun, and the reader will go on a journey of love, friendship, tears, and laughter to find out just what the meaning of courage is ✨

[pairing; nutcracker!kirishima x gn! ballerina!reader]

[warnings; violence, magic, rat soldiers, flowery language, crude language, implied child abuse, implied bullying, romance]

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chapter one; an enchanted evening ✨

┊ ┊ ┊ ┊ ˚✩ ⋆｡˚ ✩

┊ ┊ ┊ ✫

┊ ┊ ☪︎⋆

┊ ⊹ ┊

✯ ⋆ ┊ . ˚

˚✩

┌────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──────┐

“after you, clara.”

“oh nutcracker, stop bowing. we’re friends, aren’t we?”

“always, clara. always..”

The Nutcracker Prince (1990)

└────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──────┘

snow falls delicately outside the large, frosty window, rivulets of ice clinging to the outside wooden frame. the streets are quiet with winter emptiness, piles of glistening white snow covering everything within sight & softening the normally bustling street corners. inside, just beyond the twinkling glass, a person sits, hand tucked under their chin as they watch the snowflakes grace every available surface, eyes a little sad.

you sit so still that for a moment, any passerby making their way through the cold that chanced for a moment to peer up at your frosty window would think you were a doll. you were delicate looking from the waist up, features rosy & small, handcrafted in glass. the only part of you that seemed alive were your eyes, dancing amidst the snowflakes as they made their slow waltz to the ground.

your name is [y/n] [l/n], & your adventure is only just beginning.

leaning back from your perch along the windowsill, you let a gentle sigh escape, cold fingers carding through tousled hair as you set about to begin your day.

you work your way through a half hours worth of gentle stretches, ensuring you’d shaken off the lingering silks of chill deep in your bones before dressing hurriedly & making your way to the academy.

the treasure academy for gifted persons was a dance academy first & foremost, one you had been attending for most of your years. you’d known you were in love with the art the first time your parents had brought you to the ballet, the soaring dancers trapped behind your eyelids whenever you so much as blinked. you’d sat stock still in between your mother & father that night, enraptured by the graceful, yet powerful movements. afterwards, you’d stood amongst a small crowd as the ballerinas poured out one by one, special praise being heaped upon the male lead for his incredible strength in lifting so many of the others through turns & spins. it had confused you greatly at the time, rose clutched between small hands as you told the female lead that you’d thought she was twice as powerful. she’d done pirouettes & leaps twice as fast as the others, pushed her body beyond its limits & you couldn’t understand why no one would acknowledge it. the pretty ballerina had simply laughed, kneeled down to your level to accept the rose. “not everyone sees strength the way you & i do, dear,” she whispered to you before making her way out of the crowd, leaving you with a fluttering heart, a kiss pressed to your forehead, & the urge to dance hollowing out your bones.

that night had transformed you, sending a lithe little child soaring through the air in poor imitations of pirouettes & plies, tumbling over two left feet until your mother had relented, & enrolled you in ballet. your father had been disapproving, as always; always worried about what the neighbors would think. the [l/n] family was well off enough that they could bend the social status quo to their liking, but your father had always been fickle, a perfectionist. he couldn’t bear the thought of being seen as lower in any way, & a child that preferred ballet slippers to books and studies was shameful in every way.

until you danced.

even as a child you’d had incredible skill, raw talent in your every movement & it was breathtaking to watch. every dip & turn was fluid, marked with a steady gracefulness that usually came from years of study. exercises that took even the most skilled of dancers weeks took you days; by the end of your first year, you’d landed the lead ballerina role.

you hated it.

your instructors see you as nothing but talent with too much time to think, absurdly harsh on you; they demand perfection, take every scrap of effort you give & hungrily scrape your bones for more. you’re nothing but a means for them to succeed, a way to relive their own glory.

the ballerinas are kinder, more gentle. but they themselves are a beast all their own, wound up in tight insecurities & tighter diets, something your toned, strong thighs cannot sympathize with. they must be fragile as glass with the strength of concrete; a constant push and pull. the ballerinos get slightly more lee-way, less pressure, but you’re caught between both worlds, & so you bear both of their weights on your shoulders.

you are alone, but not lonely. so long as you can dance, you will never be lonely.

the music rushes towards you with every arching step, the melody whittled from your bones & thrummed from your skin. they become one, perfectly intertwined, two halves of a whole not yet separated. it’s where you feel complete.

most days, it takes a heavy combination of overwhelming exhaustion, late hours, and concerned fellow students to get you out of the studios. today, since it’s christmas eve, you’re out by lunchtime. you don’t want to disappoint your mother by being late, and you’re sure to take a long soak in the bath to wash away the residual stink of sweat and never being good enough.

you dress comfortably for the evening, simple trousers and a warm, red knit sweater. as you dress you can hear the loud, overeager shouts that can only come from children at christmas time; your cousins have arrived, their noisy cheer infecting the quiet house. it brings a smile to your face, makes facing your family a little easier.

───── ⋆✩⋆ ─────

dinner is early, a simple affair when the clock strikes four and everyone’s made it to the dining room. you push roast potatoes and chicken around your plate slowly, soak in the bragging speeches and subtle jabs. you just want it to be nightfall already, curled up alone in your living room and watching the snow pile up as the clock strikes midnight.

after dinner everyone crowds into the parlor, your cousins bouncing around the tree excitedly - they want to open their presents, and no one can deny them. your uncle carefully hands out each prettily wrapped gift, the shine of their ribbons almost hypnotizing in the firelight. each child gets a small pile, full of little tin men and wooden trains, glossy eyed stuffed dolls and hair ribbons. you’re content to watch their enchanted smiles, curled up on the far sofa, and so your surprise is evident when your uncle places a small, delicately wrapped box in your lap.

uncle had always been a tad eccentric, your mother’s brother’s wife’s brother, or something along those lines. he was a toymaker by trade, careful hands crafting the most beautiful painted dolls and puppets, casting little fierce soldiers from tin molds. your father hated the man, but indulged his wife, as he was the only relative on your mother’s side that lived close enough to visit for holidays.

he handmade every child’s present, spending months before the holiday painstakingly crafting every toy to perfection, and he’d done so for as long as you could remember. it was sentimental and sweet, but you had been too old for toys for several christmases already.

still, you’re intrigued by the prettily wrapped present, taking it with careful hands and working open the ribbon. you gasped at the cherry wood box, poking through the tissue paper to reveal a handsomely painted nutcracker.

it was about the length of your forearm, built of sturdy wood and richly painted, glinting in the firelight. it was almost handsome, a hand stitched uniform covering its wooden form - it almost looked regal, like the little nutcracker was royalty.

“thank you so much,” you whispered, looking up at your uncle in awe. you’d never owned something so sentimental, so carefully crafted. it made you feel warm somewhere deep in your chest, blossoming through your body as you stared at the elegant nutcracker.

the moment is shattered immediately; it’s almost expected.

“and what use do you think [y/n] should have for that?” your father asked crossly, leaning over to rip the nutcracker from your hands. “they’re no longer a child, you foolish man. or have all the paints in your shack of a shop finally corrupted your mind?” he twisted the little nutcracker back and forth, digging a fat finger into the wooden jaw. it comes apart with a sharp crack, and so does your quiet patience.

you snatch the nutcracker back with a panicked gasp, anger building low in your stomach. after ensuring that all your father’s done is pop out the nutcracker’s lower jaw, you turn on him with a furious expression.

“why must you always ruin things that make me happy!? why can’t you ever let me be happy?” you shout, the parlor deathly silent. running up the stairs, you can hear your mother’s angry scolding and your father’s flippant excuses, overlapped with the whispers of your cousins.

you ignore them in favor of searching your room, letting out a triumphant little yell when you find it; a frayed ballet ribbon, torn from your old pointe shoes. carefully holding the nutcrackers jaw in place, you lace the ribbon underneath its chin and tie it into a little bow atop its shiny wooden head.

“there, aren’t you handsome again? nothing a little ribbon can’t fix,” you say softly to the doll, smiling warmly. you can’t help it, you almost feel like… it��s listening to you, encouraging you with a hidden twinkle in its painted eyes.

“father’s always so brutish. he breaks everything he touches, physically and verbally. don’t expect an apology from him either, my little nutcracker prince. he’s insufferably stubborn,” you continued, fixing its gold stitched jacket as you spoke.

“i hate him, sometimes. i must love him, of course - he’s my father. but i do not have to like him, and i won’t, not as long as i live. he’s always ruining things.” you let out a weary sigh, adjusting the little ribbon carefully.

“sometimes, i wish i was a bird, so i could fly far, far away,” you confess to the little nutcracker, eyes suddenly a little wet. “far away from father and the instructors and everyone.”

you set the nutcracker down next to you on the bed, curling up to wait until everyone’s gone to bed. “far, far away,” you hum, pulling the duvet over yourself.

next to you, the nutcracker shines in the lamplight, a mischievous glint to its eye.

───── ⋆✩⋆ ─────

as the clock neared twelve and the house grew silent once more, you crept down the stairs, tiptoeing into the empty parlor. sighing a bit, you rest your little nutcracker at the base of the christmas tree, sitting amongst scattered tin men and abandoned dolls - your cousins leaving their toys long forgotten on the wood floor.

for a moment, the room stands completely, utterly still, silent except for the ticking of the grandfather clock and the dying embers of the fireplace. everything is peaceful, the room sparkling from the christmas lights and the flickering, fading flames.

you smile, content.

the sharp, heavy banging of the clock striking twelve jolts you from your stupor, and as you glance back at it you can see the looming shadow of your uncle, smiling in the dim light. “uncle? what’s happening?” you try to ask over the din of the clock, but it feels as though your voice is getting smaller and smaller, the room beginning to spin in a dizzying display of christmas lights and shaky flickers. everything seems to grow larger and larger, the soothing voice of your uncle surrounding you at all sides. “relax, my child. your present reveals itself,” he says, a fond smile to his lips before he disappears into the shadows.

when you open your eyes again, the room is massive. the tree towers over you on one side, the grandfather clock looming on the other. for a moment, you think that you’re dreaming, shaking your head to clear it.

this time, when your eyes open, you’re in the middle of battle.

tin soldiers yell from all sides of you, slashing their bayonets fiercely into the darkness. dolls swing their fabric fists at an unseen enemy, discarding shoes and capes everywhere.

you also realize you’re naked, shrunk into a pile of your now too big clothes. you scream.

around you, the battle rages on, the enemy becoming clear in the dim lamplight; rats, dressed in military uniforms, fighting with rusted swords. you’re confused and terrified, watching as they fight in dizzying displays of violence.

a tin soldier strikes down a squealing rat, moving from your line of sight, and in the newly exposed space a familiar face emerges. you gasp, recognition flooding your features; it’s your nutcracker.

only now, your little nutcracker is taller than you, broad shouldered and snarling as he battles a large, fierce looking rat. it has a crown perched atop its unsightly head, the clanging of swords overpowering every other sound in the room. as you watch, the rat gains the upper hand, slashing the sword from the nutcracker’s grip - he is defenseless.

you move before you can even think, reaching down to pick up a stray doll slipper and lobbing it at the dirty rat’s head. you immediately regret that decision, the shoe smacking the rat directly in the face - and focusing its attention on you.

just as he’s stepping towards you, malice in his face, the nutcracker lunges, holding a sword to the rat’s neck.

“leave, rat. our battle will not end here,” he commands, voice rich and deep. it has the authority of a leader, the cadence of a king.

“this won’t be our last meeting, nutcracker. you will not win,” the rat growled, before letting out a shrill, low whistle; the fighting rats immediately still, before racing into a tiny, unnoticed crack in the wall. the leader shoots one last venomous, poison glare at the nutcracker, before following after them.

suddenly, the room is quiet, the dolls and soldiers regrouping and collecting themselves. you watch as the nutcracker makes his way through the mess, a smile on the - interestingly handsome - wooden face.

“now that, little ballerina, was quite brave.” in the lamplight, the nutcracker looks human, warm and familiar.

you manage to stammer out a weak “thank you”, shyly yanking up the collar of your sweater to cover your naked form. it’s more than a little embarrassing, meeting the very doll you’d ranted to a few hours earlier. you’re still not convinced this isn’t all a dream.

“i am kirishima eijiro, the prince of the southern isles. the creature you just saw was the rat king, forceful overtaker of the southern isles. my isles. he cursed me into this wooden form, to prevent me from taking back my throne,” the nutcracker explains, leaning down to gather a few stray garments. he hands them to you with a wry smile, giving a sly glance to your sweater covered form. you blush brightly, snatching the clothes and waiting for the nutcracker to turn around to tug them on. a silky, short sleeved leotard, silk shorts, and a tutu, all in a pretty blush pink. there’s even a matching pair of little pointe shoes, and you’re surprised at how well it all fits. you feels rather like you fit now, in this wild fever dream that has no end.

“how was he able to do such a thing? surely there’s some sort of….. actually, never mind.” you’re beginning to realize that nothing about this is normal, and you aren’t sure how to feel. the nutcracker sighs, running a hand over his face. weariness seems to haunt his every action, and your heart softens.

“i was a fool then, full of reckless youth and insufferable invincibility. i thought i could defeat him all on my own. my only hope now is to find the sugar plum princess, and enlist her help to break my curse. but in order to find her, i must travel back to my kingdom, and find the sugar plum fairy. she is the only one who knows exactly where the princess is. she also may be able to… fix this little predicament of yours.” despite the heavy words, there’s a teasing lilt to his tone, and you can’t help but find it endearing despite the circumstances.

for a moment, you’re filled with a flurry of panic, uncertainty. part of you wants to run, hide away in your bed and hope for it all to end. but you steel your nerves, shaking off the fear in your heart. you can’t show weakness now, not here.

“well, if she can make everything as it was before, i suppose we’ve got some traveling to do,” you say with all the confidence you can muster, holding your head up high. the nutcracker smiles, holding out his hand; you take it carefully, sealing your fate in this new adventure.

together, you both step into the crack in the wall, and you can only hope you make it home in one piece.

#bnha kirishima #kirishima x y/n #kirishima x you #kirishima eijiro x reader #nutcracker au #bnha x y/n #bnha x you #bnha x reader #bnha fluff #bnha fic #boku no hero fluff #boku no hero x reader #boku no hero fanfic #evywrites #ballerina & the nutcracker

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sleepingrenjun · 5 years ago

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breathe me | LJ

Genre ♡ angst, dancer!Lee Jeno

Length ♡ 14k

Pairing ♡ Lee Jeno x reader

Warnings ♡ angst, making out & swearing, smoking (?), an eating disorder is alluded to, heartbreak, y/n being down-right horrible to Jeno & Jeno being a bit of a dick… I think that’s it!

Playlist ♡ breathe me playlist

Summary ♡ Dancing is what makes the blood run through your veins, it’s both what keeps you sane and what keeps you up at night. The same could be said for Jeno – the boy you loath the most.

Your muscles were aching as your body twisted and contorted, gliding across the hard wood of the dance studio floor, your lungs crying out for some fresh air, or perhaps you’d just smoked one too many cigarettes. Your feet were battered and bruised from the extra hours you’d been spending on this solo piece, although the wear and tear was perfectly concealed by your pointe shoes.

Dancing had become the air you breathed, your oxygen, without it you’d be nothing. Nobody. And so, you found yourself practicing until you were utterly exhausted for the fifth day in a row, the clock having struck midnight quite some time ago.

The eerie silence of the night became apparent once the music finished playing, your heavy breathing the only sound that could be heard echoing off the blank walls. You brushed a few stray pieces of hair out of your eyes as you leaned forward to rest your sweaty palms on the clothed skin just above your knees. You felt a cough bubble up in the back of your throat, automatically raising your hand to try to conceal it, wishing you could reach down and stuff it back into your heaving chest. You hated feeling weak, especially when you were dancing, and even more so when you knew that someone was witness to it.

You could feel his presence before you even looked up, his very being sending a cold shiver down your already aching spine. “You should stop smoking so much.”

“What do you want, Jeno?”

Lee Jeno. His frame was large and almost intimidating as he caught your gaze from his position in the doorway; his silhouetted figure looked lean as he rested his weight on one side of the doorframe, his head cocked to the side as he watched you from across the room. Lee Jeno was tall and dark and beautiful, unfortunately so. But he was also your greatest competition, your biggest rival. He had been dancing for as long as you could remember, his name constantly cropping up as he won numerous dance competitions across the city. Jeno’s specialty was contemporary dance, you hated contemporary dance because Jeno loved it; your preference was ballet. You’d known his name for years, although your past encounters had all been fleeting until he started dancing at the same studio as you just six months ago.

“I’m just looking out for you, y/n.”

You scoffed at his response. Jeno had made a point of coming to watch you practice once he’d finished his own routine in the neighbouring studio. It wasn’t every night, but it was quite consistent now. He would be there at least once or twice a week, standing in the doorway as he was tonight, and you could no longer find the energy to stop him. If he wanted to observe your dancing, you’d let him. “I don’t need your advice,” you rolled your eyes in his direction.

You knew that you probably should have given up your habit a while ago, it was detrimental to your health and it would most likely affect your dancing one day, but in that moment, you couldn’t bring yourself to care.

The music started playing once more, drowning out the words on Jeno’s lips. You straightened your posture and began to dance for what felt like the hundredth time that night. You bound across the floor, pouring your entire fiery soul into the dance, letting it completely take you over. The air in the room felt hot as you leapt into the air and landed gracefully, your toes holding their point as your figure spun elegantly in a pirouette. You arched your back and pushed your chest to the ceiling as the piece ended, splaying your arms out and stretching your legs until your final position was utterly perfect. You wouldn’t settle for anything less; you would run yourself into the ground if it meant that you could solidify this.

Silence filled the room once more as you took in several deep breaths. You raised your gaze to the boy in the doorway upon hearing his hands meet in a tantalizingly slow clap, “nice work, y/n.”

“I don’t appreciate your sarcasm, Lee Jeno,” you narrowed your eyes, not feeling in the mood for his mind games. Jeno knew he was a good dancer, one of the best, even. And he could often be rather arrogant about it. He rarely handed out compliments, let alone to his rival dancers. In fact, he had made a point of speaking to you as little as possible. He usually just stood by and observed you before slipping off into the night without so much as a goodbye. Tonight was different, it would seem.

“Not sarcasm, sweetheart. I was actually going to ask if you’d be interested in being partners for an upcoming duet competition.” He offered you a small smile as he got straight to the point, pushing his weight off the door-frame silently and stuffing his hands into the slouchy pockets of his worn-out dance sweats. He walked towards you with power in each and every step he took. Jeno stopped just shy of where you were now standing with a newly straightened posture, his hot breath raising goosebumps on the exposed skin of your neck.

“You see, I’d really like to win, and I think you would too-” he lowered his voice and reached up to tuck a loose hair behind your ear as his eyes bore into yours. “-And if we worked hard enough then I think we could be in with a chance.”

You could almost feel him knocking the air out of your blackened lungs with a single sultry gaze. He wasn’t used to people rejecting him, that much was fairly clear. He carried himself with a certain confidence, his voice not even so much as wavering as he spoke. Truthfully, you envied Jeno. You often found yourself wishing for an ounce of his composure, a sliver of his own fortitude. You loathed him more often than not, although you perhaps loathed yourself more. You hated him, he was everything that you would never be; Lee Jeno was charming, sickeningly so. He was well-liked, hard-working and self-confident, there was little to fault him for. Perhaps that was why you despised him so very much – he seemed so perfect.

You brushed the warmth of his hand away, turning around before you could melt into his touch. You didn’t respond as you padded over to the section of mirrored wall your bag was slouched by, opting to sit down as you struggled to untie the ribbons of your practice pointe shoes. You placed them in your bag with a certain degree of delicacy before slipping on your scruffy trainers and shrugging a large hoodie on over your loose-fitting shirt.

