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autumnsart22 · 4 years ago

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A Dream Come True: Shigaraki x Dabi x Reader part 2/2

Part 2 of the fanfic my friend wrote!

Warning: SMUT 🔥

Dabi strode off down the hall and you started to work on putting the rest of the groceries away, and cleaning some dishes in the sink. Shigaraki stood up from the table and walked into the kitchen. He looked around before looking at you, raising the empty beer bottle. You opened the drawer that held the trash and recycling and he threw it in with a loud clunk. He stood there in the middle of the kitchen for a little while before you finally asked,

“Can I help you?”

“You’re standing in front of the fridge.” he states plainly. You roll your eyes and move out of the way as he grabs another beer. He makes his way back to the table and sits down.

You both pass the time in silence as he sips on his beer and you finish cleaning the kitchen. At some point Dabi comes out of the bathroom still drying his hair with a towel wearing nothing but your brother's old pair of black joggers that look slightly too big but the strings in the front were tied tight preventing them from falling any lower. Dear god what have you done to deserve this? He switched with Shigaraki who took his turn in the bathroom while you scoured the apartment for extra blankets and pillows and threw them on the couch. When Shigaraki was done in the shower he came out in a long sleeve white shirt and your ex-boyfriend's old pair of grey sweatpants. He joined Dabi who had heated up one of the soba cups from the store.

“Okay I’m gonna go shower, you can just...yea” you spoke out loud trailing off as neither of them paid you any attention, and you left to go to the bathroom. You peeled off your work clothes, just some black jeans and a black blouse, throwing them into the same pile of clothes as Dabi and Shigaraki’s. You took your time washing your hair and and shaving your legs feeling like you deserved to pamper yourself a little given your night. You weren’t that tired given that you basically turned nocturnal since working at the bar. When you felt fresh and clean you dried off and wrapped yourself up in a towel to head to your room. Once you changed into some sweats and a tank top you made your way back out to the living room to find Dabi, now wearing a black t-shirt, and Shigaraki on the couch both nursing another beer while talking in hushed tones which again halted the moment they saw you. They both looked at you.

“What?” You said confused on why they were both staring at you.

“I have more questions,” Shigaraki stated, finally averting his gaze away from you, although it seemed reluctant.

“Okay...shoot” you said walking into the kitchen for a glass of water then plopping onto the middle section of the couch in between them. If there was one piece of furniture you splurged on it was this couch. It was a huge ‘U’ shape and could fit up to 10 people if they squished side by side. Shigaraki and Dabi were both sprawled on the two sides of the couch with you sitting in the bottom of the U.

“What sort of art or shit do people create about us?”

You almost choke on your water. That was not the sort of question you were expecting.

“Why?” you said suspiciously.

“You mentioned it earlier and I’m curious,” Shigaraki said, making large hand gestures swinging his beer bottle around. He must be getting kinda tipsy.

“Fine but if I’m answering these questions. I’m gonna need a stronger drink”

“All out here princess” Shigaraki says, taking the last gulp of his beer and waving it towards you.

“Same here.” Dabi says holding his beer bottle up, as though expecting you to take it. You stand up and grab both bottles and chuck them into the recycling, then grabbing a bottle of rum from the back of your cabinet. You make your way back to the couch and take a large swig shuddering as it goes down. Shigaraki motions for the bottle and you hand it over passing it to Dabi afterwards.

“Okay so back to my question”

“Well people write and draw all kinds of shit. Everything from just realistic art or funny art to overtly sexual” Shigaraki raises an eyebrow at this.

“What you don’t believe me?” You ask laughing slightly cause if only they knew.

“People think of crusty in that way?” Dabi laughs.

“Hey like you’re any better staples. Y/N who do people like more?” Shigaraki shoots.

“That’s gotta be Dabi. He’s pretty well known as being attractive”

“Fuck you” Shigaraki pouts and Dabi smirks to himself.

“Hey it’s not my fault, and trust me there’s still a ton of shit about you. And some of both of you” You said this last part quickly while taking another large swallow of rum. You couldn’t help yourself.

“What do you mean the both of us?” Dabi and Shigaraki looked at you hesitantly.

“Well people like to put you two together. It’s called shipping, or they just pair you together as like a duo in fanfiction”

Both of their reactions looked like they were about to gag and murder the other at just the thought of what people had had them do to eachother.

“Okay that’s the most disgusting thing I have ever heard in my life” Dabi says reaching for the bottle which you hand over willingly.

“Moving on from that,” Shigaraki says, shaking his head as though to physically erase his mind. “So Y/N you’re obviously a fan. Who are your favorites?”

“I don’t know. I have a lot of people I like and don’t like. It depends.” At this point your brain was becoming warm and fuzzy but you didn’t want to let anything slip out that could be potentially embarrassing or would make the two men turn against you.

“Bullshit. Spill”

“I told you it depends”

“On what?” he said this with a sneer.

“I don’t know” You said exasperatedly. “my mood, who’s been most present in the media. It just depends on what I’m looking for.”

“What you’re looking for?” Dabi repeated confusedly.

“Next question” You state simply.

The two villains raise their eyebrows at you, curious at your evasion of the question, but your lips stay shut.

“Fine we’ll come back to that one Princess.” Shigaraki complies.“What do we look like in the show? I mean do we look different in real life?”

“Shouldn’t we be trying to figure out how to get you guys back?” you ask.

“Not much we can do about it. I’m sure the rest of the league and Kurogiri are tracking down those thugs right now, so answer my question”

“I don’t know. I guess you look kinda different, but I can still recognize you. I can show you if you want?” Shigaraki looks at you with affirmation. You get up to get your computer which you hook up to the tv screen in front of the couch. Dabi and Shigaraki turn so they can see the television, both laying down on their backs. You open your laptop (sorry I am basing it off my computer) and type in your password.

“Is that Shoto?” Dabi says disgustedly. There was in fact a fanart picture of Todoroki amongst the collage that was your background screen.

“Oh yeah. He would be in the it depends list” you say timidly quickly opening up the browser to cover up the background.

“Why the fuck did he look like some 20 year old model?”

“I told you, it’s fanart. People draw characters the way they see them or want to see them. Shoto is also really popular amongst fans if not the most I would say”

Dabi makes a noise of revulsion. You turn back to start typing in Shigaraki’s name into the browser and instantly images pop up as well as the fandom wiki and regular wiki articles. You click on images and start to scroll through.

“This is weird” Shigaraki says slightly in awe but disturbed at seeing this world's visions of his life. “Here give me that” he says gesturing towards your computer. You hand it over reluctantly.

“Seriously?!” he says grabbing the laptop.

“What?” you say hesitantly. Did you forget to close out of something?

He lifts the computer for Dabi to also see the two stickers on the sides of your trackpad.

“The anger explosion boy and pro eraserhead?” Dabi said, judgement was obvious in his tone.

“What?” you said defensively.

“Nothing I just thought you’d be a villain girl and all”

WTF, you think. What was that supposed to mean?

“Why do you think that? And who says I’m not?”

Dabi raised an eyebrow in interest but didn't answer your taunts, instead turning back to the screen. Shigaraki has been scrolling through and tapping on pictures of himself making little noises and reactions.

“This is fucking weird” He states again, the screen was stopped on a very sultry piece of fanart of Shigaraki.

“Take that down you freak. No one needs to see your crusty dusty body like that. Hand it over.” Dabi tells Shigaraki.

Shigaraki passes the computer over and Dabi searches his own name seeing all the pictures of him, although significantly more fanart pops up for him. He scrolls for a little bit but becomes weirded out or downright just bored at the photos of him. He then goes back to the wikipedia page and starts to read. While the two men continue to look at the screen and read information about their show, you stand up and head to the kitchen feeling peckish. You wander through the kitchen opening and closing all the cabinets waiting for something to catch your eye. You open the fridge and close it moving onto the freezer. Your eyes scan the contents when you spot the pint of chocolate fudge ice cream. You take it out and grab a spoon making your way back to the couch. When you get to the couch both Shigaraki and Dabi are staring at you again with intensity and amusement.

“What?” you say, plopping back into your spot, struggling to tear open the plastic and resorting to using your teeth. With both of them still staring at you as though waiting for something, you look at the screen and see that your messages are open. You take a second to read the new text from your friend.

‘Dude have you read this Shiggy Dabs fanfic? It made me 🤤🥵’

‘This ones similar to the last one you sent me, so be prepared⛓️😂’

Your heart sank as you saw the familiar logo of Ao3 underneath those texts.

“What were you saying about being a villain girl?” Dabi said, smirking.

“I––” You had no idea what to say.

“Aww is the Princess embarrassed” Shigaraki says teasingly.

You try to get up to leave but a hand roughly pulls you back down and you hide behind your hands refusing to look at the two villains. This was so embarrassing. What were you going to do? Now they knew that you liked them. That you were like the other people in this world that they had been disgusted by all night. They weren’t likely to just let this go. If only you could get to your room and lock the door maybe they would just leave.

“Come on don’t be shy. Are we on your depends list?”

They take your silence and continued evasion as an affirmation.

“Hmm…” You hear Dabi hum lowly. “What exactly are we dependent on? What are you looking for when you search for us?” Dabi asks, already knowing the answer.

“Come on tell us” Shigaraki coos. You shake your head. You could feel both of the boys drawing closer to you like school bullies cornering you in the bathroom, but you didn’t dare look up at them, too embarrassed. That’s when you heard typing. Your head whips up to see Dabi replying to your friend.

‘What exactly do you mean by similar?’

By the time you read what he wrote they were already responding.

‘You know 😂 the usual non-con threesome with you and dabs and shigs. Kidnapping, ropes, degradation, similar to all the other fanfics 😋 tho in this one you cum four times and each a dif way😳 ’

If your stomach dropped even more. It would have touched the ground.

“So not only are you a villain’s girl but you’re a kinky little slut too?” Dabi says chuckling. He was practically next to you staring at your frozen figure as you looked at the screen.

“I should have known when you walked out here with these cute little things poking out” He reached over and pinched your nipple tugging on the metal barbell through it. You squealed instinctually pulling away but he caught the top of your tank top effectively pulling it down revealing your breasts, each decorated with a metal piercing.