“I kind of need an answer, y/n.” Jeno had his strong arms crossed as he spoke softly, he hadn’t yet moved from his position in the middle of the studio.

“I’ll think about it,” you breathed out, although you already knew that you would most likely refuse his offer. It was foolish of him to ask you, really. You placed the back of your now cool hand on your forehead in an attempt to calm it down; you often suffered from headaches after a long session in the studio, although it had been growing worse lately, perhaps you just didn’t drink enough water.

He nodded his head gently upon hearing your reply before walking softly to the door and giving you one last glance as he moved past you. He looked at you with something that could only be described as pity in his eyes, although you weren’t sure why. Why would someone like Jeno feel such an emotion for someone like you? He opened his mouth to say something but decided against it as you brought your eyes up to meet his, instead opting to break the brief eye contact and duck through the door, leaving you alone in the echoing studio.

Your fingers fumbled with the familiar cigarette held between them as you walked home in the onyx of the night, your breath visible and smoky in the chilled air. It was mid-November and winter was closing in, the cold not helping with the ache in your lungs. The weight of the glowing cigarette felt right on your chapped lips, at least that was what you tried to convince yourself. Truthfully, you just used it as a distraction. You could focus on the feeling of smoke filling your lungs and the familiar burn at the back of your throat. It had become a sort of comfort. It was sad, really.

You’d been dancing for years, the scratchy material of your tutu against your upper thighs and the intimate ache of your feet as you moved into fifth position had soon become habitual. Ballet was your everything, your home, your lifeline. Your constant. Of all the things that you’d watched come and go in your life, dance was the one thing that you’d managed to hold onto just tight enough that it hadn’t yet slipped through your fingers. And so, when a certain raven-haired boy brought up one of your greatest fears, you’d been utterly broken. He’d made a simple, snide comment about your weight. It was nothing more, and nothing less than a spur of the moment slur and yet it completely ripped you apart. As an aspiring professional ballerina, weight was a touchy topic. If you weren’t lean and slender, you wouldn’t make it, and all it took was one passing remark about your physique for you to crumble into the darkest abyss.

Jeno didn’t remember, you were sure of it. It had happened around two years prior to his first appearance at your dance studio six months ago, and he held his head far too highly to remember something so trivial and silly. But that single comment had been the beginning of your downfall. Sure, your dancing had improved, and your figure was that of a typical ballet dancer, but you didn’t take care of yourself in other such ways. Your body bathed in a constant pool of exhaustion and the string of cigarettes you smoked only just managed to distract you from the pangs of hunger echoing throughout your stomach and reverberating in your gut. But it was worth it, if it meant you could pursue your passion, if it meant that you looked fit for the roll you wished to play, then it had to be worth it.

You knew that your mentality was unhealthy, but you couldn’t help it. It was Jeno’s fault, that’s what you told yourself every now and then. Lee Jeno did this to you, and he was too privileged to even notice. You weren’t sure why you cared so much. His opinion didn’t really matter, you supposed. But if he thought you were packing a bit too much around your midriff or your thighs then what harm would there be in losing some of it, right?

You wouldn’t dance with Jeno, you decided.

You didn’t need to win a duet competition to prove your worth, nor did you want to have to trust him. You would never trust him. He was as sly and cunning as a sleek fox, keeping it well hidden beneath his kind exterior of never-ending smiles and innocent ripples of happiness. You knew better.

When you woke up the morning after the next, your limbs felt heavy and weak. The night previous had been another late night in the studio and you half expected Jeno to waltz through the door with a spring in his step and a plead for confirmation on the tip of his tongue. You didn’t see him, though, perhaps he did stop by to watch and you just failed to notice. He was awfully good at slipping in and out of the room without so much as a sound.

You cursed as you rolled out of bed, your bruised feet hitting the cold wooden floorboards with more force than you’d intended. The sunlight filtering through the gaps in your moth-bitten curtains told you that it was most-likely mid-morning and you were grateful that your body had woken up before you needed to leave for work. You worked in a rustic, independent restaurant just off the main street of the city. The job was fairly easy and you liked your co-workers well enough, you couldn’t truthfully say that you enjoyed it, though. You worked long-hours on a shitty minimum wage purely just to make ends meet. You didn’t like the unpredictable nature of it, and you often found yourself working over-time, which, in turn, affected your scheduled sessions at the studio, thus only meaning you had to stay later to practice. It wouldn’t be like this forever, though. Your hard work would pay off, you were sure of it.

The vintage alarm-clock on the table by your headboard confirmed that it was 10:36am and you were grateful for the extra hour of sleep that you’d had, having not got home from practice until gone 3am. You groaned as you stretched out your limbs and stumbled over to your chest of drawers, fishing out your crumpled work shirt and a pair of black jeans before shrugging the clothes on quickly. You trudged through to the small kitchen at the back of your humble apartment and took note of your roommate who was passed-out on the sofa.

You’d met Jaemin through mutual friends around three years ago and the two of you had bonded instantly, his easy-going attitude a rather stark contrast to your slightly darker persona, but you loved him nevertheless. Things were easy with Jaemin. There was never any doubt between you, and never any confused feelings. You’d been friends from the get-go and you were both confident that you would only ever be friends, nothing more. Living with him was comfortable and you enjoyed it a great-deal. There was only one thing that you didn’t like so much; he was close with Jeno. You’d rather impressively managed to avoid all contact with Jeno since befriending and then moving in with Jaemin. He knew of your distaste for the boy, and so far, he’d made sure that you hadn’t crossed paths, for which you were grateful.

“Morning sunshine,” you stifled a laugh as Jaemin stirred from his sleep and sat up slowly, his soft pink hair standing on end in some places. He looked hellish, despite his angelic features. “Rough night?”

He groaned and flopped his head back into the plush cushions behind him, lifting his hands up to rub the sleep from his tired eyes. You gravitated towards the fruit bowl as you waited for him to get over the initial pain of waking up after what you assumed was late night for him.

“I feel like shit,” he breathed out as he removed his hands from his face and looked over at you from his upright position on the sofa.

“You look like shit,” you deadpanned.

Jaemin laughed at your honesty and stood up, his sock-clad feet padding against the wooden floor as he made his way over to join you in the open-plan kitchen area. He hummed as he opened the fridge and angled his neck to get a better look at what was inside your near-empty fridge. You plucked an apple from the metal fruit bowl on the marble counter and waited for Jaemin to finish prodding around in the fridge. “What you gonna have?”

“Given the current lack of food, I’m gonna have to settle for eggs I think, you want some?” he asked you as he battled between which of the eggs was biggest.

“No, I’m alright, thanks.”

It was two hours into your shift when you started to regret not taking up Jaemins’ offer of breakfast, your stomach was beginning to rumble rather loudly. You cursed yourself as you looked up and saw a familiar head of hair duck through the door of the restaurant. His blue-black locks contrasted beautifully with the pale of his complexion, his eyes scrunching into a smile as he laughed at something his friend had said. Lee Jeno, and the boy by his side, Park Jisung. His aura wrapped around your body and suffocated you the second he stepped into the room, his very being intimidating you and sending a whirl of nerves straight to your core. Your friend and coworker, Jungwoo, welcomed them kindly as he led them over to a table on the far side of the room, by the window. You kept your head down.

Park Jisung was a little younger than you and Jeno, his lopsided-boyish smile was rather endearing, and you often wondered why he hung around with Jeno instead of the younger boys he danced with. He was a talented dancer, much like Jeno. His specialty was street dance and watching him could often be entrancing. The way he moved was soul-defying, so sharp and precise that it should be impossible for someone so young and inexperienced to move in that way. He was a natural, it would seem. You liked Jisung. He was tall and lanky and as sweet as honeysuckle on a hot day. His usual shy glances and quiet murmurings were left in the dust the second he started dancing, his demeanor changing in the blink of an eye.

You pushed down the guttural feeling that was beginning to rise up as you put on your best smile and greeted the two boys, opting to treat them no differently as you walked over to take their order. You walked elegantly with your head held high and a spring in your step, as you usually did when dealing with customers. “Are you guys ready to order?”

“Y/n, fancy seeing you here.” Jeno looked up at you with that damned look, that lousy, devilish smile that somehow managed to reach his eyes every time.

“Y/n!” Jisung looked up at you with a smile plastered on his face once he realised who you were. “I haven’t seen you at practice in ages! How are you?”

“Jeno,” you nodded towards him, not feeling up to engaging in conversation with the boy you felt nothing but distaste for.

“Jisung! Yeah, I haven’t been in a couple of weeks, I’m good though. How’s that routine of yours coming along?” You couldn’t help the small smile that fought its way up and spread to the rosy apples of your cheeks, his bubbly personality proved to be infectious.

“It’s great! Jeno’s been helping me with it, actually!” He gestured to the boy he was sat with. Of course Jeno was helping him, that’s just the kind of person he was. Helpful. Kind. Insufferable. “Are you coming to practice today?”

You hadn’t been in a while, you didn’t really enjoy practicing in front of everyone else. You only truly flourished in front of them once you’d had time to perfect everything on your own. The environment wasn’t exactly unfriendly, it was actually rather welcoming and warm. It was one big open space where everyone could revel in their passion and paint their colourful trails across the floor as they danced in any and every style you could possibly dream of. But it wasn’t for you; you couldn’t really get in your headspace with everyone watching and cheering you on. You much preferred your long nights in the empty studio just along from the practice hall, the serenity of your own company was comforting. You only felt like you could really breathe when all you had to focus on was cultivating your own technique and elegance in each dance move within your choreographed routine.

“I don’t know, it depends how late I finish work.” You tilted your head over to the bar where Jungwoo was currently stood, getting drinks for another table.

The two boys before you must have taken your subtle hint that you needed to stop talking to them so you could get back to your job. They ordered swiftly and you put their order through the till before leaving Jungwoo to deal with their drinks. You really didn’t want to go back over there and risk getting sucked into another conversation about dance, that’s all you seemed to have in common with them, anyway, and you sometimes got a little tired of speaking about it so often. As much as you adored it from within every burning bone in your body, it was nice to have a break and to get out of your dancing headspace every now and then, even if that meant replacing it with your somewhat boring job.

“Y/n, did Jeno speak to you about doing the duet?” Your dance instructor, who went by the mysterious name of Ten, didn’t even give you time to put your bag down before bombarding you, arms crossed and an eyebrow cocked for good measure.

“Yeah, I’m not dancing with Jeno,” you breathed out and shook your head before bending over slightly to tug off your worn-out shoes. You wouldn’t dance with him.

“Why not? I think you two would make a-”

“I’m not doing it, I’m sorry,” your look was that of an apologetic plea, hoping that the matter wouldn’t be pushed any further. Of course, Ten didn’t seem to get the message.

“Is there anything that will make you reconsider?” He returned your look with pleading eyes, you looked away.

You shook your head, “I’m not doing it. Not if I have to do it with Jeno-” you didn’t want to do it, and you really didn’t want to feel guilty about your decision. But as you cast your gaze around the room, your eyes skimming over the few familiar faces in the crowd, you found the words slipping through your lips like an unkept secret you hadn’t meant to give away. “I’ll dance it with Renjun, though.”

Renjun did ballet, like you. It only made sense that you should choreograph and dance with a like-minded soul like Renjun. He was delicate and sly and as light as a feather on his feet, a beautiful dancer. Although, not as experienced as you were. He wasn’t too tall, nor too muscular, the subtle silver-sheen in his hair somehow adding to his cat-like elegance. Renjun looked like he couldn’t harm a fly, but he had a certain bite to him. He could snap from having the most graceful spring in his step to a darkness that had to be reeled back in the blink of an eye. You liked Renjun.

“Renjun?”

“Yes,” you replied as you looked over your teachers’ shoulder and made eye-contact with the fiery boy, smiling faintly in his direction.

“Alright then-,” he motioned towards Renjun, signaling for the boy to come over to the two of you. “Renjun, you have a new duet partner. Get practicing!” Ten clapped his hands together, he seemed a little surprised by your decision, though you thought it made perfect sense. Jeno didn’t even specialise in the same field of dance as you. Renjun, however, did.

Renjun seemed happy enough to be dancing with you. He proved to be hardworking during the first hour of your session as you pieced together bits of choreography you both thought would suit the duet. You enjoyed his company and you found yourself laughing more than you usually did as you bathed in his dark humour. He brought some interesting ideas to the table regarding certain aspects of your routine and proved to be an incredibly valuable choreographer. His very presence brought life and body and all the wonderful things in between to your previously very sour late-night practices, which he had begun to accompany you to. Jeno had since stopped visiting said sessions, you’d noticed. Not that you particularly cared.

A little over a week after your first session together, an hour and fifteen minutes into the fourth two-hour practice you had so-far shared with Renjun, Ten asked you to perform the choreography you had come up with from start to finish so he could mark your progress and point out what he liked and what needed to improve.

You set up the music, a dramatic instrumental piece that you thought suited perfectly, before gliding across the floor and into position for the beginning of the dance. You were on the very tip of your pointe shoes with your arms raised elegantly and your back arched dramatically, you cast a glance at Renjun who was just to your left in a similarly graceful stance and before you knew it you were letting the music course through your bones and guide you through the routine. Before you could finish your piece, though, the music was shut off and you snapped your head towards the sound of hands clapping to get your attention.

“Where’s the passion? The feeling? The chemistry?”

You opened your mouth to protest, but nothing came out. You had thought it had been going well. You were dancing well, all your steps and movements were correct and they each transitioned fluidly into one another, the piece worked with the accompanying music-

You had no chemistry with Renjun.

He had a point, a very valid point. You thought that you would be able to fake it, however, it seemed you couldn’t. Although you liked Renjun and got on well with him, there was no bite between you. No fiery touch, no sultry gaze, no want. For a piece so dramatic and meaningful, those points were all crucial and it would appear that you were missing what could be considered the most valuable aspects of your dance. You weren’t about to admit that to your instructor, though.

“We have plenty of passion, you just got us on a bad day-,”

“A bad day isn’t an excuse, y/n. You can’t have bad days. The competition judges aren’t going to give a damn if you have a bad day,” he burst out, sounding exasperated, frustrated.

You quirked an eyebrow at Renjun who was standing by your side, sending him a silent plea to help back you up with a slight nod of your head.

“If we could just have more time or-,” Renjun started, cutting himself off once he saw the look on Tens’ face.

“I think you know the answer to that, Renjun. Dance it one more time for me and we’ll see if the chemistry is there.”

And so you did. You poured out your heart and soul in waves of liquid gold as you let yourself move freely once more, trying to ignite a burning explosion of passion in your stomach, but to no avail. You both danced beautifully in your own way, but you weren’t tangled together in the way Ten needed you to be. You danced side by side, but you weren’t moving as one, you didn’t bounce off eachother like you needed to. Perhaps you should have noticed the first time you danced with Renjun, but you didn’t. So here you were.

As the routine came to a close, you dragged your eyes up to meet Renjun’s gaze, the look on his face telling you that he too knew that this wasn’t going to work.

Not even fifteen minutes later, and much to your dismay, you found yourself stood across from Lee Jeno with your arms crossed and an eyebrow raised.

“Why is Jeno going to be any better than Renjun?”

Ten sighed in frustration, he knew you could be stubborn - Hell, everyone knew that – but you were being stubborn to the point of irritation. “Because, y/n, you hate Jeno. Right?”

He looked at you for confirmation, continuing once you gave him a brief nod, confusion gracing your features.

“Channel that hatred. Use it to create a certain power and let that carry you! You two could do great things if only you’d be civil.”

“We can be civil”

Jeno scoffed, rolling his eyes at your attempt to play nice. “I think you mean that I can be civil. You’re never civil, y/n.”

You opened your mouth to protest, but the words on the tip of your bitter tongue die before you can speak them. He was right. Jeno was usually right. You were always the one who couldn’t seem to bite the words back as your eyes bore hatred into him, and he knew that. He seemed to get a rise out of you. It was like he enjoyed the feeling he got when he proved you wrong, or when he kept his composure despite your harsh comments and ever-rolling eyes.

“We can be civil, but I’m still not happy about dancing with him.” You repeated yourself, choosing to ignore Jeno and looking away from him once that smug little smile of his graced his tragically beautiful features. You focused on Ten as you spoke, only glancing to the boy across from you once you’d finished speaking.

Jeno dragged you away from Ten and into the adjacent practice room, smiling to himself as he heard Ten yelling after you both, “I have high expectations!”

You snatched your wrist from Jeno’s strong grip, rubbing your wrist as you gave him a cold glare, silently cursing him for not putting up a bigger fight. You were absolutely certain that he disliked you as much as you did him, if not more. You let out a long slow breath, mentally preparing yourself for what would most likely be the most excruciating hour of your life.

You spent the majority of that evening pacing along the hardwood floor until your feet ached and arguing until your throat was dry and hoarse. Raised voices and thumping feet were luckily hidden by the conveniently soundproofed walls as you held yet another heated discussion with the inky-black haired boy who seemed to enjoy getting on your nerves far too much for his own good. Hands were dancing in animated movements as Jeno tried gallantly to get his point across. You could tell that you were beginning to test his seemingly never-ending patience as his brows knitted together in a sigh of frustration.

“Why are you so fucking stubborn, y/n?”

You flinched back in surprise at Jeno’s sudden outburst and obvious change in temper, not-so-perfect after all, it would seem.

“Why can’t we just agree on something and get on with what we’re here to do?” He quietened his harsh voice and lifted his left hand up to rub the side of his face in what looked like exhaustion.

“Because this clearly isn’t going to work, Jeno.”

Not only were you experiencing the inevitable clash of personalities, your style of dance clashed too. Contemporary and ballet; it was like trying to force the stars to come out and shine brightly while the sun was still high in the sky, and you were both struggling.

“You and I, we’re too different.” You looked at him as you spoke softly, taking in his angular features, and not for the first time that evening. He was sharp lines and a disgustingly sweet bubblegum flavoured personality; a beautifully tragic contrast to your soft yet hollow face, your empty eyes and your ever-blackening soul.

“Perhaps that’s exactly why it should work,” he met your gaze with strength and determination in his voice as he spoke; he wasn’t going to give this up as easily as you’d originally hoped.

“I know you hate me-,” he started, still holding your gaze, keeping his dark eyes trained on yours. “Use that to your advantage. It’s like Ten said, you have to channel it and allow yourself to let go a little more. Let it fuel your entire being as you dance,” you scoffed.

“You’re right. I do hate you.” You told him as you lifted your chin up high, looking him up and down. He was dressed from head to toe in black, his slim-legged sweats hugging him in all the right places and his large, dark, short-sleeved shirt looked beautiful against his silky skin.

“I’m going to try.” You brought your eyes back up to meet his, “But only because I want to win. And only on the condition that you let me do half of the choreography.” Jeno opened his mouth to protest, choreography was his ‘thing’ and he would no doubt rather choreograph the majority of it himself. But you weren’t going to give him that satisfaction. You cut him off before he could get more than two words out, “It has to have equal parts contemporary and ballet. It has to be perfect, and we bothneed to be happy with it.”

Jeno sighed in defeat but nodded his head in a half-hearted agreement, nevertheless.

You smiled to yourself for the first time since stepping into the room with Jeno. “Perfect. See you at practice!” You grabbed your bag and hurriedly stepped out of the suffocating room, not even bothering to say your goodbyes to your dance instructor as you ran down the staircase at breakneck speed, your beaten-up shoes squeaking on the floor as you turned each corner until you were out of the building and onto the cold, dark streets of your gloomy looking city.

God, how you hated Lee Jeno.

Your dance sessions with Jeno were every bit as difficult as you had imagined they would be. He frustrated you to know end and yet his patience never seemed to run out on you. When you were at your breaking point and completely drained of all creativity, he seemed to gain energy and revel in your exhaustion.

You felt a brief wave of nausea rise up in your gut and you pressed your fingers to your temples to try and suppress the dull ache of dehydration which was beginning to bloom in your head.

“Okay, one more time and then I’m heading out.” You told Jeno, fixing your composure as you tightened the ribbon-laces of your pointe shoes and padded over to where the raven-haired boy was standing tall and mighty in the middle of the room.

Upon hearing your request, Jeno scurried over to put the music on for the umpteenth time that night, before running back to you and getting into position; his hands cupping, barely touching, your cheeks and yours planted firmly on his broad chest as you waited for your queue to move. You pushed hard with your soft hands as the music filled the room, causing Jeno to stumble back, just as you’d practiced previously.

You moved around the room with grace, despite the burning pain exploding in your lungs and filling every inch of your body. The two of you had decided to play on your different styles and use it to create an interesting narrative for the dance. You started off dancing individually, separately, like your bodies were repelling eachother as you bounced off one another with relative ease. You spent time chasing after eachother, trying to reach out to one another, but never actually making any contact, it was a constant cycle of longing until- you stopped. Within seconds, Jeno was by your side, rubbing soothingly at your waist as you doubled over and clutched at your chest, coughing until you were feeling wretched and breathless.

“I’m fine-” you coughed once more, “don’t touch me,” you batted his hands away, regaining your posture and taking a step away from him.

Jeno furrowed his eyebrows as he looked at your weak form, dragging his obsidian eyes from your toes to your face slowly. He stepped towards you cautiously, his gaze not once wavering as his scent engulfed you entirely until you felt like all the air was being ripped from your lungs and shoved back down your throat all too quickly.

“What’s going on with you, y/n?” Jeno lifted a hand as though he planned to brush your hair from your empty eyes, only to drop in almost instantly as he shook his head and turned away from you.

You opened your mouth to tell Jeno to mind his own business but were swiftly stopped in your tracks. “Go home, y/n,” he didn’t look over at you as he plopped himself down on the floor to change his shoes. “Take care of yourself-” he paused, dragging his eyes over to take in your appearance, “- wouldn’t want you to get sick before the competition.”

You scoffed. Of course, this was about the duet. Jeno didn’t actually care about whether you got sick of not, he merely wanted another trophy to hold his head up high about, and he just so happened to need you in order to achieve that. Although you couldn’t blame him, you wouldn’t care if he were to get sick either, but you supposed you would be somewhat annoyed if it happened to sabotage your chances of winning this damned competition. It did rather irritate you, though, that he was suddenly treating you like a porcelain doll. You were most certainly not a porcelain doll.

“No.” You crossed your arms and dared to challenge Jeno. He’d started to act like you were weak and you hated him even more for it. You were strong and you felt a sudden urge to show the boy who you claimed to loathe.

“What?” He looked up at you with wide eyes, midway through untying his second shoelace, a flash of confusion gracing his angular features.

“I said no. I’m not going home, and neither are you. Let’s dance it again, properly. Let’s make it the best yet, make it really count.”

And so you did.

You made it through to the end with little to no mistakes this time, chests heaving and breathless as your forehead tilter to meet Jeno’s and your hands tangled in each other’s hair to create the perfect ending, the happy ending to the narrative you’d come up with together. Your characters could finally meet, touch, feel eachother after the seemingly never-ending repelling of your differing souls. It felt almost magical, you could feel goosebumps come to life along your forearms, Jeno’s feather-light touch raising the hairs on the back of your neck.

It very nearly felt real when you didn’t move as soon as the music drew to a close for the final time that night. You barely noticed Jeno’s eyes flicker down from your own briefly before returning to meet your gaze once more. He mumbled your name quietly, soothingly, your heartbeat sped up a little. You felt him tangle his fingers even further into your messy hair. You could undoubtedly feel a flutter in your stomach as he did so. Furrowing your brows suddenly, you pulled yourself out of what you wished you could call a daze as you fumbled away from the confusing boy.

“It’s getting late, I should go,” you said quietly after changing your shoes silently and throwing an old hoodie on over your thin dancing shirt to keep you warm for the walk home, the air had a definite chill to it.

You didn’t make it too far away from the studio building before you stopped to light up a cigarette, the familiar burn at the back of your throat calming you almost instantaneously.

You propped yourself up on a nearby wall as you looked up to the sky. Oh, how you wished you could see the stars rather than the warming glow of the city lights. When you were younger you would stargaze every other night - your parents lived out in the countryside. That was before you’d moved to the city for university and to pursue your dream of becoming a professional ballet dancer.

You took a long drag and pulled the cigarette from your chapped lips, peeling your eyes away from the sky and instead focusing on your scuffed shoes. Your eyelids drooped in exhaustion and your head was still aching rather; you most likely just needed a good night’s sleep.

Your eyes widened suddenly as a pair of large feet joined your own in your line of sight. You didn’t even need to look up to know who the feet belonged to, you couldn’t seem to keep away from him, no matter how hard you tried.

You propped your glowing cigarette between your lips swiftly and fished your phone from your baggy hoodie pocket to read the time. 11:31pm. You sighed, “what do you want, Jeno?”

Jeno chuckled softly, finding it amusing that you knew who he was without so much as a glance. Was he that memorable?

“Walk with me?”

You certainly weren’t expecting that. You half expected him to make a snide remark about how smoking wasn’t good for your health normally, let alone for a dancer. But he didn’t.

“I can walk myself home,” you replied coldly. You hated Lee Jeno. You despised him.

“I know that, but it’s late and I’d appreciate the company,” he offered.

You finally raised your head to look at the raven-haired boy in front of you, who’s arms were crossed and shivering from the early-winter chill. His breath was frosty and visible as he spoke, the cold was clearly affecting him more than you.

“Fine, but only cause I’m walking the same way.” You raised an eyebrow at him. He nodded stiffly in understanding; he’d take what he could get. As you stood up from your perched position on the solid wall you dropped what was left of your cigarette to the floor, squashing the deep-orange embers until they were nothing but a pile of broken ashes.

You walked side by side in silence for a few minutes and you found yourself rather enjoying the peaceful company on your usually-lonely walk home. You could have sworn that your blackened heart skipped a beat as your hand accidentally brushed against Jeno’s – you decided that you didn’t like the guttural feeling beginning to stir deep within you, so you swallowed it down and pushed it farther than the stars. You frowned and widened the small distance between your body and his.

You could feel Jeno’s piercing gaze burning into the side of your head as you walked, the warm glow of the streetlights bouncing off your cheekbones perfectly. Jeno thought you looked beautiful, although he wouldn’t ever tell you that. You’d most likely just laugh in his face or scoff, you’d just think he was trying to mess with your head. He supposed he had himself to blame for that.

Instead, Jeno took the opportunity to ask you what he’d been dying to know the answer to for months. “Why do you hate me so much, y/n?”

Jeno stopped abruptly and pivoted towards you, placing his hands on your shoulders gently to stop you from bumping into his broad chest. You were somewhat taken aback by the question. You kept your eyes trained on the ground and felt your entire body tense at the feeling of Jeno’s hands gripping you softly. “Just be honest, please. That’s all I ask.”

“I have my reasons,” you replied after a moment of stagnant silence, keeping your voice cold and steady as you spoke; you didn’t want Jeno to ever know just how much his very presence affected you. You weren’t the least bit surprised when Jeno hung his head low and let out a long breath of frustration at your unwillingness to cooperate, before asking you to elaborate on your brief statement.

You sighed and looked up at him through your thick lashes, placing your palms on the backs of his hands and pushing them off your shoulders. Jeno shoved his large hands in his pockets carelessly as he awaited a proper answer from you.

“Because you have everything,” you told him after a brief pause. Strictly speaking, that wasn’t a lie; it just wasn’t the whole truth.

“Everyone thinks you’re so fucking fantastic. They practically worship the ground you walk on – it’s disgusting.” Your eyes widened at your own outburst, your tongue darting out to run over your bottom lip swiftly as you searched Jeno’s face for a response. But there he stood, his face entirely void of emotion as he stared blankly at you.

“Are you really that great, Jeno? Are you really so much better than the rest of us?” You paused momentarily to fish your pack of cigarettes from your pocket your fingers curling around your lighter and igniting it once you had one perched between your ice-cold lips.

You puffed a cloud of smoke in Jeno’s direction as you reveled in how good it felt to finally tell him what you thought of him and his overly large ego. Although you had recently begun to doubt that he was really so bad after all…

“I used to think you were so perfect. I used to watch you dance at competitions and wishfor an ounce of your confidence and talent as a dancer. But I soon saw through it all, that stupid little façade you put up – you showed me your true colours, and never again will I dream of being like you, Lee Jeno, because you are nothing more than an arrogant little boy who doesn’t know how to keep his mouth shut when he should.”

When you fell silent, your chest was heaving, and your throat was choked up by the tears that you would never allow to fall. You watched as Jeno’s features twisted into an expression that you recognised as hurt, and you almost regret pouring your heart out for him to examine. Almost.

When he finally found his voice again, Jeno’s words are soft and seemingly genuine and you’re slightly taken aback. “What’s this about, y/n? Did I say something? If this is about the duet then I-”

“It’s not about the fucking duet, Jeno!” Your voice was raised suddenly, and you found it almost impossible to stifle a laugh at his sheer obliviousness to the situation. You lowered your voice once more, suddenly very conscious of the fact that you were standing in the middle of the street.

“It’s not about the duet,” you repeat yourself quietly, bringing a hand up to rub at your aching forehead as your eyes flutter shut for a short, peaceful moment.

Jeno looks a lot like a lost puppy when you look up at him once more, his brows were furrowed and his pupils dilated as the warm glow of the city lights reflected in his deep eyes.

“You don’t even remember-” you spoke to yourself, you realised that he truly doesn’t understand why you dislike him so much. You raised your hand and took a long, slow drag from your burning cigarette. Perhaps you were being harsh, but what Jeno had said to you two and a half years ago was the tip of the iceberg that was your life. He’d called you fat, essentially. His exact words were, “you could be a good dancer if only you lost a few pounds.” You could vividly remember the amusement in his voice as he said that to you. You’d never forgotten, it seemed that he had, though.

You’d struggled on and off with keeping food down for a little over 18 months after that. Things had just started getting better, slowly, when Jeno had waltzed into your dance studio around six months ago. Living with Jaemin had helped immensely, although he didn’t know the root of the problem. He’d been your shoulder to cry on and the warmth you needed to pick you back up after things got bad. He’d probably never forgive Jeno if he knew that he was partially to blame for your struggles with your eating disorder. Whilst you didn’t like Jeno, you loved Jaemin like family and you wouldn’t tell him if it meant ruining their cherished friendship.

“Remember what, y/n?”

You didn’t know where to look or what to say as you felt a single tear roll down your cheek, the salty liquid felt hot against your cold-flushed skin. You absolutely hated feeling weak around others, especially Jeno.

You shook your head softly and let out a breathy laugh. You said you would never again wish to be like Jeno, but you found yourself falling prey to the green eyed monster for the second time; you were jealous of Lee Jeno and his stupid ability to forget, all you wished for was that you could do the same.

You dropped your nearly finished cigarette to the floor and crushed it with the toe of your left shoe, finding great satisfaction in putting out the burning embers.

“I’m going to go home now, Jeno. Don’t ask me about this when I see you at our next practice,”

You didn’t make it to your next scheduled practice, or the one two days after that, you hadn’t even made the effort to show up to the session that started a little over an hour ago. Maybe you were just a coward at heart, you couldn’t even bring yourself to face Jeno after you’d poured yourself out to him several days ago. You’d always felt tense around him, but you feared that you’d now driven a wedge between you that would alter the mood of your duet completely, and not for the better.

You’d been working extra hours to try and distract yourself, swapping a shift or two with Jungwoo when you could, using it as an excuse to avoid practice. That’s what you were doing; you were avoiding the situation that you’d foolishly put yourself in. You only had yourself to blame, you knew that, and you didn’t regret it. You wouldn’t let yourself regret it.

Jaemin hadn’t noticed that you’d been skipping practice. As far as he was concerned, if you were out in the evenings then you were probably dancing. It had become so normal for you to practice into the early hours of the morning that Jaemin now assumed that’s what you did of an evening. You were just grateful that you didn’t have to explain yourself to him.

You lay sprawled out on your bed with music playing softly from the speaker in the corner of your room. It sounded distant, like an echo as you battled with the never-ending blur of thoughts in your head. Your mind was, thankfully, halted in its tracks as the sudden blaring of your phone ringing woke you from your daze.

“Hello?” You sounded groggy as you rubbed at your tired eyes softly, you didn’t even have the energy to check to see who was calling. You weren’t surprised to hear one of your favourite voices on the other line.

“Y/n, Jeno just called me – something about you not turning up to practice? I don’t know. Anyway, don’t kill me but he’s-” you pulled your ear away from Jaemin’s rambling when you heard frantic knocking on the door.

“Hold on Jaem, there’s someone at the door-” you slid away from the comfort of your bed, padding towards the incessant knocking and silently cursing whoever it was for being so damn loud.

You held the phone between your shoulder and your ear as you used your free hands to fiddle with the lock and yank the door open, your eyes widening as you realised who was responsible for nearly breaking your door down. “Fucking finally, where have you been? Why haven’t you been at practice?”

You were vaguely aware that Jaemin was still on the other end of the phone, and so, without tearing your eyes away from Jeno, you put it back to your ear. “Jaemin, I’m gonna fucking kill you.”

You hung up and slipped your phone into the pocket of your sweats, despite hearing Jaemins plea to let him explain. You’d deal with him later.

“What are you doing at my house, Jeno?” You asked, sounding utterly unimpressed and most definitely agitated.

Jeno pushed past you and into your small apartment, leaving you to shut your door in disbelief that he’d just barged in like that. You followed him along the short corridor and into your cosy living space, nearly bumping into him as he came to an abrupt stop. He turned around to look at you, the look in his eyes entirely different to any you’d ever seen him give before and you couldn’t quite put your finger on it. You could feel his scent wrapping around you like it always seemed to do, your breath hitching in your throat as you found yourself indulging in the pleasant smell.

“You haven’t been at practice. Are you sick or something? Is that why you’ve been staying away?”

“I’ve been busy,” you offer a poor excuse, praying that he’ll buy it but secretly knowing that he won’t. You weren’t entirely lying; you had been busy most of the time with work – even if you’d deliberately swapped shifts so you were working during your planned practice slots.

“I just don’t understand you, y/n. One minute you’re saying you’re going to be civil and then you seem to hate me even more than before. And now you’re not even showing up to the dance studio when we’re supposed to be practicing? The competition is in two weeks, y/n. Two fucking weeks! I know that this is hard for you and I know that you’d rather be dancing it with someone else, but you agreed to try and now it just seems like you’re avoiding the problem – you don’t seem to be trying very hard at all, y/n! You need to get your shit together and stop being such a fucking coward before you screw this up for both of us.”

He was mad. He was really, undeniably mad. The fire in his eyes was still burning and he took subtle steps towards you as he spoke, his fist banging against the wall by your head harshly to further prove his frustrations. You stepped back, trying to get away from him, flinching as his voice got noticeably louder with each word he spoke, only stopping when your back reached what you assumed was the side of your kitchen counter-top.

“I’m sorry I just-” you stopped yourself and finally tore your gaze away from the fuming raven-haired boy who was now mere inches away from you, suddenly finding a patch of the floor incredibly interesting. You didn’t have anything to say to him. You knew you were in the wrong and that it wasn’t fair on him, but you never wanted him to see you weak. You couldn’t do that.

Truthfully, you couldn’t really think straight when Jeno was around and it confused you greatly. You’d usually have no problem with barking out a snide comment, you’d find pleasure in shutting him down, but something about his current close proximity just seemed to mess with your head and you found yourself barely even breathing for fear of treading over a line you shouldn’t be crossing.

“You just what?”

You felt yourself stop breathing entirely when the supple touch of Jeno’s fingers lifted your chin slowly in an attempt to lock his eyes with yours. “Look at me, y/n” his voice was much calmer now, although something still sounded different to usual. “Why didn’t you show up? You’re not avoiding me, are you?”

You made eye contact, feeling yourself shrink under his much intimidating gaze as his dark eyes bore into yours. “Fuck you, Jeno,” you said through clenched teeth, pulling back from him only to find your waist held in place by Jeno’s strong grip. You looked down to where his hand was holding you, the feeling of a crimson blush spreading onto your cheeks, you weren’t used to people holding you like this. And while nothing about your current situation should feel intimate, it somehow did, and you didn’t even try to move his hands away when you’d usually be fighting to get away.

“I don’t think you hate me as much as you think you do,” Jeno’s thumb traced the outline of your lips while his other hand pulled you ever so slightly closer, hugging your waist and holding you against his much larger frame. He spoke in hushed whispers now, a drastic contrast to his initial outburst. “For what it’s worth, I’ve never hated you, y/n.”

Your breathing was uneven, and your chest was rising and falling shallowly, you could almost feel yourself beginning to melt and you weren’t sure if you loved or hated it.

“Don’t lie to me,” you whispered up at him, “stop messing with my head.” There was no real weight behind your words. You knew that Jeno’s very aura was clouding your vision somehow, but it had been so long since someone had made you feel something even close to how you currently felt, and you didn’t know how to control those feelings.

Jeno’s lips found yours before you even knew what was happening. His soft lips captured yours in what you could only describe as a mind-numbing kiss, the thumb that had previously been tracing along your lips was now angled to cup your jaw, holding you closer and closer still to his icy skin. You were completely flush between Jeno’s painfully sculpted physique and the edge of your kitchen counter, which was now digging rather into the small of your back. His hands were cupping your face as he drew long, slow kisses from you, and you weren’t sure when it happened, but your fingers had somehow found their way to his chest, planted firmly against him. Your breathing was getting noticeably heavier as lust bloomed in your chest, and suddenly you were being hoisted up and onto the granite surface behind you, Jeno swiftly taking the initiative to manoeuver himself between your legs as his left hand squeezed your thigh firmly, you subconsciously gasped into his mouth.

“You know,” Jeno panted, pausing to pull away from you for just a second, not even bothering to open his eyes, “I wish you’d let me right my wrongs.”

“Shut up, Jeno,” you replied, not really listening to what he was saying. All you could think about was how much you’d missed the feeling of wanting, the feeling of another’s lips claiming yours in a desperate scramble for some kind of relief. He chuckled into you, kissing you deeply before opting to suck on your bottom lip, releasing it moments later, only to kiss you with more power after. His tongue prodded at your entrance, dancing fervently with yours once you let him in. That’s all Jeno really wanted - for you to let him in. He wanted you to finally open up to him about your feelings, about why you seemed to loath him so much when all he felt for you was attraction. He didn’t want to scare you off by telling you that he liked you, but he supposed that he didn’t really have anything to lose; you claimed to hate him anyway.

Your mind was still clouded, foggy almost as Jeno’s teeth sunk into your lower lip rather roughly, a small moan falling past your lips as he pressed himself into you, his hands seemingly restless as they traced along every visible curve of your body. His taste was somewhat fruity and entirely intoxicating and you cursed him for it, the citrusy residue on his lips blindly leaving you drunk and unfortunately addicted.

“For the record-” your nimble fingers curled around strands of Jeno’s jet-black hair as you spoke, “I still fucking hate you,” you mumbled, sucking in a deep breath and letting it out slowly as Jeno pressed wet kisses from your jaw down, lowering his head so he could lap at your neck. You weren’t lying, you did still detest him, but he was an undeniably good kisser and you couldn’t seem to pull away no matter how much your head was telling you that you should.

“Don’t.”

Jeno let out a low, guttural groan as your thighs squeezed around his hips, your fingers tugging on his hair enhancing the feeling in the pit of his stomach. It was as if you were possessed, and you were most definitely sure that you would lose sleep over the regret you would feel once you could finally control yourself enough to pull away from the drug that was Lee Jeno.