You motion to cover them, but your hands are once again forced behind your back, however this time Shigaraki had the pleasure of restraining you.

“Let go of me!” you yelped at the humiliating assault.

“I thought you liked this?” Dabi said in mock sympathy. “Just how many times have you gotten off to us?”

You were squirming trying to remove yourself from Shigaraki’s grip.

“Answer the question” Dabi said, pinching your nipple again. You yelped in pain but you could feel the slick starting to build between your legs.

“A lot okay. Now let go!”

Dabi and Shigaraki complied surprisingly. You regained your breath and pulled your tank top back up. The next few minutes passed in silence as Shigaraki took another swig of rum and Dabi continued to scroll through the different My Hero wikipedia pages. You got up still in shock taking your forgotten ice cream back to the freezer. You had lost your appetite.

What were you supposed to do now? You were still slightly scared of them after what just happened but you couldn’t ignore the arousal that had been sparked deep within you. You had dreamt of this many times. This wasn’t much different than the different fanfiction you had read, and honestly this would be on the tamer end, but that was just fiction. But were you really going to pass up this chance? How could you? Yet why’d they stop? You were surprised and honestly kinda disappointed they had now that you were standing in the kitchen. And with that you had made up your mind. You are not going to pass up this chance you could never forgive yourself.

You made your way back over to the couch but didn’t sit down. You stood in front of them silent staring at your feet, trying to figure out what you wanted to say.

“What?” Dabi said as though nothing had happened.

“Why’d you stop?” you asked timidly.

“Hmm? Because you said so.” Dabi said as though this was an obvious answer to a stupid question.

You looked at him surprised.

“Don’t believe me?” He said with a small chuckle.

When you didn’t seem to get any less anxious he continued with a sigh.

“Look Princess, I may be a bastard and sadistic villain but I don’t go wishing pain on everyone, especially ones with cute tits. Of course if they’re into that then I’m down” He said this so casually it seemed almost wrong, all while he continued to watch your computer screen. You assumed it was in part due to the alcohol, but still.

“you’re blocking the screen,” Shigaraki said annoyed.

“Was that all princess?” Dabi said mockingly

“Well….”

“What?” Shigaraki spat.

“Hurry up,” Dabi said flatly.

“What if I wanted to continue?” You said finally looking up at them. They both looked at you intently, then gave each other a look and were smiling when their eyes fell back to you.

“Our little Princess wants to live out her dirty villainous fantasies...huh?”

You nod. Wait did they just say our?

“Come on tell us what you’ve dreamt about?” Dabi says beckoning you over to him with one finger.

Once you’re in front of him, he pulls you down onto his lap so you're facing him. You look at him hesitantly biting your lip.

“You’re the expert of these little situations, Princess” he says holding his hands up for you to guide them. You take his hands slowly, unsure of your actions and guide them back to your breasts. He gives you a smirk and gives you a good squeeze, causing a small moan to escape your throat. You instinctually grind down into his lap feeling his member start to harden beneath you. You lean your head back as Dabi pulls your tank top over your head. You look over at Shigaraki who’s staring at you starting to palm himself through the sweats.

“Him too princess?” Dabi asks you, giving your nipples a pinch causing you to moan all the while still staring at Shigaraki “Mmmhmmm”

This was enough for Shigaraki to slide down the couch to where the two of you were.

“Tell him where you want him, otherwise he won’t know what to do, I can’t imagine he’s done this before” Dabi encourages.

“Oh shut up” Shigaraki hisses, but he focuses back on you when you grab his hand and bring it to your neck. He insticutally keeps one finger raised, but you push that finger down with the rest deep into the side of your neck limiting the oxygen flowing to your brain, enough to give you that high. Flooded with pleasure you grind down again into Dabi feeling your underwear starting to become uncomfortably wet.

Looking into Shigaraki’s crimson eyes, you could feel them boring into you just as hungry as you felt. He leans in close, lips barely ghosting over your own. You could feel both of your breaths mixing in the millimeters between you two when Dabi gives a harsh tug to both your nipples causing you to gasp. Shigaraki seized this opportunity to violently smash your lips together. Your hand reaches into his hair, gripping for support as the initial ferver and clash of teeth dies down into long passionate tangling of tongues as you explore each other's mouth. His rough lips scratching into your’s was a sensation you’ve imagined many times but none of it lived up to reality. He nipped lightly on your bottom lip making you lean into him more.

Dabi’s hands continued their exploration of your torso, moving down your sides to your hips and around to your ass. He squeezed and kneaded them with his strong fingers. Shigaraki squeezed your neck again sending another rush of euphoria to your head making you moan into his mouth before he pulled away to attack your neck and take over teasing your breasts. You look back at Dabi with hunger in your eyes.

“What now princess? What do you want?” He says with a devilish grin.

You grind down into his cock again which is now hard as ever.

“Uh-uh. Use your words.” he says giving your ass a squeeze.

Shigaraki rolls your nipples in between his harsh fingers sending waves of pleasure and pain throughout your body, causing you to roll your head again and let out a short moan. When you look back at Dabi, you speak in a low breathy tone, almost a whisper.

“Abuse me”

With those few words, Dabi smirks and slips his hands underneath the waistband of your sweats. “As you wish”

Shigaraki continues his attack to your neck sucking and biting, leaving red and darkened patches curving down your shoulder and back. Dabi continued his groping, and you could feel the rough staples scratching at your flesh and his nails digging in harsher than before. His hands slide down the curve of your ass tugging your soiled underwear to the side.

“Hmmm you’re so wet.” Dabi said, ghosting his fingers over your dripping entrance.

“You little whore. Getting so wet for a couple of villains” You shiver at the sensitive touch and degrading words. Gripping to Shigaraki’s shirt and grinding down trying to gain friction, you notice Shigaraki palming himself again. You replace his hand with your own, wrapping your fingers around his clothed cock, squeezing lightly. Shigaraki groaned deeply in your ear, sending vibrations straight to your core while Dabi’s fingers dip slightly into your needy hole but only enough to tease more juices and whimpers out of you. You try to push down onto them only for him to retreat.

“Please...stop teasing” you whine.

“So needy Princess huh? You want my fingers in that little cunt of yours?”

“Yes. Dabi. Please” you didn't care at this point how pathetic you sounded. The pressure in your core was building and you needed to be pushed over the edge.

“Go on...make yourself cum on my fingers. Show me how much you want it,” Dabi said sneering at how desperate you looked. He finally allowed two fingers to sink into you as you lowered your hips again. You were always amazed at how much deeper fingers other than your own could reach, and Dabi’s in particular could reach places you could never dream of finding on your own.

The effect was immediate. You started to roll your hips, bouncing slightly on Dabi’s fingers. You’re grip on Shigarak’s member stalls as you’re overwhelmed with pleasure. Shigaraki, displeased by this fact, guides you inside his sweats, pumping himself with your hand. You could feel the precum leaking from his slit as your fingers smear it up and down his shaft. Shigaraki continued his abuse of your flesh, moving down biting and sucking till his teeth latched onto your sensitive nipple. You whine as Dabi’s other hand had found your clit. He twirled it between his fingers letting his nail drag over it. This added stimulation drove you closer sending shivers up your spine.

“Mm close” you whimper as your movements on Dabi’s fingers become sloppy.

“Come on princess. Make yourself cum, make a pretty little mess all over my fingers”

Dabi presses into your clit and you grind down hard again. Dabi wickedly curls his fingers pressing into that soft spot inside you releasing the knot of pressure that had been building in your core.Your legs shake and you clamp down hard onto his fingers which are still moving in and out of you, prolonging your orgasm.

You weakly fall forward onto Dabi’s chest as Shigaraki releases your hand from his dick. You can feel Dabi’s fingers pull out of you and when you open your eyes you see him playing with your sticky release coating his fingers. You watch as Dabi brings his fingers to his mouth, smearing some on his lip and licking it before taking them into his mouth, sucking and cleaning yourself off of him.

“Princess you’re delicious” He says smiling down at you making you blush at the crude compliment.

“My turn to taste'' Shigaraki said, pulling you off Dabi’s lap. He positioned you on your back, your head resting on Dabi’s thigh. As Shigaraki did away with your sweats and underwear, you pulled Dabi’s mismatched lips to yours. The feeling was heavenly. You could still taste yourself on his tongue as he explored your mouth. You tugged needily at Dabi’s shirt and he pulled it off only breaking the kiss for a brief moment.

You savored the wet and slow pace opposite to Shigaraki’s fast and rough, both pleasure in their own ways. You’re breath hitched and you moaned deeply when you felt Shigaraki’s wet tongue lick the length of your core, swiping up the sticky left overs from your previous release.

You look down at Shigaraki. He had positioned himself between your thighs, knees slumped over his shoulders. He was staring up at you licking his lips before attaching himself to your clit sucking at it harshly. You could feel that ball of pressure tighten again in your stomach and you let your head fall back to Dabi’s thigh, eyes shut, focusing on the feeling of the hot wet mouth working at your sex. You’re hand threaded its way into Shigaraki’s silky blue hair, tugging lightly, only making him suck harder.

You felt Dabi’s hand on your cheek and you opened your eyes looking up into his sapphire eyes before he turned your head. You were met with Dabi’s unclothed cock. Your eyes followed the Jacobs ladder of staples up his shaft to the head where you could see a bead of precum sitting at the slit. You smile thinking how in the hell fanfic got this detail right.

“What’re you smiling at? Impressed?”

“Hmm...No piercing, huh? Guess they got that part wrong”

“You people are sick” he says chuckling before directing his dick into your mouth.

You take it gladly bobbing your head down his shaft, hollowing your cheeks before sliding back up, letting your tongue catch on each of the staples. Dabi let out a low groan, putting his hand in your hair to keep it away from your face.

You continue to work your mouth on Dabi’s cock while Shigaraki continues to swipe his tongue through your sensitive folds. You moan around Dabi’s length when Shigaraki slips a finger inside, causing you to buck your hips, pushing his tongue deeper into you.