“Don’t hate me anymore,” Jeno panted in your ear, he sounded desperate as he spoke, although you weren’t sure what he was so desperate for. “Please, y/n. Don’t hate me anymore.”

Something about the heart wrenching tone in which he spoke seemed to tug at your heartstrings almost violently. Jeno pulled back to look at you, his eyes bore into yours and you felt a sudden rush of every emotion imaginable coursing through your hot veins. You didn’t know what compelled you to say the word that left your lips, and even as you spoke you felt a twinge of guilt as you lied seamlessly. You were merely telling him what he wanted to hear, and somehow you were okay with that.

“Okay.”

Jeno left not too long after you told him you wouldn’t hate him anymore. He seemed overjoyed and it almost melted your heart of ice; Lee Jeno was somewhat irresistible when his very being was filled entirely with passion and not much else. You felt cared for, important, desirable, and you hated it. You hated that someone like him could make you feel such things.

You thought you might feel a little cruel once he’d walked out of your apartment with a smile on that perfect god-damned face of his, but all you really felt in the moments after he kissed you was confusion. You were utterly baffled. Lee Jeno, the boy you hated, the boy who hated you, had kissed you out of the blue, and you’d actually enjoyed it.

You made the effort to go to your next duet practice, you had less than two weeks until the competition and you’d somehow grown to actually want to win. You’d be disappointed in yourself if you didn’t dance to the best of your ability and you knew that Jeno would be upset too. The duet seemed to mean a lot to him, and who were you to ruin it for him?

Things were a little different now, Jeno looked at you with a glint in his eye that you hadn’t noticed before. Maybe you were just imagining things. He seemed to hold you differently in the ending sequence, it felt lighter, gentler. But Jeno still seemed to be careful around you, he didn’t really speak much – neither did you, you weren’t really sure what you should say if you were being honest. Jeno had kissed you, and you’d kissed him back – but it didn’t change anything. You’d become so set in your ways, so very adamant that you could never feel anything but hatred for him, that you couldn’t bring yourself to admit that you didn’t hate him anymore. Perhaps it was ridiculous, and it was most definitely unfair, but that’s just how your brain seemed to work. You decided that you didn’t like him, you merely liked the way he made you feel in that heated moment. You managed to convince yourself that you would have felt the same if it had been any other guy from your dance studio – be it Mark, a quiet but talented dance major, or Donghyuck, a chaotically good street dancer, or even Renjun.

You were brought out of your head by Jeno coming up behind you and placing a gentle hand on your waist, turning you around to face him. Only then did you notice the absence of music filling the echoing room. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah, why?” You shook your head of your thoughts, replying to him with strength in your voice.

“You just seemed like your head was somewhere else entirely.” He wasn’t wrong.

“It’s nothing,” Jeno rubbed soft circles onto your clothed skin, his hot breath raising the hairs on the back of your neck even from a distance. Stop it. Stop letting him get to you. You cursed yourself. You could feel your body falling back into the daze you seemed to fall into whenever he was close.

“Are you sure? We can talk, if you like-”

“I don’t want to talk, I’m fine.” You forced yourself to take a couple of steps back, effectively pinching yourself to get back inside your own head. He looked taken aback at your sudden cold exterior, his eyes wide and searching yours for God knows what.

“Just play the music – I need to focus on this damned dance,” you rubbed your eyes free of their tiredness and reset your mind, readying yourself for what you were sure would be the best practice dance you’d done so far. “We only have two sessions left after this. You want to win, right?”

Jeno nodded, “yeah, I’d really like that.”

You were sure that Jeno was incredibly passionate about dance, anybody could tell that even if they’d only seen him dance once. There was just something about the way he let his body loose, flowing completely with the music as he moved, something about the dark focus in his eyes that were undeniably filled with both joy and devotion, and you’d be lying if you said it wasn’t incredibly attractive. The truth was, Jeno was undeniably handsome. His facial structure was angular and his skin pristine, his hair devilishly dark and his eyes utterly mesmerizing; they were pools of darkness that you were sure you could get lost quite easily if you stared for long enough. You wondered if Jeno looked at you and thought similar thoughts. Probably not.

As your bodies ricocheted off eachother, your demeanor was fierce and his was equally so. You couldn’t tell if he was filled with lust or rage or perhaps an amalgamation of both. Your breathing was heavy, and you were sure your fly-away baby hairs were sticking to your forehead with sweat, but you pushed further and further, letting the song flow rapidly through your heated veins. You pushed yourself until you couldn’t anymore, the song ended and Jeno’s lips were on yours before you even had time to register the end of the dance.

You stumbled back, his body clashing with yours as you struggled to balance yourself at the sudden impact. Your hands found purchase on Jeno’s chest, fists clutching at the sweaty material of his baggy shirt in a pathetic attempt at steadying your falling body.

The music you were dancing to was playing on a loop and had restarted immediately after you’d finished the choreography, the heartbreaking lyrics of ‘breathe me’ by Sia leaking through the stereo speakers on all four walls of the studio, bathing you in the beauty and subtlety of the song.

Be my friend, hold me. Wrap me up, enfold me-

Jeno was holding you, tighter than you’d ever been held before. And perhaps it was the mood the music was setting or perhaps you truly were being driven to insanity, but Goddid you enjoy the feeling of being in such strong arms at such close proximity.

Warm me up and breathe me.

You were warm, so incredibly warm both inside and out; so deliciously warm that you thought your knees might well buckle, and for that you were glad that Jeno’s arms were there to hold you up. He pulled away for a moment to breathe and gauge your reaction by opening his eyes briefly to look at yours. You looked up at him through your lashes, chest heaving and mouth slightly parted; and it was in that moment that Jeno decided that he might just want to kiss you forever.

It was like he had the ability to cast you under his spell when he was kissing you. The logical part of your brain knew that what you were doing was wrong and that you probably didn’t really want to kiss Jeno. But the other part was hyper-aware of how good it felt to be held and touched like this, and it was that part that seemed to take over completely in that moment. You soon realised that Ten, your instructor, was right to pair you with Jeno – because no matter how much you tried to deny it, you definitely had chemistry with Jeno, and that’s what would get you through the day of the competition.

You tugged at the back of Jeno’s neck, angling your jaw so you could meet his parted lips in a desperate attempt to scramble closer to him. Your body shivered at the feeling of Jeno’s rough hands travelling down your body, moaning softly into his mouth as he hooked his hands under your legs and lifted you, your legs clutching around his slim waist and his palms now resting firmly on your backside. He groaned as you took his lower lip into your teeth, grazing it with your tongue ever so slightly before letting it go. Jeno lifted one hand to tuck the hair that had started to fall into your eyes behind your ear gently.

“I like this,” he whispered, pecking your lips once, twice, three times, each kiss a little longer than the last. “I like you.”

Your eyes widened at his sudden confession, your fluttering heartbeat speeding up for a moment before returning back to normal. “What?”

“I said, I like you, y/n.”

“No.” You slipped down onto the wooden floor below you, Jeno’s hands immediately finding their place on your waist. He wanted you close to him. As close as you’d let him hold you, anyway.

“No, you don’t,” your voice was quiet, and you couldn’t meet his stare for fear that you might crumble into nothingness.

“Damnit, y/n! I do, I fucking like you and it’s driving me wild.”

You parted your lips to speak, shuffling your feet on the floor and placing more weight on your right foot than your left before backing away from Jeno a little, you felt shaky as your nerves built up through your stomach and into your red-hot veins. Jeno cut you off before you could even get one word out.

“Every time I’m near you I have this urge to pull you closer, to hold you. I can’t get you out of my head, it’s like a part of me is missing when you’re not around. I want to be there for you, I want you to trust me, I want to kiss you whenever I want to, I want to touch you. Fuck, y/n. I haven’t felt like this before.” Jeno’s hands were wild with gestures and his voice was loud as he spoke, stepping closer still as if he couldn’t get enough of your very presence.

“Jeno…” you risked a glance, regretting it almost immediately as you saw how full of emotion his eyes were. His brows were furrowed, he looked like a lost puppy and your heart almost broke at the desperation in his voice.

“Say something, anything. Please,” he was much quieter now, fingers reaching to lace with yours as he prompted you to reply.

“I don’t know what’s going on in my head at the moment-” you sounded a little shaky, taking a brief breath before you carried on. “I think I just need some time. Tell me again once this damned competition is over, okay?”

“Promise me you’ll think about what I’ve said, y/n.”

“I will,” you would, just not right now. Right now, you needed fresh air and a cigarette to help you calm your heartrate back to normal. So that’s what you did.

“You dyed your hair,” was the first thing you said to Jeno on the day of the duet competition.

His hair was no longer jet black, it was now a brilliant blonde, and he looked devilishly good in that colour, if a little shocking. Only Lee Jeno would change his hair colour so dramatically on the morning of such a big event. You saw him just yesterday for your final studio rehearsal, his hair painted its usual raven colour at the time. Things had gone surprisingly smoothly. Jeno had respected your wishes and not brought up the topic of his attraction to you, nor had he tried to kiss you since the last locking of lips you had shared. In fact, you’d danced the best you’d ever danced and even Ten had showers of praise for you once you were finished.

“I did.” Jeno ran a hand through his messy locks, the bleached strands falling perfectly onto his forehead, framing his eyes. “Do you like it?”

“Yeah-” you cleared your throat, you could feel his gaze on you, “it looks good.” It lookedmore than good, but you weren’t about to feed his ego and tell him that. Truthfully, you didn’t think he could possibly suit a hair colour as much as he suited it dark, but you were most definitely wrong. He looked ethereal. He looked angelic.

Jeno smiled shyly at you before glancing down at the ground, letting his nerves show a little. You hadn’t seen him like this very often, in fact, you struggled to recall a single moment that you’d seen Jeno look so nervous about something.

“Are you ready for this?”

“Ready as I’ll ever be,” you replied, stretching your arms above your head as you spoke, a last-minute attempt to loosen up your aching muscles.

You managed to find an empty room near the main stage, giving you space to run through the routine twice before your names were called over the loudspeaker – it was time.

Your hands were shaking slightly, as was your voice when you let out a deep breath and whispered good luck to Jeno, giving him one last glance as he took your hand and you walked out onto the imposing stage with your fingers laced together in an intricate bundle of comfort, only letting go when you had to take up your starting positions on opposing sides of the floor. You closed your eyes and steadied your mind, opening them a moment later once you’d pushed the nerves away, allowing pure fire and determination to take over and cloud your thoughts.

You let yourself go as soon as the music filled the space, focusing solely on Jeno and the duet, letting your head wander to places so dangerous that you weren’t sure you’d ever be able to escape. You delved into the memories of the past few weeks, Jeno’s lips pressed to your own, his body caressing yours in a way so gentle you might have fallen weak at your knees, you suddenly felt hot all over and it could have been because you were dancing, but you were sure it was because the second you let your gaze fall on Jeno, he gave you a look so very sensual that you had to force yourself to look away. You were lost in your own thoughts throughout almost the entire routine, letting the flashbacks of your time with Jeno carry you and allowing the pure passion burning hot in your veins to control your body. You’d danced brilliantly together in your practices, but nothing had felt this wonderful, nothing compared to the passion you were both exuding as you flourished and ricocheted off eachother.

Jeno was incredible, you were incredible, pairing you together was a deadly move but Ten knew what he was doing despite how resistant you were at the beginning. The combination of your different styles and the clashing of your personalities made for something magical – and even if you didn’t win this competition, you’d be damn proud of yourself for co-choreographing what you truly believed was a beautiful narrative, and for dancing it so beautifully. It felt surreal.

By the time the music had come to a close you were practically gleaming with joy at how well your routine had played out – it was perfect. Every single move was elegant and precise and excellently executed by both of you, and you couldn’t seem to stop yourself from flinging your arms around Jeno in a tight embrace full of warmth and happiness at what the pair of you had just managed to do. He hugged you back with as just as much force, his cheeks practically burning as he fought back the urge to beam the biggest smile he’d ever smiled in his god damned life. He was over the moon with how your performance had gone, just as you were, that much you could tell just from his body language and the way he buried his face into the crook of your neck in another warm hug once you finally made it off the stage. He lifted you up and spun you around and you could have sworn you saw the glint of a tiny tear falling from the corner of his eye.

You had both calmed down by the time the judges announced the winners of the competition. You’d gone outside for a short while to try and cool off; you weren’t sure why you were so very excited about having danced so well – it’s not like you hadn’t danced that brilliantly before. Perhaps it was something to do with dancing with Jeno, or perhaps you were just on an adrenalin high. You decided to settle on the latter.

When your names were called in first place, Jeno looked over at you, and you felt like time slowed down for you both as he drew a long kiss from your lips, your synced-up bodies just hidden by the curtains at the side of the stage. You pulled away, eyes wide as you stared up at him in awe, before realizing that you had a prize to claim; and so, you grabbed Jeno’s large, calloused hand in yours and practically skipped onto the stage – the apples of your cheeks sore from smiling as you collected the award that you’d both worked so hard for.

As you glanced over once more at the now snow-white haired boy, who was stood beside you and clapping for the other duos who were now making their way onto the stage, you decided that it had all been worth it - the fighting, the pain, the exhaustion, the anger - it had all been worth it. Because you looked at him and realised that you’d gained a friend – or perhaps something more. You’d let him fight his way into your pitch-black world and you’d unknowingly granted him access to your mind, to see what was going on inside of your head, and all while training together for this very moment. And for that you were grateful. You may have well and truly loathed his very presence not too long ago; you certainly know you cursed his devilish being every time he set foot in the same vicinity as you; but there was something about seeing him under the beam of the bright stage lights with an expression of pure happiness that made you decide that you’d have to stop hating Lee Jeno.

You decided that you might in fact like him quite a lot.

After a well-earned two week break from dancing you found yourself back at the studio, you’d actually managed to find the energy to turn up to the group session that you used to so blatantly avoid – maybe you were still walking on a cloud after the competition, hell, you hadn’t even smoked a cigarette since before that day. Ten was overjoyed for you both, and absolutely adamant that he takes some of the credit for forcefully pairing you and Jeno with one another, despite your initial resistance. He told you that he always knew deep down that it was written in the stars for you and Jeno to be dance partners; perhaps he was right.

You hadn’t seen Jeno since the night after you won the competition. You were both so ecstatic that you’d decided to celebrate together afterwards, the thought alone of the events which took place after the duet making you blush a deep shade of crimson. He was gentle with you as he held your body close to his and set it on fire, a burning trail following the wake of his lips wherever they touched your bare skin - you shook your head clear of the memories. You thought that he was probably just having a break from it all, much like you were. You didn’t really think anything of it; it’s not like he was yours to worry about.

What you weren’t expecting, however, was for there to be no sign of Jeno at the studio when you arrived, despite the fact that you were over fifteen minutes late.

Jeno was barely ever late.

Ten smiled as he saw your figure entering the studio, raising a hand in a wave to greet you.

“Welcome back, y/n!”

“Thanks, Ten. It’s good to be back!” You flashed him a lopsided smile. You had missed dancing over the last couple of weeks, although it was nice to finally catch a break after the strenuous training you and Jeno had put yourselves through.

“Where is he?” You let it slip past your lips without a second thought. No matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t seem to get Jeno off your mind; his devious smile and his gentle touch clouding your every thought.

“Where’s who?” Renjun asked you as he plopped down on the floor next to where you were stood, massaging his aching feet as he craned his neck to look up at you.

“Jeno,” you replied simply, almost absentmindedly.

“Didn’t he tell you?”

“Tell me what?”

There was a moment of total silence, Renjun looked over at some of the other boys a few feet away from him in the hopes that someone would step in and say something. You could your breathing getting more and more uneven as a sickly feeling rose up from the pit of your stomach and into the back of your throat. You closed your eyes for a second, trying to push everything back down.

“Tell me what, Renjun?” You pleaded softly.

“He received an offer after you won that comp the other week, went to a new top-end studio, it’s somewhere in the US I think?”

Renjun’s face fell as he realised that you were hearing all of this for the first time. He’d been there the day of the dance, watching you both from the audience; he’d seen the way you’d looked at eachother. He was so sure something was going on between the two of you, and so he was somewhat shocked to learn that Jeno hadn’t bothered to tell you of his decision to up and leave in favour of his career in the world of dance.

“He what?” Your voice trembled as you took in what you’d just heard.

Silence.

“Y/n… didn’t you know?” Donghyuck piped up from his place just a few feet away from you and Renjun.

He didn’t tell you, yet everybody else seemed to know.

“He’s gone?”

“Shit, I assumed he would have told you straight away what with everything going on between you-”

You just shook your head as you silenced out Renjun’s desperate apologies.

“No. No, he didn’t tell me. There was nothing between us anyway.” Lies. You knew he felt it too.

You could already feel yourself slipping back into the dark abyss that Jeno had somehow come along and scooped you out of.

How could he do this to you?

You backed away from Renjun and Donghyuck as if you would burn should they touch you, suddenly feeling all too claustrophobic for your own good. The pity in their eyes made you want to curl up into a ball until you were so small that you had disappeared entirely.

How could he?

You’d been right about Jeno all along. He had used you and you were right to hate him; you were right to never trust him. You did this to yourself. You let him in, you let him show you love, and then you let him hurt you; and for that, you would never forgive yourself.

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fightevilandthengetblownup · 5 years ago

Text

HC: Background&Bullets II

- Jo: Dancing Through Life

It’s a secret part of Jo’s life and history - her love for dancing - and had started from Ellen’s plan to make her little, spiritful daughter’s weekends full while waiting for her daddy to get home. It was an old studio space above the sketchy real estate agent in town that a collection of little girls in pink leotards would line up and do plie upon pirouettes for the hours of the morning. There was no air-conditioning, and Jo would soak through the black t-shirt and stripey leggings she wore after Ellen misunderstood that no uniform requirement didn’t mean that there wasn’t a social uniform. By the time Ellen realized - staying for a few extra minutes rather than dropping Jo off at the door - it had already been three months and her little girl was past worrying about what she wore, and standing out from the crowd.

Jo actually kept up with the sport - and she would kick anyone who said otherwise for quite a while in the back of the knees - well into her teens and right until she left for college; though not quite as frequently as she once did. Not that Ellen or anyone else was aware of it. Paying for the classes with her pocket money and from cash slipped out of the register, Jo would run into town, complete a class, and run back home as a sort of chance to avoid or escape the stresses and fights back at the bar for a few hours. The only person who had any idea was Ash, and he’d cover for her regularly if asked what she was up to.

It wasn’t just the formalized styles like ballet Jo liked though. She would shimmy her way around the bar as the night wore on - lining up her favorite songs on the jukebox and swinging her hips as she cleared the tables off and wiped down surfaces. She would have her CD player set up and playing tunes all day when she’d hide away pretending to do school work. She would lay out on Ash’s bed as he had thrash screaming out of his own radio while he clicked away at some work and she would kick her feet in the air to whatever tune she could pick out of the noise. She would gently sway when Rick’s hands wrapped around her waist and he would laugh about her being such a girl. Jo would swing her way about the bar in Duluth when no one was watching, she would bop her head in time with the radio on her way driving back home, and she would sometimes find herself spinning in time to the swell of music between chores - so long as no one was watching.

- Jo & Ash: Brotherhood

It took a few months for them to really warm up to one another - too many broken relationships and too many lost relations and too many issues between the both of them to make bonding all that quick. But their relationship turned from two people living in the same house and who would play poker or pool and laugh with each other but barely knew much of either’s lives the night of Jo’s first-ever date.