The vibrations from your tight throat had Dabi pushing your head down taking his entire length. You gagged around his cock, choking for air but that only drove you further into your pleasure. Shigaraki added another finger and started pistoning into you violently while sucking at your clit once again. You moaned, tugging at Shigaraki’s hair, signaling you were close. You could tell Dabi was close too as he took control and started face fucking you, the tip of his cock hitting the back of your throat with every thrust.

Shigaraki added a third finger stretching you wider and driving you over the edge for the second time as you gasped around Dabi’s cock, legs squeezing around Shigaraki. Your orgasm drove Dabi to the edge as he thrust into you again and kept your head down as your throat tightened around his length. Thick ropes of cum shot from the tip and slid down the back of your throat. You took it all swallowing until you couldn’t breathe anymore pushing Dabi away. You’re head lolled on Dabi’s lap as you recovered from your high.

Dabi was leaning back breathing deeply with his eyes closed. Your brain was still foggy but it wasn’t long until you felt something back against your sex. Looking down you see Shigaraki lining himself up with your entrance, coating his cock in your juices. Your eyes widen at seeing his length out in the open. It was not as decorated as Dabi’s but it held the same presence, being about an inch longer although not as thick as Dabi’s. Shigaraki looks up at you when he lines himself up, the tip merely resting against you, and sees your nervous expression.

“Huh didn’t think I was getting you this wet for nothing. I ain’t wasting a drop of this pussy”

He stared into your eyes as he steadily pushed into you. The stretch was almost unbearable. You squeezed your eyes shut trying to make it through the burning stretch.

“Shit you’re tight. Feels like my dick is in a vice... fuuuuuck… relax” Shigaraki hissed.

You could barely register his voice let alone his request. You could barely breath focusing only on the pain as Shigaraki continued to push against your walls.

“Hey patchwork stop sleeping and get her to breathe”

Dabi shifts underneath you and you feel his hands run down your sides outlining your torso. Even though he didn’t have his quirk, his hands were hot and soothing as they rubbed against your skin.

“Come on Princess.” You open your eyes slightly to see Dabi looking down at you patronizingly.

“You’ve been doing so well,” He said brushing your jaw with the back of his hand. “And you wanna feel good right?”

You nod meekly.

Dabi leans down so his lips are hovering centimeters over yours. The smell of alcohol on his breath tantalizing and his minty scent making your head spin.

“Breathe Princess. Just focus on me” He whispers before putting his lips on yours. You melt into the kiss doing exactly what Dabi says, exhaling through your nose and focusing on the way his cold staples scratch against your skin while his soft tongue dances with your own.

When you break the kiss for air it’s only because Shigaraki has managed to bury himself to the hilt. You can feel him pressing against your cervix deep inside you. You look at him again and find him head tilted back, eyes closed, taking in the feeling of you pulsing around him. Even though you know it’s not out of consideration but pure self indulgence, you're glad that he hasn’t started moving yet as you adjust to his length. Eventually it seems the lust of needing to rearrange your insides trumped being his own personal cockwarmer. His eyes fell on you again as you pulled out till only the tip was inside before bottoming out once again. Each time slowly pulling out only to thrust back in at full force.

You were still adjusting to his length, but soon the burning sensation of being stretched and pounded turned into addicting pleasure. You resumed your kiss with Dabi whose hands had found their way to your breast as Shigaraki increased his pace. Soon you were being knocked senseless by Shigaraki’s ruthless pace. He always has been fast on screen, so why did you think he’d be any different here. Moans and gasps escaped your mouth as the tip of Shigaraki’s cock hit your cervix. Once again the pressure began to build in your core. You began to whimper as you were pushed closer and closer to the edge.

“Fuckkk I’m close. It’s like you're pulling me deeper. So fucking good” Shigaraki panted out falling to his hands on either side of your hips for support. You whimper again and claw at the couch cushions as you could feel yourself just on the brink when Dabi’s hand slides down your stomach and begins rubbing at your clit. You cry out and clamp down hard on Shigaraki legs shaking and eyes rolling back as Dabi’s ministrations send you through your third orgasm of the night.

You feel Shigaraki thrust once more hard and then hot thick jets of white paint your walls. You shudder at the feeling of being pumped full, your sex still milking him of everylast drop. Shigaraki finally pulls out of you and lays back on the couch catching his breath savoring the last waves of his high falling down.

You too were recuperating and limp, unable to move. Your mind was hazy from the alcohol and the relentless stimulation. You were so tired that you didn’t even care about cleaning up but rather drifting off to sleep right there. However you were jostled from these thoughts as Dabi had rolled you off his lap and onto your stomach. You could hardly keep up with his movements as he stood and walked around you. It wasn’t until you felt a pair of hands lifting your hips that you looked back to see Dabi fisting is dick that looked painfully hard. You couldn’t fathom another round right now but you were still so weak from your last high that you didn’t have time to prepare before Dabi thrusted into your already abused hole.

He sighed once he was buried inside you. He leaned down so his chest was hovering above your back the heat making your skin prickle. He leaned down till his breath could be felt on the back of your neck.

“Mhmm… ’m so close already and you’re gonna let me pump you full, aren’t you princess”

You couldn’t respond because your overly sensitive body was already reacting to Dabi's hard cock pressing into you, stretching you wider around his girth. Even though your mind was fading in and out, you involuntarily pressed your hips back to make him go deeper, seeking out the friction your body needed to overdose on.

Dabi was the exact opposite of Shigaraki. He took his time, thrusting in and out, making sure you felt every staple and ridge of his cock dragging against your walls savoring the way they pulled him in. Overstimulation caused tears to form in the corners of your eyes only soft whimpers escaping your mouth. Dabi continued slow and deliberate, letting out low breathy grunts with every thrust. On the edge once more, never fully recovering from before, you were longing to be undone one last time.

“Please Dabi” you mewl.

Dabi snickered in your ear before snaking his hand under you and pressing his fingers to your clit which was all the stimulation you needed to moan out and squeeze around Dabi who came at the feeling of your gummy walls constricting around his pulsing length. You felt his seed fill you up and mix with Shigaraki’s inside you. Dabi dropped down next to you, rolling you onto your side so you were effectively spooning with his cock still inside you. You could hear movement apart from you and Dabi, and in opening your eyes you saw Shigaraki standing pulling up the sweats that were bunched at his thighs. He noticed you staring at him.

“Tch. I don’t cuddle Princess and I gotta piss” His tone was crude but laced with content from having a good fuck. “Don’t let a single drop out Dabi” Shigaraki stated before walking down the hall.

Dabi didn’t respond but seemed to have no intent on moving as you felt his member begin to soften inside you. You couldn’t be more concerned about the implications behind Shigaraki’s comment or the fact that you still had a dick inside you. You were just tired and groggy from the night's events and thankful that you were finally able to be comfortable and close your eyes. You didn’t think Dabi was really a cuddle after sex with a stranger kinda guy but you weren’t complaining. He was warm and made you feel safe despite knowing he would most likely kill you in any other context. You let your eyes close again, head falling onto Dabi’s arm, giving into the waves of exhaustion coming over you.

When Shigaraki came back from the bathroom he found you and Dabi still in the exact same position he left you in. Dabi opened his eyes when he heard Shigaraki come back into the room.

“Is she out?” Shigaraki asked.

“Think so,” Dabi said, finally pulling out of you and tugging the joggers back up to his hips. He slides out from behind you, but you don’t even realize, body only curling inwards at the loss of heat. Dabi stands and looks down at you with Shigaraki. You look so worn out and peaceful. Your body exposed for them, hickeys and bruises forming where Shigaraki ravaged your neck. Your ass is still red from the pounding, and welts forming where Dabi’s strong fingers dug into you. However the best part was probably the shine of slick spread on the inside of your thighs as a stream white cum dribbled from your used hole.

Shigaraki notices this and sits down by your feet.

“What’re you doing?”

“I told you I don’t want any of it out. Got a problem with that?”

“Nope.” Dabi said rolling his eyes and walking away. “I’ve learned to not try and figure out your sick mind”

Shigaraki looked back down at you.

“Good. I have plans for her.” Dabi rolled his eyes again and walked down the hall to the bathroom. Shigaraki ran a hand up your thigh and you flexed at his touch, still unconscious. Shigaraki ran his fingers down the length of your core smearing the juices there before scooping up the stream of cum still leaking out of you and pushing it back inside you. His two fingers easily slipped into your stretched whole, but that didn’t stop a small whine from slipping from your throat. Shigaraki moved his fingers lazily in and out of you pushing the cum deeper. His eyes shot to your face when your hips bucked instinctively against him, your face was scrunched and staggered breaths and sniffs escaping your slightly parted lips, but you were still out, lost in whatever continued fantasy your fatigued brain was conjuring.

Shigaraki pushed into you a few more times selfishly pressing into the soft spot inside you that had you clamp down onto his fingers one last time. You gasped and curled further into a ball. When Shigaraki pulled his fingers out you hummed, face still scrunched, but he got up and left to the kitchen to wash off his hands.

When Dabi came back he met Shigaraki in the kitchen grabbing a glass of water and leaning against the counter.

“What do we do now?” Dabi asked casually.

“Well I don’t know ‘bout you but I’m fucking exhausted”

“Do you really think the rest of the league will be able to figure this out?”

“Kurogiri is smart enough, even if the rest of the league is useless with this sort of thing. However I am curious what this sick twisted universe has to offer us”

“Whatever you say” Dabi says walking back to the couch, and lifting you bridal style. You lean into his warmth as he carries you to your bedroom plopping you down on your bed and closing the door.

When you open your eyes the next morning, you feel your head throbbing against your skull. The bright light streaming in through your window was enough to make you want to stab the sun till it was nothing more than an ember. You closed your eyes again trying to remember the dream you were having but as you searched your brain, pieces of your dream seemed to turn into memories. You shot your eyes open and sat up. It was just a dream right? Realizing you were naked and that your skin felt sticky and dirty was enough to make your head pound harder than before. Wasn’t the fact you were hungover proof enough that last night events had taken place? No, there was still a chance you had just gotten drunk and imagined it all, but you had to be sure. You sprang out of bed and pulled on some loose shorts and a shirt, impatiently throwing open the door and speeding down the hall to where the proof you needed would be.