Ash had been working behind the bar with Ellen, covering Jo’s shift after she’d rather quietly and embarrassedly said she had said ‘yes’ to going to see a movie with one of the guys from her automotive class. He’d had curly hair, that was all Jo had said about him, and Ellen had been ecstatic at Jo being open to doing something with anyone not connected to the hunting community. Ash had been ambivalent - being 22 and not interested in the actions of a 16-year-old and her romances after how much trouble Jo got into the previous year with the whole Gordon Thing. He regretted the ambivalence when he picked up the bar’s phone after it had chirped through two unanswered calls back-to-back while he and Ellen had been swamped. Jo’d stood in the lobby for thirty minutes, tickets in her hand and a Diet Coke waiting until the movie started and she spotted the guy and his friends walking in laughing, not once looking in her direction even as she waved.

The drive back from the cinema, he’d pulled off to the side of the road and then turned the car around and sped through to the other side of town after noticing Jo’s tears. That moment was when his view shifted from annoying teenager to his annoying teenage sister in his heart. Jo’s view shifted from the weird geeky guy renting out a room to her weird geeky guy as he’d taken a baseball bat from the back of his truck and proceeded to smash every window, mirror and chrome fenders before peeling back towards the roadhouse as Jo laughed so hard her tears changed from sad to happy.

After that, their entire friendship had changed, and Jo would spend half her time at home curled up at the end of the other’s bed as he worked, or sitting in the back of the tray of his truck, or going shooting out the back with beer cans each time Ash would finish one. He’d become quickly the first person Jo would go to about anything, to share anything, to confide in. And Jo became the number-one-person in the MIT-dropout’s life, his very best friend and his biggest supporter when anyone gave him crap for his mullet or his fashion sense, his choice in drinks or if it took a little longer than expected for him to get some information to them. Jo was his fierce protector in her world of hunters, and Ash was her fearless confidant and supporter in the world of civilians.

- Ash: Story of a Genius

Growing up a genius in a trailer park was his life. Ash never expected to achieve more than a low-paying job, a motor home of his own and a wife and three kids. Nights spent yelling at each other over whose fault it was they were still in the trailer and his own love slowly turning to resentment and simmering rage. A few police drive-bys over the noise, a DV record and his wife sneering at him as he was put in the back of a wagon when she’d hit him first. The story his father had played out before him was what he’d expected growing up, and it wasn’t until one teacher realized his potential that he started to expect anything more of himself. He ended up at a prestigious school that required uniforms and had a coat of arms stitched on his blazer, a school that gave him a full ride and he buzzed his hair short to avoid looking out of place. A school that pushed him and he soon found himself graduating two years early and in a place with another full-ride scholarship at MIT - working on computer programming and robotics for fun.

He finished his four-year degree by the time he was 20, and for a lack of anything else to do, a lack of ambition or idea or goal, Ash stayed on for a doctorate. He was halfway through his thesis when the realization that he hated what he was being turned into - the way he spoke had changed, the way he looked so different from his friends and family when he returned home in Summer break to see his father drinking away his life, the way he no longer connected or understood the world he’d grown up in and come from, how he hadn’t had an independent thought since he was 10 - and that was when he pawned his CD player, his array of computer gear and tech aside from his laptop, and his sedan. He packed a change of underwear, his laptop, and his wallet up in a backpack and bought the first bus ticket out of the city.

He hadn’t expected it when he ended up in the interchange in the midwest. He hadn’t expected the first guy to pull over as he walked down the side of the road to give him a lift even further into nowhere. And he definitely hadn’t expected to be kicked out of the car on an interstate surrounded by paddocks and nothing else as he’d pointed out a problem with the man's logic that there was something inherently weaker about women than men. He’d walked for several miles before a dusty car park and a worn Roadhouse appeared before him, and the moment the perky young blonde pulled out a chair across from him, he had found somewhere he could relearn who he was.

- Jo & Ash: Weekend Wastelands

The last two and a half years of Jo’s teenage years spent at the Roadhouse were pretty much the same over and over. On weekdays she had to go to school. A waste of time and a waste of energy and a waste of opportunities that she could be out on the road learning something or at the Roadhouse learning more and reading more. Nights were spent faking her way through homework for all of half an hour before either bussing tables, working behind the bar pulling beers and pouring spirits, deep frying onion rings and French fries, and flipping burgers while Ash would tug at the back of her apron or flick her with his own apron ties, dancing about the bar once the regulars had filtered out and she would occasionally be spun about with a laugh as the brother-from-another-life would catch her hands and twirl her between tables before they’d get shouted at to get back to work.

But on the weekend - Jo could kick back, relax, and run wild until the bar would open.

She would go for a run, she would practice her shooting, she would take her bow set out, she would even go rabbit hunting. She would lie under the clouds pointing out strange shapes as she’d pass a joint back to Ash. She would play Duck Hunter and beat his ass every time. She would learn how to throw a punch and how to get out of a hold, all with her trusty brother acting as the attacker and laughing every time her fist would hit his cheek all the while until she’d hold a pack of peas against his face. She would call Gordon from the phone line in Ash’s room while he would stare on disapprovingly, but never turn her in to her mother and would cover for her when she’d run out to see the other and always offer an ear for her to whine about how unfair it was she couldn’t be out on the road like the other - that was until he stopped calling after her seventeenth and she got the rude wake up that maybe her mother was right.

And after work, every single night of the week, Ash and Jo would sit out the back porch while the genius smoked a cigarette and the teen would lean her head against his shoulder, talking about anything and everything, before she’d finally be convinced to go to sleep with a promise to stay up later the next night.

- Ash: The Big Brother Chronicles

There was the time he smashed the jerkoff who left Jo waiting - that was the first time Ash had really felt like his old self, like the little troublemaker who grew up having to fight for scraps and respect, like a man who was supposed to protect his mother or his sister from trouble. That had been a wake-up for him, and Ash had started growing out his mullet that very day as he remembered one of the older boys who lived two trailers over that had always been the strongest and most protective brother in the park; wanting to emulate that spirit the moment he picked the usually stoic or cheerful girl in tears.

Then there was the time he saw that fucking hunter, that fucking old disgusting pervert, kiss Jo goodbye that one time. It was the first time Ash had realized there was more than idolization between the two of them, and partnered with the information Ellen shared before the man came around again, he knew there wasn’t anything else to do for it. Ash faked an email from Jo - when he knew she would be away on a college tour that weekend with Ellen right after her seventeenth birthday - and when the man arrived, Ash broke his nose, his knee and five bones in his hand. Ash got a broken rib for himself in return before the other hunters and regulars in the bar managed to separate them. Recovering with the remains of his current stash, the computer geek had reconfigured Jo’s emails so none of them would ever get through to the other hunter and none of the older man’s would get through to her.

Next had been a slew of other hunters - young guys (more appropriately aged than the other one) but still not nice guys, ones that thought his little sister wasn’t worth much more than a quick roll in the hay out back or in the backseat of their car - that never got past a few flirtatious comments here and there before they found themselves with a friendly arm around their shoulder and a hissed explanation of just what could happen to them if they dared try anything with the perky blonde that smiled so wide at everyone. Then the schoolboys started up, sneaking around the Roadhouse with fake IDs that they’d even paid him for thinking that they wouldn’t be turned around by Ellen and her wicked grins, Ash didn’t need to step in on those but he definitely made it clear when he would slide the fakes to each of them through the crack of his truck window that if they tried to touch his sister they’d be eating gravel in no time.

But the easiest job of his, the easiest support he ever gave to his chosen sister, was to don ill-fitting suit pants, a white shirt and slick his mullet back against his head and slide the pretty corsage of bluebells over her wrist as he was the calm and steady rock to support her throughout the night. They’d found out the morning of - after she’d been the one to buy the tickets and even dragged him shopping two weeks earlier to buy the periwinkle blue ball gown of tulle - that it had been a last prank by the boys in her year. The last joke to get back at her for being ‘frigid’ and a ‘prude’, for having her ‘big brother destroy Pete’s car’, for having the gall to be disinterested in them even without the interventions from Ellen and Ash to dissuade them making a first move. Ash had glowered something fierce, driven into town and bought the first suit that fit him, and returned to drag her out in that pretty blue dress with her dusty combat boots and his leather jacket swimming off her shoulders out to the event. They’d stuck their fingers up in their ‘couples’ photo, while Ash had spun her about the dance floor in a swirl of tulle and leather. They’d spiked the fruit punch, Jo had rested her head on his shoulder during a slow song, and they’d ditched out on the rest of the evening before it hit 9pm after Jo had kneed the boy who asked her on the dare so hard in the balls that the boy had crumpled to the floor. They spent the rest of the night in a paddock between the lights of town and the Roadhouse - the pick-up truck lights illuminating the grass where Jo span and span under the stars while the rock station played on the radio and Ash had smoked a joint and drank a beer on the bonnet.

- Jo & Ash: Farewells

He had been the only person Jo had told before she took off. She’d come in through the back door and went straight to the Doctor’s office, tears still burning at her eyes but refusing to be shed. Ash had been the only one who understood how she felt. Who got why she was mad, and exactly who she was mad at. He was the one who handed her a wad full of cash, the keys to his truck and five credit cards he promised he’d take care of for her. Ash had been the one to kiss her on the forehead, throw her bag in the back of the cabin and squeeze her goodbye.

He had been the one she called to, directly to him, when a case was looking hard to crack. The only one she trusted to know where she was, what she was doing, and to help her figure out what she was after. Ash had been her one connection home, and while she had sent her mom postcards from all over the country with no message, Ash was the one who got emails every other day, full of her thoughts and fears, her hopes and her concerns. Ash was the one who helped her through the worst scrapes; and he was the one that convinced her to go to Duluth to rest up and work the bar there for her aunt and uncle when she had broken her foot on the case before chasing down a werewolf.

Ash had been the reason she ever went back to the Roadhouse, the only reason she ever returned to Nebraska while she’d still been alive the first time. To see the burnt-out husk of the bar in the dusty car park, and to sit under the old oak tree out the back they had laid out under for years in the Summers to bury the one old flannel of his she’d taken with her. The only thing left of him she had to put away until she met up with her mom and inherited his watch instead.

#cc #headcanons for my jo #background for jo and ash #NOT REALLY FIC BUT ALSO NOT NOT FIC?

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cloudynames · 6 years ago

Text

Point and Flex

hi everyone!! happy holidays!! i hope you’re all spending time with your family or friends~ i wanted to get this up before christmas but i was caught up with too much aha please accept this as a late christmas present <3

Word Count: 3,654

Rating: PG-13

Warning: one (1) swear word [shocking i know]

lets winwin!

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A white letter with gorgeous red lettering and a prestigious gold stamp changes your life.

Coming home that Thursday afternoon from school and holding your acceptance letter made you anticipate your graduation. Things were coming along so quickly you hadn’t even noticed how summer flew by and you were on your way to Seoul, dancing for The Korean National Ballet.

Sitting in your small dorm, you unpacked quickly and ran to the window, peering out at the city around you. Excitement filled up in your stomach, only to disintegrate when your calendar clearly marks that your evaluation day was tomorrow. Huffing and flopping on your bed, you started to realize how intense of a situation you’re in.

You’re overseas in a country you’ve never been to before! Barely being able to speak the language, the only thing you have is your dancing abilities. You would have to work as hard—no, even harder than the other students to qualify and dance for the theatre. The gravity of your situation slowly sets in while your anxieties rise and you groan.

“This sucks!” You yell into your room, directing it to no one.

The next morning you, suffering from jet lag, hurriedly burst into the studio, still arranging your hair and not even having properly stuffing your bag with everything you need for dance.

Multiple dancers turn their head to you, some scoffing and some smirking. Either they saw you as pathetic already or someone to mock. .

Placing down your backpack, you grab your pointe shoes and toe cap. Fear for your feet creeps into your body as you dig through your bag, checking every pocket.

“No, no, no… Where’s my toe spacer?!”

“Do you need one?” A voice quips and you whip your head to them. A boy with brown short hair and a slight accent stands above you, holding out a new toe spacer.

“Thank you so much! I really do appreciate it.” You grin and he sits down besides you.

As you prepare your feet, Ten questions you, “We don’t get many foreigners. Are you new?”

Nodding and standing up, testing your pointe shoes, you respond, “Yes. I’m a first year.”

“I’m Ten! I’m a second year. Last year, I was The Beast from Beauty and the Beast!”

You awe in amazement and respond back with your name. The two of you chat for a while until everyone is called into the huge, modern dance room. You nervously shift around until the wooden door opens with a man holding the door. Your shoulders tighten at the sudden sound and you keep your best posture, wanting to make a good impression on your new instructor.

A creaking sound gradually grows louder and louder. People seem to be startled and they whisper in a tongue you don’t understand. Turning to Ten for assistance, he keeps his eyes front to the mirror.

First, you see legs and then wheels. A man with dark muddy brown hair and sharp eyes arrives in the room, and he slowly moves himself over to the center of the room. Adjusting himself accordingly, he booms with a loud voice.

“Welcome.”

A wave of relief washes over the students but you wonder who this instructor is.

And not to be noisy, but what happened to his legs?

He looks incredibly intimidating and with a huge figure, it drives anxiety up to your throat. Aren’t wheelchairs supposed to make you look small?

“Let’s take thirty minutes to stretch. You may talk quietly among yourselves.”

With that, you immediately rush to Ten’s side and while in a lunging position, you ask, “Who is he?”

“Dong Sicheng. We call him Winwin.”

“Is he nice?” You whisper, falling into the splits and remembering to point your toes.

“Nah. He’s kind of a prick but he has the right to be. He’s a good instructor and he pushes you to your limit. He truly makes you a better ballet dancer.” Ten admits, going into a backbend.

“So what happened to him? I mean his legs of course.”

Ten sputters and collapses into the ground, clearly shocked by the audacity of your question. “How am I supposed to know?”

Soon your time to stretch was over and the terrifying instructor thought it would be best to go across the floor to evaluate where some people are at.

“Let’s do a pirouette, no—make it five pirouettes. I want a grand jeté and finally a glissade.”

A slow melody of piano music fills your ears and the taps of pointe shoes hitting the floor have your head spin in anxiety.

Soon enough it was your turn and you listen carefully for the counts to start.

“5, 6, 7, 8–“

Your body tenses and relaxes all at the same moment as you become one with the music. Coming all the way from your home is scary, especially since there’s a chance that you might not end up achieving your goals. Yet, you’re here for a reason. They accepted you and you were going to shock everyone.

At the end of your glissade, you turn to go to the end of the line. Suddenly, a loud voice barks up, “Point your toes on that jeté or I’ll make you do fifty more.”

Turning your head around from hearing the sudden English, you meet eyes with Winwin and you swear you could see the flash of a smirk. Feeling your face flush red, you hide your face by staring at the wall. Ten gives you a small pat on the back while you hear snickers fill the room.

You were the first one to be called out that day.

After class, you had to go to your mandatory core classes and you were completely swamped with work.

“I can’t believe I have to write an essay already!” You exclaim, falling back into your bed and pushing your laptop aside.

“Yeah, yeah. That’s college for you.” Ten mutters, slurping loudly as he finishes his ramen. “Can you buy me another one of these?”

“Hell no.” You respond, not even glancing at him until he shrieks.

“Oh my god! The ballet this semester was announced! We’re doing Cinderella!”

Pushing yourself off your bed and rushing over to Ten’s side, you steal his phone and scroll a bit until you see the English text.

‘We are proud to announce this semester’s ballet, Cinderella! With the success of Beauty and the Beast, we knew we had to perform another Disney ballet. More information will be coming soon. Thank you.’

Ten grabs his phone back and rolls his eyes about how rude you are.

“Ten, I have to audition! I mean, it’s Cinderella! My dream was to be her while I was growing up.” You sigh happily, flopping back into your bed.

Ten shoots you a grin, “Go for it. I’m cheering you on!”

If you weren’t determined before, you were definitely more determined now. You arrived an hour early to class and after your core classes, you would go back for another two hours to practice. It was tiring, especially trying to keep your grades up, but you loved every second of it. It was lonely at times but with the support of Ten and Taeyong (a third year and a new friend!), you felt like anything was possible.

“I’ve spent at least fifty dollars on ice this month. Most of my money goes to my ballet supplies!”

Ten nods, understanding your situation completely and Taeyong laughs.

“Are you auditioning for Cinderella? Auditions are in a month.” Taeyong asks as he points and flexes his toes.

Sighing loudly and fiddling with your ribbons, you reply, “I would love to. I don’t think I’m in condition to though.”

Taeyong pats your back as an attempt to comfort you but immediately removes his hand as Winwin announces class will begin. Taking a gulp, you mentally prepare yourself for hell.

A rough four hours later, class finally was coming to an end. You were huffing and panting loudly as Winwin finishes his notes for the class. Not paying attention and playing with your hair, the sound of your name scares you and perks your head to turn to your instructor.

“{Y/N}, I want to speak to you after class.”

You could practically feel the mockery drifting in the air from your peers. Nodding a quick ‘yes,’ you grab your bag and slip off your shoes in the locker room. Outside, Ten and Taeyong were waiting for you and offered small smiles of condolence.

“Sorry, but you’re dead.”

Taeyong punches Ten in the arm and pushes him aside.

“Don’t listen to him. I’m sure it’s nothing. Maybe it’s about you playing with your hair!”

Weakly smiling back and waving at them, you watch their figures slowly disappear and you mentally hype yourself up to face the one and only, Winwin.

The door creaks open just like how it did on your first day and you find Winwin on his phone.

“Pardon me…” You excuse yourself in Korean but cringe afterwords at your poor pronunciation.

“Don’t try speaking Korean. I can speak English just fine.”

You gulp and feel your body heat up instantly. A few minutes ago you were just dancing in this room and it has never felt this hot until right now. Quietly praying to whoever is out there, you ask that this session of reprimands will end soon.

Winwin finally looks up from his phone and stares at you. “I overheard you talking to your friends about the Cinderella audition. It’s true you want to audition, right?”

“Yes, it’s always been my dream.” You chose your words carefully. Obviously you were treading in deep water, you didn’t want to say something that might offend him.

“Listen, don’t take this personally, but I can help you with auditioning. However, that means more practices and I suppose you can call ‘brutal’ with my methods. Yet this is all up to you. I don’t make final decisions for anyone.”

A blank stare set upon your face and all your brain could think about is shock. Is he really offering this proposal to you? Just as equally important, why you?

You endure what seems like an eternity to you when you finally make a decision. All you hope now is that you won’t regret it.

“I would be grateful if you helped me.”

After that, weeks of grueling practice came. It felt like all you did was go to practice, school, private lessons, study, and maybe sleep while on the bus. The routine was brutal but you knew exactly what you were getting into when you agreed. Yet being burnt out was bound to come.

Eventually that breakdown did come and it happened on a Friday night. Ten and Taeyong wanted to go out and get a few drinks since they haven’t seen you outside of practice. However, you politely declined as you knew you had your private lessons. Failing an exam the day before also put a damper on your moods. You couldn’t risk ruining their night out.

“You need to extend your body more. I need to see good posture.” Winwin barked out orders, watching you intensely from his wheelchair. After you had failed to do what he wanted, he angrily scribbled down notes which would later translate into a workout punishment.

Everything came crashing down quite literally as your attitude spin caught you off guard and made you almost trip while coming out of it.

“What the—Hey, are you alright?”

You sat on the ground, bringing your knees up to your head almost in a cradle position. A loud sob shakes your body and streams of tears soon coat your face.

It was all too much—Winwin, your family questioning about your grades, the stress of being in a new country, the lack of friends. All you wanted to do was go back home where you knew everything would be safe.

The groans of the wheelchair snapped you out of your self-pity party and you stood up once again, brushing away stray tears and breathing harshly to calm yourself down.

“Hey,” a soft voice calls out, “lean down.”

You glance towards Winwin and he has an unreadable expression on his face. His arms are extended towards you and you nearly jump in them. At this point, you don’t care who is hugging you. You craved affection and if Winwin was offering you some, you were taking the opportunity.

Sobs filled the now quiet dance room and Winwin could feel the sadness flowing through your body. He felt every bit of loneliness and anxiety. Before this, he had never understood why you seemed so tired and scared. He understood it all the second you poured out your feelings. Hating his poor conversation skills, he wish he could reach out and offer words of encouragement yet nothing seems to come out.

On that lonely Friday night, he canceled your lesson and rubbed your back as you expressed everything you had been holding back. More importantly, you finally got some well deserved rest after that night.

Soon enough, Saturday came and you were already at the studio bright and early. Tying your ribbons of your shoes and hearing two voices, you raise your head and wave to Winwin as he walks in. He held a white bag on his lap and just as you were about to start your audition routine, he abruptly stopped you.

“Wait, I haven’t eaten breakfast yet.”

Nodding, you continue to stretch in silence.

“Have you eaten?” Winwin asks, taking a bite out of a banana.

Shaking your head no, you reply, “No. I usually don’t have time to eat breakfast in the morning.”

Suddenly, a banana is thrown at your head, barely missing you.

“What the hell Winwin?” You fume at him, grabbing the banana and threatening to throw it back at him.

He laughs, smiling joyfully. “Eat up. You need it.”

Your body goes hot and you give him a small smile. You wouldn’t mind if you heard that laugh again.

A new routine was formed from your old boring one. You would come into private lessons and Winwin would feed you. Slowly, your relationship changed. It wasn’t an instructor and a student anymore, but a genuine friendship. Soon enough you discovered that he is two years older than you, adding fuel to your growing affection towards him. The desire of you wanting to know him better grew and you wanted to become greedy with him.

You would achieve your desires as the two of you became closer friends. After doing a continuous amount of fouettes, Winwin called you over for a break.

Slumping down beside him and drinking out of your water bottle, a container of food gets shoved in your face.

“Winwinie, I can feed myself you know!” You whine, still opening the container and eating the gimbap.

“Oh, I know you can. I just never see it.” He teases.

The two of you banter for a while, joking around with each other and soon forgetting ballet.

“Winwinie, you know so much about me, but I wanna learn more about you.” You turn over to see his reaction and his mouth is slightly agaped, shocked by the sudden confession. The tips of his ears turn pink, steadily spreading to his cheeks as well. Deep down inside, you want to just kiss his cheeks.

“W-Well, I’m actually from China. I came to Korea to study ballet and I fell in love with it. I’ve been here ever since I was in high school. My parents gave up a lot for me to be here.” He confesses, playing with his fingers.

“Ahhh, I’ve always wanted to visit China.” You remark, trying to comfort him in the smallest way possible.

He gives you a sad smile, “Yes, I miss my home all the time. Sometimes, I wish I could just quit and be with my loved ones.”

You place a hand on his, rubbing the back of his hand. “I know it’s tough. We need to achieve our dreams though.”

He nods and bites his tongue, looking spiteful. “I can’t though. Not anymore.”

You take a peep at his wheelchair and your mind begs you to ask what happened. Manners are important and you stay quiet, continuous rubbing circles into his hand.

“I can never dance again. All because of a car accident.”

How does one comprehend such a statement? Your heart tries to reject how sad he feels, but it only makes it hurt more. Winwin trembles and you look up into his glossy eyes. Reaching a thumb up, you brush away a tear that had fallen.

He is the one pulling you into a hug now, so similar to that Friday night. He tells you all his worries and fears while you comfort him.

The relationship between Winwin and you changes drastically. Ten and Taeyong even notice it the second they walk into practice on Monday morning.

“Why does Winwin keep staring at you?” Ten whispers, almost shooting eye-dangers into him.

You push his shoulder, “Oh my god Ten, he’s just looking. It’s nothing.”

Taeyong chuckles and rolls his eyes. “Just nothing my ass.”

With a ‘hmph,’ you move to a new location to stretch until Taeyong and Ten came crawling back and apologizing five minutes later.

After class, Winwin had a lecture about how important this week was, especially for those auditioning for Cinderella. Every time he mentioned the ballet, you felt like puking. You’ve been training for so long, but you were terrified that there would be no pay off.

Winwin pushed you harder than ever that week and every ounce of his kindness had disappeared. Once was his soft eyes now became sharp, pointing out every flaw you had made. Your heart felt torn apart. Every time you tried to joke with him, he brushed you off stating that you needed to work. You even once tried hugging him after a lesson but he only responded by pushing you away seconds later. Had you really been imagining Winwin being so caring towards you?

With all the heartache you’ve experienced this week, you channeled that into your audition. You felt every single emotion you’ve felt while in Korea and let it influence your performance. Imagining all the love and sadness and anxiety, you gave it your all. Walking out of the audition room lifted so many worries off your back, but you still felt numb towards it all.

Nothing feels right because of Winwin.

Saturday came and you spent the entire day in bed, too confused and tired to do anything else. You were playing a game on your phone until you received a text from Ten. Growling and almost throwing your phone, you check what must’ve been so important.

[Ten]

The results are out for Cinderella! I’m the Jester hehe~ Tell me what you got too!

Your heart rate suddenly speeds up when you read the text and you rush to your computer. Logging into your school’s site, your eyes skip around to the cast list. Closing your eyes and taking a deep breath, you read off the first name.

{Y/L/N} {Y/N} - Cinderella

You nearly faint. Jumping up from your seat and texting all your friends and family, you start wilding dancing in your room. Excitement couldn’t explain how happy you felt at that moment. Without thinking, you text Winwin.

[you]

r u at the studio?

[Winwinie]

yes, why?

[you]

wait there, ill be there in a few!!!

You grabbed the nearest and cleanest thing around you and slipped in on. Dashing out to the bus stop, you couldn’t hold in your excitement. You were practically bouncing the entire ride.

As soon as it was your stop, you ran to the studio and bursted into the room.

“Winwin! I got it! I got Cinderella!” You yell, approaching him and giving him a wide smile.

His eyes light up the second you state that and he pulls you into a hug, dragging you down a bit as well.

“I’m so proud of you.” He breathes, hugging tighter.

You pull away and smile fondly. “Thank you for all your training.”

He blushes, “I-It’s not that big of a deal. Besides, you achieved your dream!”

You smile and hold his hand. “How about I help you achieve yours?”

You’ve been developing a plan for quite some time to help Winwin achieve his dream. Confusion spreads on his face and he replies, “How? I can’t use my legs.”

“Who said we have to use legs in dance?”

With that, you turn on your phone to a melodic piano piece. Grabbing his hands, the two of you gently sway. You only let go to turn him in a spin.

Even though it was a small gesture, the look on Winwin’s face made it so memorable. He was grinning the entire time, laughing as you spun him and tried to dip him.

As the music slowed down, you spoke up. “Why did you push me away his week?”

He sighs and squeezes your hand. “I wanted you to do well. You’re so similar to me, it’s terrifying. I don’t want you to destroy yourself over failing to achieve your goal. I would never want that to happen to you.”

You’re silent at this. No words could explain how much you appreciated Winwin. However, actions could.

You bent down and kissed his cheek. Contrary to what has previously happened, his face didn’t heat up.

He gently grabs your chin and pulls you closely to his face. Chuckling, he leans in and kisses you. There weren’t any fireworks or any bubbly feeling in your chest. You just felt warm. It felt like home and all your worries washed away for good. He nibbles on your bottom lip teasingly and you push him away, giggling right after.

“You missed my lips the first time.”

“Maybe I won’t miss the second time.”

#nct winwin #nct 2018 #nct imagine #nct scenarios #nct headcanon #winwin #nct 127 #nct u #nct china #writing #kpop #kpop imagines #kpop scenarios #kpop headcanons

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justanalto · 6 years ago

Note

49. "I didn't know you could do that" - Mackelena or FitzSimmons?

sfhdsjkalhfsa this ask isn’t timestamped so i forgot when you asked me this but I finally got it!! thanks so much for asking! Mackelena or FitzSimmons

As far as skills went, Elena Rodriguez-Mackenzie (yes, exactly in that order) thought she’d seen the gamut of them in the first few years she’d been married to her husband. After all, you didn’t become a SHIELD agents (or marry on, for that matter) without acquiring a considerable set of skills. Mack had more than proven himself in all areas of their relationship – he’d presented to her a buttery filet mignon their first date, kept her in stitches throughout, and had even offered to clean up following dessert. (Not that Elena saw that as a deciding factor. It’d just made her feel a little more appreciated.) He could hold more than his own in a political debate, and when he couldn’t took it upon himself to learn about the subject until he could.

(“It’s important to be informed,” he’d shrugged when she asked him about it one night. “A lot of things we have to deal with today? Ignorance is usually at the heart of it.”)

When they’d stopped in Greece for their anniversary, he’d taken her to dinner at the fanciest restaurant Athens had to offer, but instead of staring at each other the entire night, they’d watched as the coastline burned some distance away, the result of corporate greed and (apparently) some accidental arson. She’d woken up the next day to find their bags packed and Mack with his phone pressed to his ear.

“Yessir. I’ll get her the coordinates as soon as possible. Tell them to prep for disaster relief.”

“Where are we going?” SHIELD didn’t need them already, did they? She and Mack had fought long and hard for this vacation – they weren’t going to go back a damn day earlier than they’d asked for. “Was that Coulson?”

“Yeah, and he’s sending backup. We’re going down the coast.”

“I thought we were going to the beach.” The causes of the fire had resonated something deep within Elena, having been at the receiving end of her own share of government gone wrong. But Mack had been so excited to go to the beach and eat out, she figured she’d just sneak out at night to help. The people had deserved at least that much. “You’ve been talking about it for weeks.”

“And I can see it in your eyes.” When Elena opened her mouth to protest, Mack raised an eyebrow with a knowing smile. “Don’t tell me you weren’t going to find a way to go help those people when I wasn’t looking, Yo-Yo.”

“You would’ve been too slow to notice, anyways” was her answering remark, but she took her bags with a renewed rush of affection for her husband. It was exactly like him to give up something as rare as their vacation (on their anniversary, no less) to go help people that were more in need. It was one of the reasons she’d seen him in the first place.

Besides, she was sure he got enough of a treat when Coulson let her loose on the politicians, watching amusedly with the rest of the team as Grecian man in double-breasted suits were thoroughly dressed down in fluent Greek by a short Colombian woman wearing a t-shirt patterned with bright pink flamingos.

The picture still hung on their mantle.

Needless to say, Elena was plenty confident she knew the extent of her husband’s skills. The last surprise had been when was carrying Natalia, Mack’s surprising ability to read IKEA instructions coming in handy when their daughter announced her presence a month early. Since then, they’d picked up parenting skills up together as a duo, days spent learning to prep bottles and swaddle tiny humans tinged with warm bouts of laughter.

(She wasn’t allowed to speak about his skills in bed. Daisy had expressly forbidden it after she’d caught them in a supply closet one day. “I don’t wanna hear about it!”)

Those days were now behind them, however, and their bottle-prepping days were now replaced with chauffeuring ones. Depending on Natalia’s preference that month, it was dance lessons, soccer practice, or track and field. Mack had been happy his daughter was taking an interest in everything under the sun, but even had to admit it was taking a bit of a toll on their wallets. They were going to have to have a talk soon – one that Elena was not looking forward to.

“Daddy, we’re home!” Natalia announced as soon as she and her mother stepped through the door. The activity of the month was dance lessons once more, and Mack had warned his daughter that she had to stick with them for at least six months – so far, she was holding true to her promise, even looking to perform that winter in the concert. “Wanna see what I learned for Swan Lake today?” Without even waiting for an answer, she ran through the house looking for Mack. “Daaaaadddy!”

Elena laughed, setting her keys down. “Turtleman,” she called, “your pequeña bailarina is home,” She could still hear Natalia bouncing around the house looking for her father, so she joined in. “She learned how to do a – damn word’s in French to begin with, how am I supposed to remember it in English, a uh. It’s a twirl.” Mack would know what she was talking about, anyways. “One of the hard twirls. You’d be proud. I think she got my footwork genes.” That and Elena’s spunky attitude seemed to be the two main things Natalia had inherited from her mother. They weren’t too sure about the Inhuman genes yet, but Simmons had assured them that they’d be well prepared when or if they showed.

“Daddy, I talked to Auntie Mel today!” Had her daughter really not found him yet? Hm. Normally, Mack would’ve scooped her up already. “She said I can come visit her next week! And have tea with her! Have you ever had tea with Auntie Mel, Daddy?”

“Mack?” Elena peeked into the different rooms of their house a little faster than she normally allowed herself, but the fact that Mack hadn’t responded yet to either of them was somewhat concerning. “Turtleman, where are you?” When each room turned up more empty than the last, she had to work a little harder to push down the panic threatening to work its way through her system. “Mack!”

She finally found him in the deserted study at the end of the hallway, headphones in and bent over a sewing machine. “There you are, both of us have been looking all over for you. May called and said Talia could visit next week, and the dance teacher wants to know if she’ll be signing up for lessons in the spring –”

Mack took off his headphones. “What?”

Elena stood there for a minute. “I – never mind.” She looked down at the sewing machine to see a large mass of pink velour being run through the stitcher. “Are you…are you sewing?”

“Talia’s costume for the jazz portion was too long,” Mack answered, and it was only then that she registered the small click-clicks the sewing machine was making. “Took it to May in the hopes that she could help, but I’m guessing she hasn’t seen Talia long enough to see that she’s grown. A lot.” He dryly held up stretch of cloth Elena vaguely identified as a pant leg. “She cut the pant leg to her knee.”

Well, it certainly had been…an attempt. “I didn’t know you could do that,” she hummed. Better he tried than she did – she’d never had an eye for delicate crafts and suspected she never would. “When did you learn how to sew, Turtleman? And when did you learn to use a sewing machine?”

“Back in the days of home ec,” Mack chuckled. “None of the other kids thought I’d be able to make a stitch because my hands were so big. Scored the highest on the final because of my stitches.” Elena watched as he switched pant legs, running the cloth through the small threader. “What were you saying about Talia?”

“Daddy!” Natalia burst through the door as if they’d choreographed the entire sequence. “I learned how to do a pirouette today. We had a diff’rent teacher in and her name was Miss Bobbi, her hair was really gold and shiny –” both parents exchanged a slightly confused and alarmed look, Elena having learned enough about the disavowed agents to know Bobbi and kids didn’t mix – “and when she called my name, she had to cough a lot.”

“Did she now?” Mack asked, amusement coloring his tone. “It was probably just a really long name, bailarina. After all, I thought my name was long enough until your mother’s came along.”

“She said to say hi to you. Do you know her, Daddy?”

Mack really jolted then, the sewing machine coming to a quick halt. “Why would I know your dance teacher, silly? You just met her, too.” The machine started up again, and Elena sighed in relief. “She’s just being funny.”

Natalia seemed to take the answer at its surface. “Yeah. She was funny. She yelled at the other guy in the office a lot.” Mack finished up the pants, shutting off the machine and beckoning his daughter close so he could see if the legs matched up.

“Good as new,” he announced. “You ready to go back to the fifties, Miss Talia?” The younger girl stared down at the pink pants and psychedelic swirl top before striking a dramatic pose. “That a girl! Perfect, kiddo.” He held his hand out for a high-five, which Natalia met with a cheer. “Your winter concert is gonna be so great. I can’t wait.”

“Auntie Mel said I could come visit next week, too! I talked to her today.” Natalia beamed at the thought of getting to spend time with her aunt and turned to her mother. “Mamá?”

“What is it, mi hija?”

“D’you think Auntie Mel was alive during the fifties? Can I ask her?”

Both of them could already see the fallout that would occur from anyone inferring May was old – and it wasn’t pretty. The scenarios already had them shuddering in fear. “Mamá? Daddy?”

“Maybe it’ll be best not to ask her that, honey.”

#ask things!#theclaravoyant #mackelena #agents of shield #alphonso mackenzie #elena rodriguez #family #quick fic

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insomniac-arrest · 7 years ago

Text

Counting her Smiles

genre: original work, wlw ballet romance

words: around 5k

summary: Rebbecca Johnson grows up with the shadow of the driven ballerina Celeste, she doesn’t understand her but she does understand they are drawing closer

under the shadow of bleeding en pointe feet and Minnesota winters, it’s a love story

En Pointe

I don’t know why I was chosen to be the sugar plum fairy instead of Celeste Renoir.

My brother said it was because I was the tallest girl in the class, I said it was because I could almost do a pirouette properly (probably).

He said it was still just because I didn’t need a step stool to do the pas de deux with Roy Calvin. I called him stupid since he was ten and I was twelve and you can call your younger brother stupid at those very close ages.

He retorted that it was dumb of them since they would have to spend half their makeup budget buying concealer for my freckles.

I threw q-tips at him until the floor was littered with a fluffy massacre and we accidentally bothered the cat into leaving, no one did anything to properly stop us.

I asked about being the sugar plum fairy the next day, if it was true, Ms. Smith reinforced that yes, I had been chosen. Celeste didn’t say hi to me that morning.

Celeste Renoir had a very French name and a very French family that came over when she was around nine. I didn’t exactly know what that meant, sure, I understood that other places existed and people lived their lives on television in cities far away from me, but I hadn’t met them. I hadn’t been there.

I had never met anyone outside of the outskirts of St. Cloud Minnesota and most my friends were just cousins of mine by different names. She was French even though Carly Thompson pointed out her mom was Chinese, Tina’s mom snapped at her to not point out things like that.

Paisley, who was named after the plant and her great aunt, said she should be the sugar plum fairy since she was almost already thirteen, French, and had already tried en pointe.

Secretly I agreed with her, but they had already bought the concealer and I was still the tallest girl in the class and could almost do a pirouette, I wasn’t backing out now.

Celeste still didn’t say hi to me and I didn’t say that I felt sick thinking about doing the pique turn in front of two dozen faces who were going to clap at me no matter what. Pity claps were still annoying.

I got ready to begin the performance the week before winter break, half the city was snowed in by that point, but that didn’t dissuade anyone from showing up. They arrived on a snowy Thursday night for a severely watered-down version of the Nutcracker for Ms. Smith’s ‘11-13 year old ballet class.’

I found myself gasping weakly behind the curtains, my legs were already cramping and I didn’t know why I kept thinking about the lights accidentally blinding me.

I think about the spins and going through the motions of the pas de deux I would do with Roy Calvin, even if he was also almost 5’6 and had only a slight gap in his teeth. I didn’t really want to do this.

The 7-11-year olds were almost done with their Lion King ballet performance when I felt a soft tap on my shoulder.

I turn my face slightly and come face to face with the pouting features of Celeste Renoir, she wasn’t smiling. They say she only smiles for performances, but that might have been one of those things my mom calls a ‘mean stage rumor.’

Celeste met my eyes sharply and lifts her chin, “breath.” I nod because there wasn’t really anything else to do, she does a little motion for me to turn around, I turn. “You’re bow is almost undone.” She sounded a little stiff, only faintly ‘foreign’ but still had the air of someone who wasn’t from St. Cloud and maybe had never really been there all along.

She undoes the bow holding my dress up and carefully re-ties it with swift handiwork.

“Thanks,” I stutter as she clenches the knot and pulls down the end of my skirt.

She turns me back around, “no big deal.” She sniffs, “deepen your plie this time.” “Right.” I nod and like her a little bit less but she is sweeping her dark bangs out of her eyes and examines me.

Celeste snaps in front of my face, “and look at me when you get nervous during your solo.” I look back at her and then the corner of the room, I give a weak smile, “so I can see someone doing it right?” I tried to joke, “honestly, Celeste…” She gives a faint smile back, “precisely,” she turns me around to face the stage as the announced the 11-13-year olds. “That and I won’t bullshit you with how you’re doing either.” I inhaled sharply, she just said bullshit in public, I look around frantically for an adult. But she was almost thirteen after all and no one was there.

I smile, a real smile, over my shoulder at her, “does that help?” She pushes me forward, “Sure.” She sniffs, “If you’re bad.”

I turn my face ahead again and roll my eyes at her, “a charmer I see.” I say in the way my dad says to cars that cut him off in traffic.