The living room was lit by the bright sunlight streaming through the curtains. The golden rays illuminated messy blankets and pillows strewn across the couch, an empty rum bottle, a pair of your sweats and tank top buried on the floor, but no one was there. You felt nauseous trying to piece everything together along with the aftermath of the alcohol. You rush to the sink in the kitchen and puke up the contents of your stomach. You grip the counter and close your eyes until you felt more confident in your body's ability to keep everything inside. You slowly open your eyes and look around, mind going back to what happened last night. However you get sidetracked by a bright blue sticky note sticking up from your countertop. Walking over to it you read.

“Kurogiri is a smart man. We’ll be back Princess. PS I want the blood out of my pants.”

#shigaraki #shiggy #tomura #Dabi #shigaraki x dabi #dabi x shigaraki #dabi x reader #shigaraki x dabi x reader #shigaraki x reader #smut #anime #fanfiction #fandom #fanfic #spicy

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violetnotez · 4 years ago

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HC: Y/N Wears a Revealing Version of their S/O’s hero suit

God it’s been so long since I’ve done headcannons, I miss them so much! These I’m going to keep tame, cause I don’t want them to be toooo spicy!

Also, I didnt iclude Shindo and Shinso, sorry! I realized rather quickly how long these got and didnt want to bog down this post, hope thats okay!

Pairings: Mirio x reader, Tamaki x reader, Bakugo x reader, Kaminari x reader (all characters aged to 18+)

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆ ｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆ ｡･:*:･ﾟ

Mirio

It would be a disgrace if I didn’t use this pic

So you had been invited to a photo shoot for a pretty high end boutique to be one of the models

Were you stoked that this extremely prestigious brand wanted you on their front cover? Yes. Were you terrified as hell? Also a fat yes.

Mirio, being the adorable boyfriend he is, was hyping you up for it

“Your going to be amazing sunshine! Ya never know until you try, ya know?”

Even with him being your support, you still felt extremely self conscious

“I don’t know...I’m not a model, I don’t think I can do it-“

“Don’t talk so negatively like that babe! What if I came with you, would that calm your nerves some?”

Your practically melted into him, giving him the biggest hug everrrr

“Oh my god would you? That would make me feel so much better-“

“Of course babe! Wouldn’t say it if I didn’t mean it!”

So the day of, you came into the photo shoot fresh faced and pale as hell from nerves

They seperated you from Mirio, taking you to the makeup area and clothing area

You entered a room lined with extremely bright makeup stands and racks of clothing, your area in a small corner to the right with a mannequin wearing a certain set of clothes

You finally realized what you were actually modeling-and your mouth dropped

No wonder the asked you to model, being Mirio’s girlfriend-it was a sexy version of his hero suit

It was a skin tight leotard, the number “1000000” scrawled against your chest, a thick red cape draping against the back

Lemon colored glasses and thigh high blue boots completed the look, a huge gulp reverberating from your throat-

How the hell were you going to pull this off? In front of your boyfriend no less-

You pain stakingly got your makeup done and your hair, your strands pooled up like Mirio’s hair in the front and the rest cascading in bed head curls

You finally got the skin tight costume on, looking at yourself in the mirror-you felt nervous but-strangely calm-you didn’t look half bad, actually

A small smile graced your face as you walked out, your heels clicking against the floors as you walked into the photo shoot room

Now the question was where was your-

“Hey sunshine! Whoa, that get up looks great, looks pretty similar to something I wear dontcha think?” He was totally teasing you, his tone playful as he leaned into your blushing face

Suddenly your bravery was gone and you were a nervous wreck-your boyfriend was looking at you with hungry eyes, his orbs gazing over every exposed curve

“Mirio, you don’t have to look at me like that-“ you whined, feeling your cheeks burn bright red

“But I want to look at you like this babe,” he smiled, his voice dropping as he licked his lips- “you look absolutely delicious dressed up like that.”

Tamaki

“Oh cmon Tamaki, please come with us!” You pleaded with your nervous boyfriend, his brows furrowed in fear

It was the middle of October, and you and Neijire were planning to go to an early Halloween party in the middle of town

“I-I wish I could go bunny, I really do, it’s just-“

Tamaki was fiddling with is hands, his inky black hair cascading over his distraught face

He would love to go with you, but the thought of people, and dancing, and dressing up, and oh god what if they made fun of his costume-

You placed a kiss on your boyfriend’s cheek, sending him a reassuring smile

“No worries, Tama, I get it-just stay home and chill, I’ll make sure to come home a little early,”

“Oh-okay,” he obliged, watching you go into the bathroom to get ready

Tanaka decided to do exactly what you asked him to do-he watched some TV, ate some food, anything to calm his nerves as you got ready

After an hour or so, you emerged from the bathroom, walking into the kitchen in your full get up

Your hair was straight, see through yellow glasses covering your eyes. You wore a black leotard, the fabric hugging your curves as a beige cape draped around your thighs. Two purple belt laid against your hips, drawing attention to your plush thighs as your boots clicked around the apartment

Poor Tamaki practically choked on his cereal when you walked in-when you said you were wearing a costume, you didn’t tell him it was his hero suit!

Tamaki walked over a blush erupting over his face, “Y-y/n? W-what are you-wearing?”

You spin around, guilt pooling in your stomach as your eyes met your boyfriends flustered gaze

“I’m sorry Tamaki I should have told you! The party is “hero” themed, so I thought the best suit to wear was yours-do you...want me to take it off?”

Tamaki vigorously shook his head, his cheeks a fiery red

“N-no! Please don’t! Honestly, that’s the last thing I want...” he stuttered his shaking hands resting on your hips and pulling you gently to his chest

You had never seen Tamaki so bold-your eyes widened, your hands placed against his chest

“-but I don’t think you should go to that party tonight”

Bakugo

You ran over to Bakugo, your phone screen containing a pic of a cosplayer dressed up in full Bakugo hero suit, gauntlets and all

You legit shoved it into your boyfriends face, your face beaming- “look how cool this costume is!”

“Tch-Only I can wear my hero suit as well as me,” Bakugo scoffed, going back to eating his ramen

You looked at him distraught and disbelief- “Cmon, Bakugo, you had to admit it’s pretty cool-“

“Cool? He’s a fucking wierd ass nerd, making my hero suit...” Bakugo said under his breath, his eyes now glaring at his phone screen

You placed your hands on your hips- “So if I wore your hero suit, I would be ‘wierd ass nerd’?”

Bakugo chuckled harshly- “Yeah-but you couldn’t wear it, like I said, I’m the only one who can pull it off-“

Ha-if that fucker wanted to play, then you were here to win

You slammed your hands down on the table, your arms encasing a surprised Bakugo in between your arms

You gave him a wicked grin, making Bakugo’s crimson eyes wide with surprise-“Bet bitch.”

Y’all are so mean to each other 😳

You stomped out of the room, your mind now reeling-you had ZERO idea how to make his costume...

You quickly made a call to Mina and Momo, telling them about your predicament-Mina would help you design, and Momo would help make the materials

Both were extremely open to helping you, especially Mina-any attempt to destroy Bakugo’s overly high ego, she was down to do!

But she had a twist to your intial plan- “what if you did a sexy version of him! That’d show him!”

You weren’t exactly sure how that would do anything, but eh why not-if you could make him even more mad, this was the way to do it

Momo was hesitant to make such a lewd outfit, but you quickly reminded her of her revealing hero outfit

-she quickly agreed after that

Mina designed the “suit”-honestly it was just a bra with two orange X’s, bootie shorts with a grenade belt, and green ribbon connecting to the black thigh high boots

You complained to Mina about how uncomfortable the high heel was, which she responded with “Beauty is pain!”

You fought the urge to roll your eyes

How would Bakugo’s suit be complete without the gauntlets! You three had the hardest time with that-deifnitely spent a whole day watching 3 hours worth of cosplay tutorials to make those damn things

But after many hours of snacking, hot glue guns, and screams of annoyance, you three FINALLY had the costume finished-and you couldn’t be happier! It honestly made you feel so cool and powerful...especially those gauntlets-

no wonder why he wore the clunky things, they honestly were fun to wear

You decided to wear the outfit before Bakugo came home one day, your face smug as you waited for him to enter your shared apartment

You finally heard the click of the door, Bakugo wearing his usual baggy pants and shirt he wore when he came home, his shoulder holding his duffel bag full of things

“-Hey”, he welcomed you gruffily, not even noticing your attire

“Hey yourself-“ you replied, a shit eating grin on your face as you walked over to him.

He still wasn’t looking, too busy rummaging through his bag- “Am I still a wierd ass nerd?”

Bakugo looked up, and holy shit was he in for a sight

When you said you would make his hero suit, he didn’t take it that seriosuly- you? Make his suit? Psh like that’d happen

BUT IT HAPPENED

You looked-really good in it too-he deifnitely was appreciating the extra skin that was involved 😳

You smirked at his obvious surprise, his cheeks a fiery red as you did a small spin in the suit- “How does it look?”

Suddenly you felt pressure against your wrists from Bakugo’s hands, your back now against the wall as Bakugo drank you in with his piercing red eyes

Now it was your turn to be surprised-cause crap you didn’t expect that to happen

He was now in control of the situation and he knew it-he gave you a shit eating grin, making your blood feel incredibly warm

“-it looks decent...but I think it would be better on the floor”

Kaminari

“Mina no, I’m not-“

You were in shock, flabbergasted, confused-when did they have a intimates based off of hero suits?

AND WHY THE HELL DID THEY HAVE YOUR BOYFRIENDS SUIT

“MINA YES!” she squealed, giggling as she pulled your size out of the rack

The little outfit was pretty revealing- all it was was a white lacy bralette, with a short black jacket with white lighnting bolt decal and a short black leather skirt to match

It was honestly not your thing-it also just felt wierd to wear something like this-

“Your buying it and that’s that-you needed neccesities and this-“ she shook the outfit in your face, “is a necessity!”

The girl seriosuly shouldn’t be allowed to spend money-she stuffed the outfit in her full bag of clothes, bouncing over to the register as you followed her from behind

“I needed bras Mina, not lingerie!”