She snorts and I walk onto the stage to take my position. I look into the spotlight and try to be everything they want me to: tall and like I wasn’t weighed down by a half a drug-stores worth of foundation.

I smile like my underwear wasn’t riding up and only end up looking at Celeste three times when I stumble. She’s smiling at me this time, a steady look in her brown eyes and I know she isn’t bullshitting me, even with that smile. I was good enough for her to grin at me afterward too, so that was something.

———-

I ran into Celeste the next winter.

I was still in ballet but 8th grade was a little more important and I only went through the motions of every plie at that point. To be fair, I took ballet in the first place because my mom had two rules: play an instrument and a do a sport until you’re eighteen. No exceptions.

All five of my siblings had to, it would apparently make us ‘well-rounded’ and ‘developed.’ I played the flute and did ballet because I didn’t like sports that involved running or instruments that were too heavy.

My little brother, Ian, who was only around a year younger than me, said that that was boring and I was going to be just as boring as everyone else. I still got to call him stupid at that point.

I was in intermediate classes but Celeste was rising to the next level entirely, she was welcomed into en pointe with open arms and I watched her at extra-hours doing one spin after the next. She didn’t look like a classic ballerina then, but somewhere toward that. Sweat formed on her forehead and a loose sweatshirt hung over her thick tights. To be fair, she mostly looked like an angry fourteen-year-old.

But weren’t we all, that’s the year I started to clip my nails down to the beds and grind my teeth at night. I was fourteen and trying to be anything else but a pimply caricature of myself, but so was everyone else.

We were young and raw and Minnesota decided to be very Minnesota in the spring that year.

It was spring, spring in the way mob bosses are your ‘friend’ and they were still going to threaten you after you pay your dues.

It hit like a heavyweight wrestler, a pile drive of snow right into the center of town and all the surrounding areas, foot upon foot of person-crushing white.

I watched the snow fall for two days straight, perched beside my window and feeling a little too romantic for someone still in SpongeBob pajama pants and unsuccessfully attempting to feel what someone like Emily Dickens might have felt. I was cutting my nails down to the bed and terribly trying to feel what dead people felt when they looked at the exact same things I did.

My mom always said people are a lot more like you than you think, the same air, the same problems, the same toothache when they ate ice cream too fast. I really wanted to feel what Emily Dickens felt, I’m sure she had answers and something smart to say about the world.

I just sat by my window and tunelessly hummed the rhythm of my next flute recital piece instead of actually practicing.

I went to sleep on a Tuesday night and the whole world was nothing but snow and peeling yourself out of bed with two comforters on in the morning.

I was yawning and rubbing my eyes when I did the time old ritual of huddling in front of the tv to watch the news with my other siblings. The feeling of when a news anchor lady announces your school is canceled is like nothing else in the world. Of course, it was not that day, that morning I found out it was just postponed. I wished I lived in Florida for a moment, I heard a snowflake there meant you didn’t have to go to class for a week.

I complained for at least ten minutes before my mom asked ‘would Jesus complain like this?’ She was smiling when she said it, Jesus was her personal friend as far as I understood, but it was more of a running joke than a serious ‘be a little more holy, Rebecca.’ It was more ‘be a little more quiet dear.’

My mom was like that, she said some things so she wouldn’t have to say other ones in different words.

I didn’t completely understand her, it’s funny, to have an entire mother you’ve known your whole life and still wonder what she was actually thinking. Whether she said MASH was her favorite show because she liked it or because everyone else liked it, whether she liked all that egg salad we ate or actually thought Ian would ever be a minister.

Things like that, but I didn’t understand a lot at that point.

I did shut up for her then, I went to put on my long underwear and boots that lived through Minnesota winters, boots that had been to war my youngest sister joked.

I was trying to finish my earth science homework when my father came barging into the kitchen that morning, ‘choochoo!’ He cries and I sit upright in my chair.

“No!” I cry happily and my father’s eyes were already sparkling.

“You bet your bottom dollar kit-kat.” My father nicknamed all his kids after his favorite candy-bars.

“No, no, it’s my turn!” Ian was almost asleep in his cereal, but bolted upright at the first ‘choo.’

I was already on my feet, “Molly went last time and I already have my coat on!” I did, at that very least, have my coat on.

“This is boy sexism!” My brother called because he was learning words like that on reddit (my parents were trying to limit his access). “Phoebe, Molly, and now you! It’s a boys turn.”

My father shrugged, “next time then tootsie roll.” My father gave a little salute, “she already has her jacket on.”

He groans and I stick my tongue out at him.

My father regularly borrowed a snowplow from our neighbors who didn’t have kids and were old enough to save up for a working snow plow and not be able to use it.

My father was the type of man who enjoyed digging people out of snow banks when storms came a knocking. One of my uncles called it a ‘complex’ but my mom retorted that being snowed in just sometimes makes everyone nicer at some point.

She gave him The Look that said ‘you’re from Florida’ and he didn’t respond out loud.

I ran out the door and take the two snowbanks in stride to jump in the passenger’s seat, I was still shivering in the unheated air but I babbled about getting my learner’s permit soon. I would drive the snowplow one year.

My father chuckled and said I should learn to control a headache first before a vehicle, I got a lot of headaches from the grinding.

I sniffed at him and let him drive.

We passed most of our neighbors who were already digging themselves out, inch by inch, layer by layer, maybe snow really did make you slower and nicer, there was nothing left but to do it. You couldn’t have the fire to be mean.

Or maybe it was a complex.

My father started veering into snow piles to clear the streets and work his way up to the more rural parts near us, we already lived on the outer edges of St. Cloud, so it was pretty far out.

I didn’t suspect I was going to see Celeste that day but I did hear that she lived somewhere romantic, somewhere remote and gothic, that’s what Paisley said.

I was a little taken back when I saw a slate gray box house on top of hill and surrounded by white. I wondered what Emily Dickens would feel about it.

Probably something meaningful, I just felt a little dumbstruck as I saw Celeste Renoir struggling through the slushy white waves. She had a shovel in her hand but she wasn’t using it right, more like wielding it than digging with it.

I rolled down my window and started to wave, “Celeste, Celeste, hey!” My father glanced at me but I was looking at her.

Her eyes flicked up and I grinned, “need a hand?” I ask, she opened her mouth but I was already gesturing my father onward, “the cavalry is here!”

I hoot but Celeste was still stony-faced, maybe she didn’t get the point of winter yet.

My father puts the plow in high gear and I gesture for Celeste to get out of the way.

“Is that one of your little friends?” My father asks and I just shrug.

“Something like that.” I hang my head out the window, “you’ll recognize her soon.” Or at least, he should, Celeste had starred in every ballet since mine.

I blink and watch her struggle backward with her usual cast-iron look that said the snow had arrived to personally offend her. I leap out of the car as soon as we get close enough.

“And here you are,” I cry, “and not even in your ballet shoes,” I see with a huge grin, “bestill my beating heart.”

She gives me another unamused look and tries to trudge closer to me, “Don’t tell anyone.” She says dryly, “it’ll ruin my reputation.”

I chuckle, “I won’t tell anyone even Celeste Renoir gets stuck in the snow too.”

She makes a face at me, “if that’s what I’m known for I think I should move.”

I tilt my head and reach out to take the shovel from her as she creeps closer, “known for what?”

“Not getting stuck in the snow,” she sniffs, “there are better reputations than that.”

I try to grasp the handle, “oh darling,” maybe I said that too sweetly, “you’re known for that time Neddy Johnson wet himself in front of you.”

She snorts and makes a little wicked grin, “you’re next.”

I laugh, “you wish.” I take the shovel from her, “now let me show you how it’s done.” I start digging her out and back toward her house, inch by inch, layer by layer.

“My hero.” She says flatly and I didn’t know why she was like this.

She follows dimly in my footsteps as I plow our way back to her front steps where my dad was already chatting with Mr. Renoir warmly.

“…my wife keeps coming home with these pamphlets about how ballet can mess up your feet, do you guys worry about that too? The misses seems a little out of sorts about it.”

Mr. Renoir just hums, “we let Celeste do what she wants, if she says it’s safe, we let her.”

“Oh my five definitely do what they want too!” My father gives a full-bellied laugh and I felt like I was intruding on them.

Mr. Renoir adjusted his gloves, “ballet is good for them I think.”

My father makes an uncommitted motion, “maybe. We still won’t let Kit-Kat do en pointe- not yet at least.”

“That’s a shame,” Celeste speaks up now and I glance at her, she was giving them a steady look like she was a glamorous 42 year old in a fur coat on in the middle of New York City instead of 14 and standing here.

My father turns to blink at her with the same freckly smile, “Celeste! We were just talking about you girls.” He winks at me.

Celeste was holding someone’s imaginary gaze, “Rebecca could be very good if she advanced to en pointe.”

I raise my eyebrow, “uh, maybe?”

She glances at me and looks me up and down, “you’re tall.” She states and I droop a little.

“So people remind me.”

“And narrow. With good hips.” I don’t look her in the eye when she says that, “you should consider joining me for the night practices.”

I scratch my nose half-heartedly, “I’ll think about it.”

Mr. Renoir looked between the two of us, “I hear school is still starting at eleven love.”

Celeste tosses her hand back like she was sweeping her chin-length hair out of her face, “don’t remind me.”

I laugh a little, “I know the feeling.”

“Why don’t I give you I ride to school little lady Renoir?” My father answers genially and both Renoir’s look at him steadily.

Mr. Renoir nods, “that is very nice of you Mr. Johnson.”

He just puts his hands out, “I’m happy to help.” He shakes the snow off his pants, “Kit-kat’s friends are always welcome.”

Celeste raised a fine eyebrow up at me and I wish at least my father wasn’t calling me a candy bar at that specific moment.

Celeste goes back in to get her school bag and I kick a couple ice clumps out of the way as my father makes small talk with the French businessman. Her dad ran a small Home Goods store and Celeste’s mom taught at the university.

I open the door for Celeste the second she comes out, she gives me the same almost-smile as the night of the Nutcracker dance. The one where I stumbled and caught her eye like she wasn’t going to lie to me.

It was a strange feeling when you knew someone in the way you don’t know them.

I hopped into the bucket seat and let Celeste have the window.

My father tunes us out like he wasn’t there and let me talk to her freely.

Celeste talks in statements, “I can’t believe we have school today.” She said with a piercing gaze, “the world could end and the Minnesota school system would still make me leave my house.” She cursed and my father turned the radio up.

I laughed, I loved when she cursed, “that’s a pretty accurate picture. But you sound like staying in your house would keep you alive when the apocalypse zombies come.”

She rolls her eyes and folds her arms across her chest, “obviously I would boil water and wait for the zombies to all freeze up here.”

“What about ice zombies?” I joke, “A costco would work better.” That was something I read online.

“A what?” She was looking at me like she wasn’t a 42 year old in a fur coat in New York City.

I give a little laugh and tell her about the Costco Zombie Theory and we discuss silly plans and bad plots in The Walking Dead, it’s not the worst moment I’ve had with the Mean Girl Ballet Queen.

In fact, I think I got another smile this time.

———

Celeste Renoir started to sarcastically call me her hero after I came for her in the snow drift that winter and I sarcastically turned a fine shade of red back. I wasn’t very good at sarcasm.

I was fifteen and we were starting high school like we wanted to spring to stardom or wall street or the white house, kids had a lot of dreams right then.

Eventually that year, I just wanted to sleep and stop biting my nails to the nub.

Emily Dickens might have thought something beautiful about this too, but I wasn’t very good at beauty, Tina said that’s why I would never get a date to Homecoming Dance.

That was true. My brother had stopped going on reddit and said it was just because they were cowards who couldn’t hit 6’1 yet.

I didn’t really care, I told myself I should care, I also told myself I shouldn’t.

I started to do after-hours practices with Celeste, not because I was crazy about it and not because I was very good, but because it was there and I might as well. Ian called me boring again for that.

Celeste was working in the same way clockwork does: it just keeps ticking, not how ballerina’s in shows did, but with sweat down her back and abs forming under her leotards. She was lithe muscle and perhaps something in her that ticked harder than any clock.

I watched with my mouth dry and I taking too many water breaks. I started to feel guilty.

She spins in circles and I try to keep up with her on Ms. Smith’s word, she says I’m a natural, but I just feel clumsy and like I want to stop wearing eye makeup.

Celeste started teaching me just as much as Ms. Smith did, she told me to squeeze my core and straighten my spine, she took my leg and positioned it in the perfect pique passe. She puts her hands on my belly and back and has me do breathing exercises.

She holds my arms up, she curves my foot more precisely and lifts my inner thigh higher and higher until I feel like I could kick the sky. But was starting to feel really guilty.

It was the middle of the week on an almost-summer day and on the brink of becoming sophomores.

Celeste and I were sitting on the benches and Ms. Smith had gone onto her other classes that day, we regularly practiced alone by that point.

I looked at Celeste, I watch her peel her ballet shoes off her curved feet and massage the inner sole, I give a deep sigh, “does Ms. Smith know you’re bleeding?” I ask softly as I see the deep red wet across her toes.

Celeste’s eyes flash up, “I’m sure she knows enough.”

I look dimly forward, “you should take some time off. Or maybe…she’ll do something.”

Celeste gave a grave smile, “I’m sure she’s been pretending to ignore it for awhile now.”

I glare, “what, do you hate yourself or something? Your bruises look like they have bruises.”

She swished her dark hair back and I think of a Teen Vogue magazine, “everyone hates themselves a little bit ‘becca.”

I roll my eyes dramatically, “That’s stupid. Do your parents know you’re this much of a teenager?” My mom always said teenagers were like that, but maybe Ian would say it was the French in her. He wanted to study international relations instead of be a minister now, I wanted to eat more pudding in bed.

She exhales softly, “I do it because I can.”

I fold at the knee and meet her on the floor, “here.” I reach out to take the long ace bandage from her cracked-knuckle hands, “I’m sure I can get it tighter than you.”

She arches her eyebrows, “my hero.”

She always said it like she was cracking-wise but I take the bandage from her hand and delicately brush against her callused and bloody feet.

“No one wins by breaking their big toe Celeste,” I finally say and she gives me another bored stare.

“They don’t win by barely trying either.” She brushes her hand across my cheek, like a caress.

“Until what?” I skim my knuckles across the deep calluses on the meat of her foot.

“Until I get there,” she grabs my cheek again, but I don’t look up from her bleeding toes, “my parents had nothing, they went to the same university on scholarships and night shifts. I’m not going to come crashing done after they climbed all the way up. That’s not what you do.” She spits the words, “You make something of yourself.”

There was something lovely about the way she forms those words, but I don’t know how to tell her I saw something lovely in her. Not at a time like this. I say nothing at all and she lets my face go.

“Not that you know,” she tilts her head and I am finally looking up, “your family has been here for ages, unmoving I suppose.”

My eyes are wide, her eyes are smokey, I felt the guilt. “Be careful.” I finally say, “I just want you to be careful.”

She sticks out her bleeding foot and I finish bandaging the right one, she finally leans down, “careful of what,” she frowns, “you?”

I blow air out of my nose, “It is a pity that doing one’s best does not always answer.” I clear my throat, “Said by Jane Eyre.”

“Jane Eyre.” She lifts her left foot for me to touch her.

“Yes,” I wrap my hand around her ankle and smile weakly, “I’m not such a country bumpkin as you might assume, Jane Eyre might have a thing or so to say about this.”

Celeste snickers, “maybe I should be careful of you first and foremost.”

I shake my head and keep wrapping, “I’m thinking of joining basketball.” I watch her face.

Her eyes go wide ever so slightly, “why?”

“The same reason I joined ballet,” I say flatly and she chuckles.

“Because you’re silly and tall?”

I run my hand down the spine of her foot, “precisely.”

She gives an extravagant sigh, “I suppose it can’t be helped if that’s how you feel.”

I tuck the end of the bandage in, “I’ll still come to all the performances. Heck, I’ll even come here after school.” As long as she didn’t touch my chest and run her hands down my back again.

She gave me an even look, “you don’t have to.”

I stood up and dust myself off, “oh, but I will.”

She shook her head and leaned back on one of the mirrors, “I guess you don’t have better things to do. But I don’t expect heroism after this.”

I sit down next to her again, “no promises.”

She smiles anyway.

———-

It turns out I was much better at basketball than I was ballet, I didn’t like the running part but I had a promise with my mom and I had to do something.

I was seventeen and this was my last year having to do anything, I quit the flute by sheer force of will but let senior year rile me into a basketball frenzy.

We could win some sort of Minnesota championships if I just kept watching the ball swish down into the bottomlessness pit of the net. That’s what it felt like, that I could just keep falling down with it.

They said I was a natural.

The year felt like a blur, I was taking the SAT one moment, and then applying to colleges the next and then I was facing the death knell of childhood.

I was still seventeen and people were asking why I hadn’t been asked to one dance thus far. Some of the boys had finally passed my 6’3 after all.

I didn’t know what to tell them and I kept shooting baskets instead.

The champions would be held in St Cloud that year, the school buzzed about it and people gave me high fives when I passed their classrooms. I didn’t really understand it, but the finals were when I saw Celeste properly again that year.

Celeste was applying for dance schools that year and distracted by her own bleeding feet and multiple requests from people to go to prom with them. We had grown closer.

We texted every night, I sent her silly pictures of dogs and quotes from Virginia Woolf. She sent me Kitchen Nightmare gifs and ghost stories she found online. She liked ghost stories but not in the way that scared her, but the way it seemed to scare other people.

That sounded dumb too but Celeste was more flare than she was sincerity, I could appreciate her silly selfies she sent me from her dance studio at 11 at night though. She always did smile widely at the end of any practice, like she had figured something out no one else had.

I sent her basketballs with faces drawn on them in lieu of selfies back.

I was playing in the championships and I texted Celeste every night, it was my senior year. However, I was not prepared for her to show up at my last game itself- especially not prepared for her to show up in the wrong cheerleading outfit and yell weird phrases at me whenever I got the ball.

“Becca is the green tea!” She yelled, “stronger than you!”

I laughed and had to wipe my palm down before I took the shot.

“Becca is the gal for you and me, her arms are concrete!” They were silly and I almost suspected she was drunk by the end of the night.

I was breathing heavily by the fourth quarter and I could barely keep myself from taking a water break every five minutes, but maybe that was something else.

I pass the ball to Diana at the last moment, I don’t mind when she makes the winning shot and the game is over in minutes, in seconds. The bell buzzes and that’s an adrenaline rush onto itself.

The moment is sweeter than ripe oranges and I can hear yelling and hands ruffling my hair and hugging me on all sides. We cheer until some of my teammates’ lungs give out.

I only take a break from yelling wordlessly when I saw a small figure in the bleachers who was flashing down a smug grin.

I shake my head and untangle myself from my teammates embrace to go jog over to the steps, she walks slowly over to me too.

I prop my chin up and can’t stop smiling, “you came!”

She looks up at me with ease, “well, you’ve come to all of mine.”

I snicker and look her up and down, “what’s with the outfit? Those aren’t even the right colors.” I comment on the strange cheerleader outfit with orange trims and just a pompom picture on the front.

She puts her hands on her hips, “at least it wasn’t the other team’s colors. I honestly bought the first thing on the rack.”

I run a hand through my hair, “it’s the thought that counts.” I go to hug her and she goes to push me away.

“You’re sweaty!”

I circle my arms around her without actually touching, “isn’t that what you’re here for?”

She sighs into my collarbone and accepts her fate, a give her a proper hug, “losing to you as the Sugar Plum Fairy is the tragedy of my life you know.”

I chuckle back, “We can’t all be winners of course.”

She takes my cheeks in her hand and I pause as she looks me in the eye, “true.” She lifts herself up on her tiptoes and kisses me on the cheek. “Congratulations.”

My mouth falls open and I stand there a little dumbstruck, “what was that for?”