Yeah she didn’t listen

You finally got home, trying on your new outfits from your shopping spree when you fell upon the set shoved in your shopping bag

The little pink sneak

You pulled it out-it wouldn’t hurt to try it on, she did buy it for you...

You quickly got into it, admiring your body in the mirror-it was tight alright, but kinda cute in ...the skirt accentuated your legs, the bra was decently comfy, and the jacket pulled the whole thing together and made it a pretty cool yet revealing outfit

Just as you were testing out how much movement you had in the leather jacket,you heard the door open to the bedroom you and your boyfriend shared

“Hey babe, do we have any more toilet-“ Kamianri waltzed in, unknowingly oblivious to the scene before him, until he laid eyes on you

You never thought you saw the man blush harder-his eyes were wide with shock, his cheeks a hot shade of red as sparks of electricity flashed around his body

He obviously didn’t know how to react, and in his flusteredness, he somehow slipped on the floor, landing with a hard thud

“Denki!” You yelled out, scrambling to your ditzy boyfriend, “you okay?”

Kaminari gazed up at you, and holy crap he felt blessed- he had a full view of your exposed cleavage, a grin growing on his face as blood tricked down from his nose

“Oh no, Kami, you got a bloody nose-“ you scrambled to get him a towel, kneeling down to place it against his nose

He quickly swiped the blood away, his hands instead pinning yours against your back

“-Dont worry about that,” he grinned, his eyes a dangerous shade of yellow, “let’s worry about you babygirl...and where you got that little get up,”

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆ ｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆ ｡･:*:･ﾟ

Taggings:

@weebartistinc @orokayagi @leeeah-loooser @bakarinnie @johnnysactualgf

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anime-onlys · 4 years ago

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Spring '21 anime list: What I tried, what I'm watching, and first impressions!

Shaman King (2021)

I hadn't heard about this show until the reboot was announced, and it seems neat so I'll give it a shot! Hesitation isn't quite the right word, but I am watching cautiously because there's a lot about early 2000's anime that should stay in the early 2000's. I'm prepared to take a certain amount of product-of-its-time-ness, but only so much.

I really like its unique visual style. It feels like it's got a similar vibe to Soul Eater and TWEWY with its chunky proportions and face design, and the squash-and-stretch animation really lends itself to comedic moments. I feel like there are some eminently cosplayable designs in my future.

Character-wise, it's only been one episode but I'm taking a liking to Yoh. Based on the OP I hope that Ryuu will be an early-antagonist-turned-loudmouth-friend like JJBA's Okuyasu or Sk8's Shadow. That's one of my favorite character tropes.

The World Ends With You the Animation

My friend is a huge TWEWY fan, so our group was really looking forward to this anime. I saw a little of the gameplay when the Switch version was released, up to the end of episode 1's plot. I know it's going to be excellent story wise, and I already may be planning on making cosplay of that Reaper with the skeleton hoodie.

I love a unique visual style and an awesome soundtrack, of course TWEWY already had that coming in. The CGI Noise are a little clunky, but allow for some really great fight sequences. The characters' CGI models are nearly seamless with the 2D. It feels like the plot is moving fast, but according to my friend they just skipped some fetch quests and puzzle solving that wouldn't have been interesting to animate.

I'm really looking forward to this one each week!

Dragon Goes House-Hunting

One of those "eh, we'll give it a shot" shows. A bunch of us have been eyeing real estate lately, so at the very least it's topical. If done right, the concept could be fun!

We spent most of the episode HATING the dragon's character design. Its proportions are just...awkward in every way. The neck is extremely short and thick and leads into a human-muscled torso, the arms are tiny twigs, and the legs are a little too human and a little too thick to be anything but unnerving. It's bad.

Oddly, except for the dragon, the rest of the creature designs are pretty great! In contrast to a lot of anime, they let them be really non-human and had a good design sense. The humor was solid, the Monster Hunter references were on point, and the character interactions were fun. The OP is GREAT, too!

We'll be continuing this one! If you can make your eyes stop hating you for forcing them to look at the Monster Factory reject of a dragon, I'd say give it a shot.

You Can Make A Mug Too

Now that Yuru Camp is over, we wanted another lighthearted anime that might teach us something while it's at it. You Can Make A Mug Too was one of our picks to sample because one member of anime night has recently acquired a kiln.

My impression is an approving but unenthusiastic "Fine, really." You can definitely tell it's an anime made to bring in tourism to the town it's based in. The characters don't really grab me, but they set up a solid emotional backbone for the story. The production quality isn't stunning, I was hoping for some nice pottery wheel animation but didn't get any.

It's probably a decent show, but we won't watch any more because of the next one on the list.

Supercub

Going straight from You Can Make A Mug to Supercub was like going from store-brand ice pops to fresh gelato. I can already tell this is my favorite anime of the season, hands down.

First, the production quality is excellent. The backgrounds are beautiful, the score is understated but well done to the point that Debussey's Clair de Lune felt like it had been made for the scene it was used for.

More than the production quality alone, this anime's direction is exceptional. It takes 'show don't tell' and uses it perfectly, using body language and soundtrack and shot composition to communicate as much or more than the sparse dialogue. Like, they made my heart skip a beat with nothing but color grading. THAT kind of exceptional.

I haven't spoken much about the plot because I really have no idea where it's going to go. Will we fill in why Koguma is so alone, or will we only move forward to seeing her connect? Will the past of that Supercub come back to haunt her? This feels like an anime that can and will absolutely wreck me, but at the starting line all I can say is I'm READY.

If you only watch one thing this season, watch Supercub.

Continuing anime:

My Hero Academia Season 5:

This season is interesting because for the first time, I think I'm going into it with almost zero spoilers (Dabi's real name is the only one I have). The only plot spoiler I thought I had, that Hawks was somehow working with the League of Villains, was revealed at the end of episode 1. I really enjoy going into things blind so I'm looking forward to this season!

However, the OP is the most disappointing thing out there. Nothing about the song, animation or composition is memorable or even noteworthy. Bones and MHA have access to all the money and talent in the industry and they best they can do is "Fine, I guess".

Yuukoku no Moriarty season 2 (Split cour):

I really enjoyed Moriarty's first season, but the second part of a split-cour always has the risk of running off the rails. What I enjoyed most about the first cour was the reverse-whodunit formula: Here's a terrible noble and the people they hurt, how does Moriarty get rid of them while making it look like an accident? The end of cour 1 started to focus heavily on Sherlock and I don't want the show's namesake to end up sidelined.

Knowing Irene was coming, I was really hoping for a Scandal in Belgravia that follows the books...at all, where the end of the story is that Irene escapes with the photo (except this time aided by the Moriarty brothers). Few or no Sherlock adaptations actually want to engage with the sexism of the era or today's, and just want to paint her as a blackmailer or temptress instead of a woman holding onto the power to protect herself. The beginning was extremely promising, but that went off the rails pretty quick. I still haven't yet seen an adaptation of Irene Adler that I like.

Zombieland Saga: Revenge

I watch this show because it's fun and ridiculous, and I get to hear Mamoru Miyano having the time of his life in the recording booth. I love this show because it always ends up surprising me with its solid emotional backbone. It looks like this season is shaping up to be more of the same!

What blew me away was this episode was the first time I saw a CGI dance sequence that I LIKED. Ever. The characters used different mocap so they weren't eerily in sync, the song and dance itself was well made and supported by excellent camera direction and shot composition, there were 2D cuts to closeups of the dancers as well as audience, and they actually pushed facial expression!

It's a good time. Give it a shot.

#seasonal anime #spring anime #spring anime 2021 #shaman king #twewy #twewy the animation #dragon ie wo kau #yakunara mug cup mo #supercub #bnha #yuukoku no moriarty #zombieland saga revenge

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badartfriend · 3 years ago

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There is a sunny earnestness to Dawn Dorland, an un-self-conscious openness that endears her to some people and that others have found to be a little extra. Her friends call her a “feeler”: openhearted and eager, pressing to make connections with others even as, in many instances, she feels like an outsider. An essayist and aspiring novelist who has taught writing classes in Los Angeles, she is the sort of writer who, in one authorial mission statement, declares her faith in the power of fiction to “share truth,” to heal trauma, to build bridges. (“I’m compelled at funerals to shake hands with the dusty men who dig our graves,” she has written.) She is known for signing off her emails not with “All best” or “Sincerely,” but “Kindly.”

On June 24, 2015, a year after completing her M.F.A. in creative writing, Dorland did perhaps the kindest, most consequential thing she might ever do in her life. She donated one of her kidneys, and elected to do it in a slightly unusual and particularly altruistic way. As a so-called nondirected donation, her kidney was not meant for anyone in particular but instead was part of a donation chain, coordinated by surgeons to provide a kidney to a recipient who may otherwise have no other living donor. There was some risk with the procedure, of course, and a recovery to think about, and a one-kidney life to lead from that point forward. But in truth, Dorland, in her 30s at the time, had been wanting to do it for years. “As soon as I learned I could,” she told me recently, on the phone from her home in Los Angeles, where she and her husband were caring for their toddler son and elderly pit bull (and, in their spare time, volunteering at dog shelters and searching for adoptive families for feral cat litters). “It’s kind of like not overthinking love, you know?”

Several weeks before the surgery, Dorland decided to share her truth with others. She started a private Facebook group, inviting family and friends, including some fellow writers from GrubStreet, the Boston writing center where Dorland had spent many years learning her craft. After her surgery, she posted something to her group: a heartfelt letter she’d written to the final recipient of the surgical chain, whoever they may be.

Personally, my childhood was marked by trauma and abuse; I didn’t have the opportunity to form secure attachments with my family of origin. A positive outcome of my early life is empathy, that it opened a well of possibility between me and strangers. While perhaps many more people would be motivated to donate an organ to a friend or family member in need, to me, the suffering of strangers is just as real. … Throughout my preparation for becoming a donor … I focused a majority of my mental energy on imagining and celebrating you.

The procedure went well. By a stroke of luck, Dorland would even get to meet the recipient, an Orthodox Jewish man, and take photos with him and his family. In time, Dorland would start posting outside the private group to all of Facebook, celebrating her one-year “kidneyversary” and appearing as a UCLA Health Laker for a Day at the Staples Center to support live-organ donation. But just after the surgery, when she checked Facebook, Dorland noticed some people she’d invited into the group hadn’t seemed to react to any of her posts. On July 20, she wrote an email to one of them: a writer named Sonya Larson.

Larson and Dorland had met eight years earlier in Boston. They were just a few years apart in age, and for several years they ran in the same circles, hitting the same events, readings and workshops at the GrubStreet writing center. But in the years since Dorland left town, Larson had leveled up. Her short fiction was published, in Best American Short Stories and elsewhere; she took charge of GrubStreet’s annual Muse and the Marketplace literary conference, and as a mixed-race Asian American, she marshaled the group’s diversity efforts. She also joined a group of published writers that calls itself the Chunky Monkeys (a whimsical name, referring to breaking off little chunks of big projects to share with the other members). One of those writing-group members, Celeste Ng, who wrote “Little Fires Everywhere,” told me that she admires Larson’s ability to create “characters who have these big blind spots.” While they think they’re presenting themselves one way, they actually come across as something else entirely.

When it comes to literary success, the stakes can be pretty low — a fellowship or residency here, a short story published there. But it seemed as if Larson was having the sort of writing life that Dorland once dreamed of having. After many years, Dorland, still teaching, had yet to be published. But to an extent that she once had a writing community, GrubStreet was it. And Larson was, she believed, a close friend.

Over email, on July 21, 2015, Larson answered Dorland’s message with a chirpy reply — “How have you been, my dear?” Dorland replied with a rundown of her next writing residencies and workshops, and as casually as possible, asked: “I think you’re aware that I donated my kidney this summer. Right?”

Only then did Larson gush: “Ah, yes — I did see on Facebook that you donated your kidney. What a tremendous thing!”

Afterward, Dorland would wonder: If she really thought it was that great, why did she need reminding that it happened?

They wouldn’t cross paths again until the following spring — a brief hello at A.W.P., the annual writing conference, where the subject of Dorland’s kidney went unmentioned. A month later, at the GrubStreet Muse conference in Boston, Dorland sensed something had shifted — not just with Larson but with various GrubStreet eminences, old friends and mentors of hers who also happened to be members of Larson’s writing group, the Chunky Monkeys. Barely anyone brought up what she’d done, even though everyone must have known she’d done it. “It was a little bit like, if you’ve been at a funeral and nobody wanted to talk about it — it just was strange to me,” she said. “I left that conference with this question: Do writers not care about my kidney donation? Which kind of confused me, because I thought I was in a community of service-oriented people.”

It didn’t take long for a clue to surface. On June 24, 2016, a Facebook friend of Dorland’s named Tom Meek commented on one of Dorland’s posts.

Sonya read a cool story about giving out a kidney. You came to my mind and I wondered if you were the source of inspiration?

Still impressed you did this.

Dorland was confused. A year earlier, Larson could hardly be bothered to talk about it. Now, at Trident bookstore in Boston, she’d apparently read from a new short story about that very subject. Meek had tagged Larson in his comment, so Dorland thought that Larson must have seen it. She waited for Larson to chime in — to say, “Oh, yes, I’d meant to tell you, Dawn!” or something like that — but there was nothing. Why would Sonya write about it, she wondered, and not tell her?

Six days later, she decided to ask her. Much as she had a year earlier, she sent Larson a friendly email, including one pointed request: “Hey, I heard you wrote a kidney-donation story. Cool! Can I read it?”

‘I hope it doesn’t feel too weird for your gift to have inspired works of art.’

Ten days later, Larson wrote back saying that yes, she was working on a story “about a woman who receives a kidney, partially inspired by how my imagination took off after learning of your own tremendous donation.” In her writing, she spun out a scenario based not on Dorland, she said, but on something else — themes that have always fascinated her. “I hope it doesn’t feel too weird for your gift to have inspired works of art,” Larson wrote.

Dorland wrote back within hours. She admitted to being “a little surprised,” especially “since we’re friends and you hadn’t mentioned it.” The next day, Larson replied, her tone a bit removed, stressing that her story was “not about you or your particular gift, but about narrative possibilities I began thinking about.”

But Dorland pressed on. “It’s the interpersonal layer that feels off to me, Sonya. … You seemed not to be aware of my donation until I pointed it out. But if you had already kicked off your fictional project at this time, well, I think your behavior is a little deceptive. At least, weird.”

Larson’s answer this time was even cooler. “Before this email exchange,” she wrote, “I hadn’t considered that my individual vocal support (or absence of it) was of much significance.”

Which, though it was shrouded in politesse, was a different point altogether. Who, Larson seemed to be saying, said we were such good friends?

For many years now, Dorland has been working on a sprawling novel, “Econoline,” which interweaves a knowing, present-day perspective with vivid, sometimes brutal but often romantic remembrances of an itinerant rural childhood. The van in the title is, she writes in a recent draft, “blue as a Ty-D-Bowl tablet. Bumbling on the highway, bulky and off-kilter, a junebug in the wind.” The family in the narrative survives on “government flour, canned juice and beans” and “ruler-long bricks of lard” that the father calls “commodities.”

Dorland is not shy about explaining how her past has afforded her a degree of moral clarity that others might not come by so easily. She was raised in near poverty in rural Iowa. Her parents moved around a lot, she told me, and the whole family lived under a stigma. One small consolation was the way her mother modeled a certain perverse self-reliance, rejecting the judgments of others. Another is how her turbulent youth has served as a wellspring for much of her writing. She made her way out of Iowa with a scholarship to Scripps College in California, followed by divinity school at Harvard. Unsure of what to do next, she worked day jobs in advertising in Boston while dabbling in workshops at the GrubStreet writing center. When she noticed classmates cooing over Marilynne Robinson’s novel “Housekeeping,” she picked up a copy. After inhaling its story of an eccentric small-town upbringing told with sensitive, all-seeing narration, she knew she wanted to become a writer.

At GrubStreet, Dorland eventually became one of several “teaching scholars” at the Muse conference, leading workshops on such topics as “Truth and Taboo: Writing Past Shame.” Dorland credits two members of the Chunky Monkeys group, Adam Stumacher and Chris Castellani, with advising her. But in hindsight, much of her GrubStreet experience is tied up with her memories of Sonya Larson. She thinks they first met at a one-off writing workshop Larson taught, though Larson, for her part, says she doesn’t remember this. Everybody at GrubStreet knew Larson — she was one of the popular, ever-present people who worked there. On nights out with other Grubbies, Dorland remembers Larson getting personal, confiding about an engagement, the death of someone she knew and plans to apply to M.F.A. programs — though Larson now says she shared such things widely. When a job at GrubStreet opened up, Larson encouraged her to apply. Even when she didn’t get it, everyone was so gracious about it, including Larson, that she felt included all the same.

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Now, as she read these strained emails from Larson — about this story of a kidney donation; her kidney donation? — Dorland wondered if everyone at GrubStreet had been playing a different game, with rules she’d failed to grasp. On July 15, 2016, Dorland’s tone turned brittle, even wounded: “Here was a friend entrusting something to you, making herself vulnerable to you. At least, the conclusion I can draw from your responses is that I was mistaken to consider us the friends that I did.”

Larson didn’t answer right away. Three days later, Dorland took her frustrations to Facebook, in a blind item: “I discovered that a writer friend has based a short story on something momentous I did in my own life, without telling me or ever intending to tell me (another writer tipped me off).” Still nothing from Larson.

Dorland waited another day and then sent her another message both in a text and in an email: “I am still surprised that you didn’t care about my personal feelings. … I wish you’d given me the benefit of the doubt that I wouldn’t interfere.” Yet again, no response.

The next day, on July 20, she wrote again: “Am I correct that you do not want to make peace? Not hearing from you sends that message.”

Larson answered this time. “I see that you’re merely expressing real hurt, and for that I am truly sorry,” she wrote on July 21. But she also changed gears a little. “I myself have seen references to my own life in others’ fiction, and it certainly felt weird at first. But I maintain that they have a right to write about what they want — as do I, and as do you.”

Hurt feelings or not, Larson was articulating an ideal — a principle she felt she and all writers ought to live up to. “For me, honoring another’s artistic freedom is a gesture of friendship,” Larson wrote, “and of trust.”

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Sonya Larson in Massachussetts.Credit...Kholood Eid for The New York Times

Like Dawn Dorland, Sonya Larson understands life as an outsider. The daughter of a Chinese American mother and white father, she was brought up in a predominantly white, middle-class enclave in Minnesota, where being mixed-race sometimes confused her. “It took me a while to realize the things I was teased about were intertwined with my race,” she told me over the phone from Somerville, where she lived with her husband and baby daughter. Her dark hair, her slight build: In a short story called “Gabe Dove,” which was picked for the 2017 edition of Best American Short Stories, Larson’s protagonist is a second-generation Asian American woman named Chuntao, who is used to men putting their fingers around her wrist and remarking on how narrow it is, almost as if she were a toy, a doll, a plaything.

Larson’s path toward writing was more conventional than Dorland’s. She started earlier, after her first creative-writing class at the University of Wisconsin-Madison. When she graduated, in 2005, she moved to Boston and walked into GrubStreet to volunteer the next day. Right away, she became one of a handful of people who kept the place running. In her fiction, Larson began exploring the sensitive subject matter that had always fascinated her: racial dynamics, and people caught between cultures. In time, she moved beyond mere political commentary to revel in her characters’ flaws — like a more socially responsible Philip Roth, though every bit as happy to be profane and fun and provocative. Even as she allows readers to be one step ahead of her characters, to see how they’re going astray, her writing luxuriates in the seductive power that comes from living an unmoored life. “He described thick winding streams and lush mountain gorges,” the rudderless Chuntao narrates in “Gabe Dove,” “obviously thinking I’d enjoy this window into my ancestral country, but in truth, I wanted to slap him.”