“For winning, duh, and,” she looks over my shoulder at some of our classmates, “they should know.”

I tilt my head to the side and she grabs my wrist, I nod blankly, “okay.”

“Do you want to come over to my house later?”

I can’t say no to that and nod again.

Celeste Renoir lived at the top of a spooky hill that Edgar Allen Poe might approve of if I could actually feel the feelings of dead people.

I was still working on that.

Celeste led me up to her house in her little orange skirt that looked still too cold for the Minnesota spring. I look at the back of her head and feel a little younger, I study her sleek black hair and smile to myself, she had kissed me on the cheek.

Celeste led me up to her room and I sit down on her window seat with the slim light of a distant moon behind me.

I squint at her through the dark but don’t ask to turn the light on.

She settles herself across from me in an old wooden chair and I swear she’s smiling again, “this is the point I would offer you a drink or a cigarette, but we’re both athletes so I guess we’ll pass.”

I snort, “drinking? Smoking?” I shake my head, “What would my mom say.”

She kicks me gently, “I lost the Sugar Plum Fairy part to a square.”

I laugh, “would you have it any other way?”

She twirls her hair, “ideally I would have won it and you would swoon at me.”

I lean back to lie against the window, “you think 12 year old me was capable of swooning? I was barely capable of using a camcorder unsupervised.”

She crept forward slowly from her chair and took the cushion seat next to me, “well, that’s no fair then.”

I leaned my forehead on the window now, “swooning is for other people Princess.” I say evenly, she had recently been the Swan Princess in a production. “I’m more of the hero type, ya know?”

She lets out a large sigh, “I’ve heard.” Her eyes go soft and doughy, I fidget, had she seen through me? Was she going to call me out?

“It is awfully boring at the studio without you though,” she smooths her own skirt out.

“No fun without watching someone watching you become a star?” I joke and want to push her hair back behind her ear. “Don’t worry,” I finally say, “I’ll still be watching.”

She wets her lips and I can’t read the expression on her face. “I see…”

“I’ll even wrap your feet for you,” I say softly, too softly. “When you do that silly thing where you try and dance yourself into a movie explosion.”

She looks up to ceiling with a deep sigh, “you are ridiculous.”

I give a half smile and look down at my lap, “I have to do something to be less boring.”

Celeste looks surprised at me for the first time it felt like, her pretty eyes going wide, “boring?”

“Boring.” I confirm, still trying to joke.

“You somehow think you’re boring?”

I look the other direction and don’t know what to say to that, I put the nubs of my fingers down. I had stopped biting them every single hour, but daily was still pretty bad.

“Don’t worry about it,” I say lamely, “people like you always have…things. I’m sure you have enough passion for a whole city.” I shrug, “I just don’t.”

She leans forward and practically forces my chin up, “you really think you’re boring?”

I shrug, “what else could it be? Besides tall and covered in freckles.”

She gives a sly smile, “but you see, I’ve always been interested in those freckles.” I make a face at her, something mis-computed in my brain as if I tried to process it on a 1998 Dell. “You could even say I was the one at least swooning a little.”

I raise my eyebrows and try to wipe the sweat off my palms, my face is flushed and downturned, “you don’t have to…you know.”

She takes my hand gently and her eyes are wide, a little frightened, she hovers closer to me like an unsure star caught in orbit.

“I-I,” She was gaping and struggling with something like English words or an unclear pasta recipe. “I’m not.” She finally says and her face is inches from mine but tired. I hold her gaze a little like I’m looking for something, I concede.

We’re both very tired.

“Alright darling.” I reached for the back her head and draw her into a heady flashing kiss.

As slow as galaxies merging and an eleven year old slipping their feet on en pointe slippers, slow and rough and inevitable. I kiss her with a breath-catching hitch and lean her head back until everything is dizzy and glowing.

The unnamable guilt melts away for a moment, something soft and anonymous lies underneath.

She kisses me timidly, like she didn’t know what to do with herself or any limb she had honed into a perfect machine over all these years. She grabs my ponytail and drags me down anyway.

It tastes a little like the first snowfall and sparklers in July.

We kiss until all the breath is sucked out of me and every thought I ever had is but a memory, I kiss her because I can. Who knew.

We only pull away when we’re both panting and flushed.

She is smiling, truly wonderfully smiling until the dimples break across her cheeks and her eyes look like they might be watering. It was like I was waiting a lifetime for it, and she smiles once more, the dawn breaking and I could kiss her again, and again.

#wlw #sapphic #original writing #original story #gay ballerinas #I usually lose followers when I post these so please bare with me

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letthesleepingdoglie · 6 years ago

Text

The Long Road - 06

Title: Rebound

Part: 06 of 12

Rated: T

Gotham City

January 15 th , 2012

21:15

Team Year Two

“Not a bad start, right?” Dick asked half-playfully, half hopefully. He wrapped an arm around Zatanna’s shoulders and pulled her close. “I mean, this has gotta be a solid eight. At least.”

While they had technically been official for just over a year now, their activities usually consisted of hanging out in the cave or missions with the team. In that time, he had never done anything with her just as Dick Grayson.

Zatanna had pointed this out to him (not as a complaint, merely an observation) and here they were, a day later, out in the world as two ordinary teenagers. She looked amused as Dick held her hand and led her away from the restaurant that had been the venue for their first date.

“You rate all your first dates?” She asked teasingly.

Dick ran his free hand through his hair, looking embarrassed. “Technically speaking, you’re the first, so… yeah.”

She blushed at that, but looked elated at the same time. “I’m whelmed.” She said, standing on the tips of her toes and kissing him quickly on the cheek. “Dinner was nice, but an eight is reaching. I’ll go seven and a half.”

“Where I come from, that’s a cause for celebration.” Dick smiled as he pulled his phone out of his coat pocket.

“Are you taking a picture?”

“Seven and a half?” Dick said with a shrug. ”Come on—That’s like, future relationship numbers. We’re gonna want to remember this.” Dick gestured for her to step closer. Zee rolled her eyes jokingly, but she didn’t resist as he put his arm around her waist and pulled her closer.

“That’s… pretty cute of you.” She whispered into his ear.

He straightened happily. “Really?”

“Yeah.” She kissed his cheek as he took the picture. “It’s almost worth an eight.”

Barcelona, Spain

August 10th, 2016

10:06 AM CET

“Looking good, Dick.” Raya said, as they climbed down from the board in the middle of the big top. Since the night Boston had recognized him as a Grayson, Dick hadn’t felt the need to hide his real name from the trapeze artists of Haly’s Circus.

He smiled back at her in thanks.

He and Boston had spent the better part of the last three weeks choreographing the movements and tricks necessary to replicate several moves from the vast repertoire possessed by the Flying Grayson’s.

Dick knew his family had been good, but it hadn’t occurred to him how good they had been until he’d come back to the circus. Granted, the people he was working with were all skilled aerialists, but they were all used to performing moves with a catcher that would be able to assist them.

The moves that the Flying Graysons had performed, the moves that Dick had grown up with, didn’t involve catchers at all. Each of the Flying Graysons had been able to catch a moving bar in any situation. Flips, rolls, pirouettes, it didn’t matter. Once, he’d seen his cousin Johnny come out of a triple somersault and catch a bar with his ankles. That was the talent that his family had possessed.

Still though, due in no small part to the skill and effort of everyone on the team, things were going quite well under the big top, and Dick loved the new routines that he’d developed with Boston.When he practiced, when he performed, he could stop thinking about Wally’s death and relish the feeling of flying on a trapeze once again.

It also felt like he was rediscovering his past. What would life had been like if Tony Zucco hadn’t taken his family away from him? If things had gone only a little differently, this could have been the path his life would have taken. If he wanted to, it could still be the path his life followed.

Dick wasn’t sure how he felt about that.

Training occupied most of his time during the day, and the performances took up most of the night, but there were still long hours where Dick found himself without anything to do. Often, he found himself just lying in his bunk, staring off into space and thinking.

Most of the time, Dick thought about the time he’d spent with Wally, or with his own family. He spent time with old Jack Haly often, hoping to catch some measure of the peace and happiness he’d felt as a boy.

Perhaps sensing his melancholy, Boston made it a point to invite Dick to dinner with his family every few nights.

Dick appreciated the effort to make him feel welcome, but it did come with an annoying caveat: upon learning his real name, and the past connection that Dick and Boston had shared, Lorna had taken it upon herself to be his personal matchmaker.

Apparently, she’d gotten the entire Brand family to back her effort: three times now, when Boston had asked him to babysit Sophia for a night, Dick showed up at their rented apartment to find Raya there, having been asked by Lorna perform the exact same duties. Sophia was an easy child to watch and had an early 8:00PM bedtime, which meant that Dick usually ended up spending several hours in Raya’s company by the time Boston and Lorna returned home.

It wasn’t that Raya was a trial to be around, but there were certain things that made him feel… well, he wasn’t sure how he felt about them. He noticed that when they sat together, Raya tended to sit closer to him than was absolutely necessary. Also, there was a lot of physical contact between the two of them. Not in a sexual way, but it was noticeable. A lingering hand when she passed him something, or perhaps pressing a bit of her cleavage into his chest when he caught her on the swing during rehearsal: largely innocent, but extremely effective at causing Dick to pay attention to her.

Confusing moments aside, he liked spending time with Raya. She was intelligent, witty, charming, and undeniably attractive. Just talking with her was soothing, and as the days went by Dick found himself looking forward to her company outside of their many rehearsals together.

Part of him longed to open up to her a bit more intimately, but the other part of him felt bad about the possibility that he would be pursuing Raya just because he was lonely, and in pain.

Besides, how was he supposed to sort out his lingering feelings for both Zatanna and Barbara if he kept developing new entanglements to confuse himself with? And so, Dick had resolved to try and keep his distance.

All these thoughts crossed Dick’s mind by the time he finally reached the bottom of the ladder. Focusing on being a circus performer had let him escape the worst of the pain he’d felt as Wally’s loss, but it it was starting feel like he wasn’t going to find an answer on who he was here. His past was an important part of his history, but it wasn’t what defined him as a person.

His frustration must have shown on his face.

“Something wrong?” Raya raised a questioning eyebrow.

“Huh?” Dick started. He had completely forgotten Raya had been talking to him. He shook his head as if to clear it. “No, nothing’s wrong. Just tired.”

Raya gave him a sympathetic pat on the back. “The amount of time you spend practicing, I’m not surprised.”

They headed left the big top and headed toward the area reserved for Circus staff. Now that they were done with practice, they had about four hours free before they had to start preparing for their show at 7:00.

Raya went slightly ahead and spun so that she was walking backwards in front of him. “You got plans tomorrow?” She asked somewhat hopefully.

He smiled and shook his head no. Usually, he tried to eat with either Boston’s family or Jack Haly if they were free, but both would be preoccupied tomorrow.

“Well, since we’ve got the day off tomorrow, I’m gonna take advantage of the peace and quiet to cook some spaghetti. Care to join me?”

Dick hesitated. A night completely alone with Raya…

The younger Dick Grayson, the one who hadn’t been dumped, and who hadn’t lost his best friend, would have jumped at the chance to spend a whole evening with her without interruptions.

Not that he had been disloyal to Barbara when they had been together; she had made it clear she didn’t want him to turn anyone he had an interest in away because of her. He’d never understood why, but then again, he didn’t understand most of the significant romantic relationships he’d had over the last six years.

He had dated Zatanna on and off for years, with their breakups primarily being caused by the stress of maintaining their relationship while also juggling their responsibilities at school and the Team. Their time apart never lasted though. Powers or not, she’d always entranced him.

Their last break up, almost a year ago, had felt different. He knew now it was because it was because Zatanna hadn’t wanted to watch him break himself, but back then, he’d thought that she’d gotten a glimpse of the darkness he’d kept hidden inside himself, and been repelled by it.

It was during the latest of those off-periods that he’d gotten his reputation as a dog, where he slept around in an effort to feel some sort of intimacy. It also helped him escape from the stress he felt from sending Aqualad out into harms way. As a result, most of those relationships had been purely physical.

One of the few exceptions had been where he’d fallen into a relationship with Rocket, where he cared for her during the difficult months of her pregnancy, when she was about to become a single mother. Both of them knew that it wouldn’t last, but Rocket had been grateful for his support.

The other had been Barbara.

For years he’d been torn between the knowledge that being Batman’s successor meant that he’d have to make the hard decisions that no one else could or would, and the desire to be the open and carefree guy that he usually was without the mask. When Barbara had donned her own cape and cowl, he’d been elated because he thought he’d found a friend who could understand the darkness that he knew existed within him.

That hope had drawn him to her, and over the last year, they’d transitioned into something more than friends, but not quite lovers. It was both of their faults: she’d kept him at arms length, and he’d held himself back.

He didn’t want to complicate his lingering feelings for Zatanna and the feelings of hurt he’d felt from his breakup with Barbara by dealing with another intimate relationship. He didn’t trust himself to keep things physical in his current state of emotional vulnerability.

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea…” Dick began.

“C’mon.” Raya cut him off. “It’ll just be a nice dinner between two friends. Nothing to be scared of.”

Raya stopped suddenly, so that Dick walked into her. She grasped the front of his leotard and pulled so that they were face to face, and did her best impression of a puppy dog. “Pleeease?”

Dick chuckled, but he noticed there was an intense cast to her eyes that seemed out of place. She was smiling in her usual charming way, but there was a look of definite anticipation in her green eyes. It made him feel like the decision on whether or not to accept her invitation was important.

It also made him feel foolish for overthinking things.

He chuckled at his absurdity, feeling some of his old playfulness return. “Alright. I’d love to have dinner with you…” Raya’s grip relaxed on his leotard. “… as long as you serve my every whim and I get to eat all the spaghetti I-.”

Dick let out a sound somewhere between a yelp and a laugh as Raya pinched the muscles at his side.

————————————————————————————————————

The next night, Dick met Raya at the small apartment the circus had rented for her bearing gifts.

“Oh, wine.” She said, eyeing the bottles with obvious glee. ”Trying to take advantage of my maidenly charms and corrupt my virtue, hmmm?” Raya winked at him, which had the double effect of causing his heart to race and his mind to worry.

Dick put on his best smile. “I doubt a dozen hookers with a truck full of whisky could corrupt you, Raya.”

“They wouldn’t know where to start.” He added under his breath.

Raya laughed as she handed him a bottle opener. “Come in. I was just about done cooking. You sit at the table and pour the wine while I finish up.” She guided him into a chair next to the small table next to a window before returning to the small kitchen and bringing the food to the table.

“I hope you like it.” Raya said, setting a steaming plate of spaghetti in front of him. “My mom taught me how to make it.” She watched him expectantly as he raised a forkful of the pasta to his mouth. He smiled.

The food was good and Raya blushed when Dick told her so before digging in to the plate in front of him. They talked as they ate, conversing about subjects ranging from places they had seen to their respective histories in the circus.

Despite his earlier reservations, Dick found himself relaxing as the evening progressed, due to both the excellent company and the bottle and a half of wine he and Raya consumed. Unfortunately, his sense of relaxation disappeared as Dick found himself just… looking at Raya. Not paying attention to what she was saying or doing, but just looking at her; the way her hair moved, or the lovely smoothness of the skin of her neck.

This always happened to him when he was in the presence of a beautiful woman.

The feeling persisted after they had cleared the plates away, leaving him staring at her awkwardly. If she had noticed his current inability to communicate or respond intelligently, she didn’t show it, continuing on with her story of learning how to perform on the aerial straps.

Before long, as Dick was paying attention to the fullness of Raya’s lips, he felt the urge to kiss her. He managed to suppress the urge, but it only grew stronger as time went on. “I should go.” He said abruptly, cutting her off mid-conversation.

He stood up, but Raya followed him out of his chair. Before he could say anything, she leaned closer and kissed him fiercely.

He stiffened at first, his mind paralyzed, but as always in his moments of intellectual uncertainty, his body took over for him. He found himself kissing her back before he could stop himself. Apparently, that was all the encouragement Raya needed, because somehow she had already managed to push him against the wall behind him and untuck his shirt by the time he could tear himself away the kiss.

“Raya-.” He said breathlessly. “Please, just listen.”

Amazingly, that stopped her. For all of two seconds. She gave him an arched eyebrow before she leaned in and began kissing him again. He managed to grab her by the elbows and hold her physically at bay as he sat up.

Dick told her everything, or as much as he could without revealing things he shouldn’t. He left out all the names, didn’t mention any capes, tried to obscure the actions and the people, but he tried to give her everything she needed to understand what he was doing there.

The complicated feelings of loss and hope the circus presented for him. His strained relationship with Wally because of a stressful position he had put Artemis in. Wally dead, before he could make amends. The confusion of his lingering feelings for Zatanna combined with his desire to make things right with Barbara. He laid all of his emotional turmoil out for her to see, trying to make her understand why it was so difficult for him.

He managed to conclude with “I’m just… I don’t know, I’m all over the place right now. I like you, but, I don’t want to make this complicated” He sighed, resolving to just keep silent. Dick couldn’t think of anything to say, not that he was surprised or frustrated anymore; not knowing things seemed to be his default state these days.

Raya stood there, looking at him with an appraising look in her eye. He was sure that at this point, she would just call it a night and ask him to leave. What he wasn’t prepared for was for Raya to shrug and lean in to kiss him again.

It was a different kiss from the one she had given him before. This one was just as strong, not allowing him to break free or resist her, but much more subdued, almost gentle.

Dick’s mind went blank again.“What are you doing?”

“I know about all that already. Not the specifics,” She said quickly as she caught a quick flash of panic in his eyes, “but you know… the general idea. Boston told me about what happened to your parents. When you’re alone after practice, you have this sad look that says you’re in a lot of pain. Like you have the weight of the world on your shoulders.”

Raya shrugged. “We both know you won’t be staying here permanently, or for very long. So let me help you forget it for a while.” Dick shuddered as she stroked the ticklish part of his ribs. She smirked. “It’s not like I won’t be enjoying the process.”

The development caught Dick by surprise. He momentarily relaxed his grip on her elbows. “But-“ Raya rolled her eyes and kissed him.

When she released him, he tried to speak again.

“But-“ Raya grasped his head and kissed him again. The conscious part of him gave a grunt of frustration, while the unconscious part moved his hands off her arms and onto her waist, unconsciously pulling her closer.

“It wouldn’t be fair to you.” Dick finally managed to get out when she released him. He was consciously struggling to keep his body in check this time. It wasn’t easy, with the blood rushing to a rather male part of his anatomy.

“You’re the only one who cares.” She whispered to him. Dick opened his mouth to reply, but she shushed him with a finger over his lips.

She gave him a considering look for a moment before taking him by the hand. “Come with me.” She didn’t exert much force into pulling him along with her, but she didn’t need to. With his mind frozen by indecision, his body obeyed, following along as she led him towards the bed.

Suddenly, Raya spun him so that his back was to the bed and gave him a hard shove, sending him sprawling backwards. As Dick laid back on the bed, she sauntered back over to him, swaying her hips sensuously as she climbed back onto the bed and straddled him. She seized the hands he had placed on her hips and guided them upwards, lifting up her shirt in the process.

She gave a breath of contentment as her shirt came off, exposing her breasts to the open air. “Well?” she said in a tone more prodding than questioning.

Luckily, this was an area where Dick knew he excelled. He reached up and wrapped a hand behind her neck to pull her lips down to meet his. As she leaned in the kiss, he seized the opportunity to roll them so that she was pinned beneath him.

They stayed like that for a long moment before she pushed against his shoulders in an attempt to breathe. As he broke the kiss, Dick was pleased to see that Raya was breathing heavily.

“I’m whelmed.” He said.

She laughed. “You’re what?”

“You’ll get it eventually.” He smirked before leaning down to kiss her again.

#young justice #young justice fanfic #young justice fanfiction #nightwing #dick grayson

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