Chuntao, or a character with that name, turns up in many of Larson’s stories, as a sort of a motif — a little different each time Larson deploys her. She appears again in “The Kindest,” the story that Larson had been reading from at the Trident bookstore in 2016. Here, Chuntao is married, with an alcohol problem. A car crash precipitates the need for a new organ, and her whole family is hoping the donation will serve as a wake-up call, a chance for Chuntao to redeem herself. That’s when the donor materializes. White, wealthy and entitled, the woman who gave Chuntao her kidney is not exactly an uncomplicated altruist: She is a stranger to her own impulses, unaware of how what she considers a selfless act also contains elements of intense, unbridled narcissism.

In early drafts of the story, the donor character’s name was Dawn. In later drafts, Larson ended up changing the name to Rose. While Dorland no doubt was an inspiration, Larson argues that in its finished form, her story moved far beyond anything Dorland herself had ever said or done. But in every iteration of “The Kindest,” the donor says she wants to meet Chuntao to celebrate, to commune — only she really wants something more, something ineffable, like acknowledgment, or gratitude, or recognition, or love.

Still, they’re not so different, Rose and Chuntao. “I think they both confuse love with worship,” Larson told me. “And they both see love as something they have to go get; it doesn’t already exist inside of them.” All through “The Kindest,” love or validation operates almost like a commodity — a precious elixir that heals all pain. “The thing about the dying,” Chuntao narrates toward the end, “is they command the deepest respect, respect like an underground river resonant with primordial sounds, the kind of respect that people steal from one another.”

They aren’t entirely equal, however. While Chuntao is the story’s flawed hero, Rose is more a subject of scrutiny — a specimen to be analyzed. The study of the hidden motives of privileged white people comes naturally to Larson. “When you’re mixed-race, as I am, people have a way of ‘confiding’ in you,” she once told an interviewer. What they say, often about race, can be at odds with how they really feel. In “The Kindest,” Chuntao sees through Rose from the start. She knows what Rose wants — to be a white savior — and she won’t give it to her. (“So she’s the kindest bitch on the planet?” she says to her husband.) By the end, we may no longer feel a need to change Chuntao. As one critic in the literary journal Ploughshares wrote when the story was published in 2017: “Something has got to be admired about someone who returns from the brink of death unchanged, steadfast in their imperfections.”

For some readers, “The Kindest” is a rope-a-dope. If you thought this story was about Chuntao’s redemption, you’re as complicit as Rose. This, of course, was entirely intentional. Just before she wrote “The Kindest,” Larson helped run a session on race in her graduate program that became strangely contentious. “Many of the writers who identified as white were quite literally seeing the racial dynamics of what we were discussing very differently from the people of color in the room,” she said. “It was as if we were just simply talking past one another, and it was scary.” At the time, she’d been fascinated by “the dress” — that internet meme with a photo some see as black and blue and others as white and gold. Nothing interests Larson more than a thing that can be seen differently by two people, and she saw now how no subject demonstrates that better than race. She wanted to write a story that was like a Rorschach test, one that might betray the reader’s own hidden biases.

When reflecting on Chuntao, Larson often comes back to the character’s autonomy, her nerve. “She resisted,” she told me. Chuntao refused to become subsumed by Rose’s narrative. “And I admire that. And I think that small acts of refusal like that are things that people of color — and writers of color — in this country have to bravely do all the time.”

Larson and Dorland have each taken and taught enough writing workshops to know that artists, almost by definition, borrow from life. They transform real people and events into something invented, because what is the great subject of art — the only subject, really — if not life itself? This was part of why Larson seemed so unmoved by Dorland’s complaints. Anyone can be inspired by anything. And if you don’t like it, why not write about it yourself?

But to Dorland, this was more than just material. She’d become a public voice in the campaign for live-organ donation, and she felt some responsibility for representing the subject in just the right way. The potential for saving lives, after all, matters more than any story. And yes, this was also her own life — the crystallization of the most important aspects of her personality, from the traumas of her childhood to the transcending of those traumas today. Her proudest moment, she told me, hadn’t been the surgery itself, but making it past the psychological and other clearances required to qualify as a donor. “I didn’t do it in order to heal. I did it because I had healed — I thought.”

The writing world seemed more suspicious to her now. At around the time of her kidney donation, there was another writer, a published novelist, who announced a new book with a protagonist who, in its description, sounded to her an awful lot like the one in “Econoline” — not long after she shared sections of her work in progress with him. That author’s book hasn’t been published, and so Dorland has no way of knowing if she’d really been wronged, but this only added to her sense that the guard rails had fallen off the profession. Beyond unhindered free expression, Dorland thought, shouldn’t there be some ethics? “What do you think we owe one another as writers in community?” she would wonder in an email, several months later, to The Times’s “Dear Sugars” advice podcast. (The show never responded.) “How does a writer like me, not suited to jadedness, learn to trust again after artistic betrayal?”

‘I’m thinking, When did I record my letter with a voice actor? Because this voice actor was reading me the paragraph about my childhood trauma.’

By summer’s end, she and Sonya had forged a fragile truce. “I value our relationship and I regret my part in these miscommunications and misunderstandings,” Larson wrote on Aug. 16, 2016. Not long after, Dorland Googled “kidney” and “Sonya Larson” and a link turned up.

The story was available on Audible — an audio version, put out by a small company called Plympton. Dorland’s dread returned. In July, Larson told her, “I’m still working on the story.” Now here it was, ready for purchase.

She went back and forth about it, but finally decided not to listen to “The Kindest.” When I asked her about it, she took her time parsing that decision. “What if I had listened,” she said, “and just got a bad feeling, and just felt exploited. What was I going to do with that? What was I going to do with those emotions? There was nothing I thought I could do.”

So she didn’t click. “I did what I thought was artistically and emotionally healthy,” she said. “And also, it’s kind of what she had asked me to do.”

Dorland could keep ‘‘The Kindest” out of her life for only so long. In August 2017, the print magazine American Short Fiction published the short story. She didn’t buy a copy. Then in June 2018, she saw that the magazine dropped its paywall for the story. The promo and opening essay on American Short Fiction’s home page had startled her: a photograph of Larson, side-by-side with a shot of the short-fiction titan Raymond Carver. The comparison does make a certain sense: In Carver’s story “Cathedral,” a blind man proves to have better powers of perception than a sighted one; in “The Kindest,” the white-savior kidney donor turns out to need as much salvation as the Asian American woman she helped. Still, seeing Larson anointed this way was, to say the least, destabilizing.

Then she started to read the story. She didn’t get far before stopping short. Early on, Rose, the donor, writes a letter to Chuntao, asking to meet her.

I myself know something of suffering, but from those experiences I’ve acquired both courage and perseverance. I’ve also learned to appreciate the hardship that others are going through, no matter how foreign. Whatever you’ve endured, remember that you are never alone. … As I prepared to make this donation, I drew strength from knowing that my recipient would get a second chance at life. I withstood the pain by imagining and rejoicing in YOU.

Here, to Dorland’s eye, was an echo of the letter she’d written to her own recipient — and posted on her private Facebook group — rejiggered and reworded, yet still, she believed, intrinsically hers. Dorland was amazed. It had been three years since she donated her kidney. Larson had all that time to launder the letter — to rewrite it drastically or remove it — and she hadn’t bothered.

She showed the story’s letter to her husband, Chris, who had until that point given Larson the benefit of the doubt.

“Oh,” he said.

Everything that happened two years earlier, during their email melée, now seemed like gaslighting. Larson had been so insistent that Dorland was being out of line — breaking the rules, playing the game wrong, needing something she shouldn’t even want. “Basically, she’d said, ‘I think you’re being a bad art friend,’” Dorland told me. That argument suddenly seemed flimsy. Sure, Larson had a right to self-expression — but with someone else’s words? Who was the bad art friend now?

Before she could decide what to do, there came another shock. A few days after reading “The Kindest,” Dorland learned that the story was the 2018 selection for One City One Story, a common-reads program sponsored by the Boston Book Festival. That summer, some 30,000 copies of “The Kindest” would be distributed free all around town. An entire major U.S. city would be reading about a kidney donation — with Sonya Larson as the author.

This was when Dawn Dorland decided to push back — first a little, and then a lot. This wasn’t about art anymore; not Larson’s anyway. It was about her art, her letter, her words, her life. She shopped for a legal opinion: Did Larson’s use of that letter violate copyright law? Even getting a lawyer to look into that one little question seemed too expensive. But that didn’t stop her from contacting American Short Fiction and the Boston Book Festival herself with a few choice questions: What was their policy on plagiarism? Did they know they were publishing something that used someone else’s words? She received vague assurances they’d get back to her.

While waiting, she also contacted GrubStreet’s leadership: What did this supposedly supportive, equitable community have to say about plagiarism? She emailed the Bread Loaf writing conference in Vermont, where Larson once had a scholarship: What would they do if one of their scholars was discovered to have plagiarized? On privacy grounds, Bread Loaf refused to say if “The Kindest” was part of Larson’s 2017 application. But Dorland found more groups with a connection to Larson to notify, including the Vermont Studio Center and the Association of Literary Scholars, Critics and Writers.

When the Boston Book Festival told her they would not share the final text of the story, Dorland went a step further. She emailed two editors at The Boston Globe — wouldn’t they like to know if the author of this summer’s citywide common-reads short story was a plagiarist? And she went ahead and hired a lawyer, Jeffrey Cohen, who agreed she had a claim — her words, her letter, someone else’s story. On July 3, 2018, Cohen sent the book festival a cease-and-desist letter, demanding they hold off on distributing “The Kindest” for the One City One Story program, or risk incurring damages of up to $150,000 under the Copyright Act.

From Larson’s point of view, this wasn’t just ludicrous, it was a stickup. Larson had found her own lawyer, James Gregorio, who on July 17 replied that Dorland’s actions constitute “harassment, defamation per se and tortious interference with business and contractual relations.” Despite whatever similarities exist between the letters, Larson’s lawyer believed there could be no claim against her because, among other reasons, these letters that donors write are basically a genre; they follow particular conventions that are impossible to claim as proprietary. In July, Dorland’s lawyer suggested settling with the book festival for $5,000 (plus an attribution at the bottom of the story, or perhaps a referral link to a kidney-donor site). Larson’s camp resisted talks when they learned that Dorland had contacted The Globe.

‘This is not about a white savior narrative. It’s about us and our sponsor and our board not being sued if we distribute the story.'

In reality, Larson was pretty vulnerable: an indemnification letter in her contract with the festival meant that if Dorland did sue, she would incur the costs. What no one had counted on was that Dorland, in late July, would stumble upon a striking new piece of evidence. Searching online for more mentions of “The Kindest,” she saw something available for purchase. At first this seemed to be a snippet of the Audible version of the story, created a year before the American Short Fiction version. But in fact, this was something far weirder: a recording of an even earlier iteration of the story. When Dorland listened to this version, she heard something very different — particularly the letter from the donor.

Dorland’s letter:

Larson’s audio version of the story:

My own childhood was marked by trauma and abuse; I wasn’t given an opportunity to form secure attachments with my family of origin. But in adulthood that experience provided a strong sense of empathy. While others might desire to give to a family member or friend, to me the suffering of strangers is just as real.

“I almost fell off my chair,” Dorland said. “I’m thinking, When did I record my letter with a voice actor? Because this voice actor was reading me the paragraph about my childhood trauma. To me it was just bizarre.” It confirmed, in her eyes, that Larson had known she had a problem: She had altered the letter after Dorland came to her with her objections in 2016.

Dorland’s lawyer increased her demand to $10,000 — an amount Dorland now says was to cover her legal bills, but that the other side clearly perceived as another provocation. She also contacted her old GrubStreet friends — members of the Chunky Monkeys whom she now suspected had known all about what Larson was doing. “Why didn’t either of you check in with me when you knew that Sonya’s kidney story was related to my life?” she emailed the group’s founders, Adam Stumacher and Jennifer De Leon. Stumacher responded, “I have understood from the start this is a work of fiction.” Larson’s friends were lining up behind her.

In mid-August, Dorland learned that Larson had made changes to “The Kindest” for the common-reads program. In this new version, every similar phrase in the donor’s letter was reworded. But there was something new: At the end of the letter, instead of closing with “Warmly,” Larson had switched it to “Kindly.”

With that one word — the signoff she uses in her emails — Dorland felt trolled. “She thought that it would go to press and be read by the city of Boston before I realized that she had jabbed me in the eye,” Dorland said. (Larson, for her part, told me that the change was meant as “a direct reference to the title; it’s really as simple as that.”) Dorland’s lawyer let the festival know she wasn’t satisfied — that she still considered the letter in the story to be a derivative work of her original. If the festival ran the story, she’d sue.

This had become Sonya Larson’s summer of hell. What had started with her reaching heights she’d never dreamed of — an entire major American city as her audience, reading a story she wrote, one with an important message about racial dynamics — was ending with her under siege, her entire career in jeopardy, and all for what she considered no reason at all: turning life into art, the way she thought that any writer does.

Larson had tried working the problem. When, in June, an executive from the book festival first came to her about Dorland, Larson offered to “happily” make changes to “The Kindest.” “I remember that letter, and jotted down phrases that I thought were compelling, though in the end I constructed the fictional letter to suit the character of Rose,” she wrote to the festival. “I admit, however, that I’m not sure what they are — I don’t have a copy of that letter.” There was a moment, toward the end of July, when it felt as if she would weather the storm. The festival seemed fine with the changes she made to the story. The Globe did publish something, but with little impact.

Then Dorland found that old audio version of the story online, and the weather changed completely. Larson tried to argue that this wasn’t evidence of plagiarism, but proof that she’d been trying to avoid plagiarism. Her lawyer told The Globe that Larson had asked the audio publisher to make changes to her story on July 15, 2016 — in the middle of her first tense back-and-forth with Dorland — because the text “includes a couple sentences that I’d excerpted from a real-life letter.” In truth, Larson had been frustrated by the situation. “She seemed to think that she had ownership over the topic of kidney donation,” Larson recalled in an email to the audio publisher in 2018. “It made me realize that she is very obsessive.”

It was then, in August 2018, facing this new onslaught of plagiarism claims, that Larson stopped playing defense. She wrote a statement to The Globe declaring that anyone who sympathized with Dorland’s claims afforded Dorland a certain privilege. “My piece is fiction,” she wrote. “It is not her story, and my letter is not her letter. And she shouldn’t want it to be. She shouldn’t want to be associated with my story’s portrayal and critique of white-savior dynamics. But her recent behavior, ironically, is exhibiting the very blindness I’m writing about, as she demands explicit identification in — and credit for — a writer of color’s work.”

Here was a new argument, for sure. Larson was accusing Dorland of perverting the true meaning of the story — making it all about her, and not race and privilege. Larson’s friend Celeste Ng agrees, at least in part, that the conflict seemed racially coded. “There’s very little emphasis on what this must be like for Sonya,” Ng told me, “and what it is like for writers of color, generally — to write a story and then be told by a white writer, ‘Actually, you owe that to me.’”

‘I feel instead of running the race herself, she’s standing on the sidelines and trying to disqualify everybody else based on minor technicalities.’

But Ng also says this wasn’t just about race; it was about art and friendship. Ng told me that Larson’s entire community believed Dorland needed to be stopped in her tracks — to keep an unreasonable writer from co-opting another writer’s work on account of just a few stray sentences, and destroying that writer’s reputation in the process. “This is not someone that I am particularly fond of,” Ng told me, “because she had been harassing my friend and a fellow writer. So we were quite exercised, I will say.”

Not that it mattered. Dorland would not stand down. And so, on Aug. 13, Deborah Porter, the executive director of the Boston Book Festival, told Larson that One City One Story was canceled for the year. “There is seemingly no end to this,” she wrote, “and we cannot afford to spend any more time or resources.” When the Chunky Monkeys’ co-founder, Jennifer De Leon, made a personal appeal, invoking the white-savior argument, the response from Porter was like the slamming of a door. “That story should never have been submitted to us in the first place,” Porter wrote. “This is not about a white savior narrative. It’s about us and our sponsor and our board not being sued if we distribute the story. You owe us an apology.”

Porter then emailed Larson, too. “It seems to me that we have grounds to sue you,” she wrote to Larson. “Kindly ask your friends not to write to us.”

Here, it would seem, is where the conflict ought to end — Larson in retreat, “The Kindest” canceled. But neither side was satisfied. Larson, her reputation hanging by a thread, needed assurances that Dorland would stop making her accusations. Dorland still wanted Larson to explicitly, publicly admit that her words were in Larson’s story. She couldn’t stop wondering — what if Larson published a short-story collection? Or even a novel that spun out of “The Kindest?” She’d be right back here again.

On Sept. 6, 2018, Dorland’s lawyer raised her demand to $15,000, and added a new demand that Larson promise to pay Dorland $180,000 should she ever violate the settlement terms (which included never publishing “The Kindest” again). Larson saw this as an even greater provocation; her lawyer replied three weeks later with a lengthy litany of allegedly defamatory claims that Dorland had made about Larson. Who, he was asking, was the real aggressor here? How could anyone believe that Dorland was the injured party? “It is a mystery exactly how Dorland was damaged,” Larson’s new lawyer, Andrew Epstein, wrote. “My client’s gross receipts from ‘The Kindest’ amounted to $425.”

To Dorland, all this felt intensely personal. Someone snatches her words, and then accuses her of defamation too? Standing down seemed impossible now: How could she admit to defaming someone, she thought, when she was telling the truth? She’d come too far, spent too much on legal fees to quit. “I was desperate to recoup that money,” Dorland told me. She reached out to an arbitration-and-mediation service in California. When Andrew Epstein didn’t respond to the mediator, she considered suing Larson in small-claims court.

On Dec. 26, Dorland emailed Epstein, asking if he was the right person to accept the papers when she filed a lawsuit. As it happened, Larson beat her to the courthouse. On Jan. 30, 2019, Dorland and her lawyer, Cohen, were both sued in federal court, accused of defamation and tortious interference — that is, spreading lies about Larson and trying to tank her career.

There’s a moment in Larson’s short story “Gabe Dove” — also pulled from real life — where Chuntao notices a white family picnicking on a lawn in a park and is awed to see that they’ve all peacefully fallen asleep. “I remember going to college and seeing people just dead asleep on the lawn or in the library,” Larson told me. “No fear that harm will come to you or that people will be suspicious of you. That’s a real privilege right there.”

Larson’s biggest frustration with Dorland’s accusations was that they stole attention away from everything she’d been trying to accomplish with this story. “You haven’t asked me one question about the source of inspiration in my story that has to do with alcoholism, that has to do with the Chinese American experience. It’s extremely selective and untrue to pin a source of a story on just one thing. And this is what fiction writers know.” To ask if her story is about Dorland is, Larson argues, not only completely beside the point, but ridiculous. “I have no idea what Dawn is thinking. I don’t, and that’s not my job to know. All I can tell you about is how it prompted my imagination.” That also, she said, is what artists do. “We get inspired by language, and we play with that language, and we add to it and we change it and we recontextualize it. And we transform it.”

When Larson discusses “The Kindest” now, the idea that it’s about a kidney donation at all seems almost irrelevant. If that hadn’t formed the story’s pretext, she believes, it would have been something else. “It’s like saying that ‘Moby Dick’ is a book about whales,” she said. As for owing Dorland a heads-up about the use of that donation, Larson becomes more indignant, stating that no artist has any such responsibility. “If I walk past my neighbor and he’s planting petunias in the garden, and I think, Oh, it would be really interesting to include a character in my story who is planting petunias in the garden, do I have to go inform him because he’s my neighbor, especially if I’m still trying to figure out what it is I want to say in the story? I just couldn’t disagree more.”

But this wasn’t a neighbor. This was, ostensibly, a friend.

“There are married writer couples who don’t let each other read each other’s work,” Larson said. “I have no obligation to tell anyone what I’m working on.”

By arguing what she did is standard practice, Larson is asking a more provocative question: If you find her guilty of infringement, who’s next? Is any writer safe? “I read Dawn’s letter and I found it interesting,” she told me. “I never copied the letter. I was interested in these words and phrases because they reminded me of the language used by white-savior figures. And I played with this language in early drafts of my story. Fiction writers do this constantly.”

This is the same point her friends argue when defending her to me. “You take a seed, right?” Adam Stumacher said. “And then that’s the starting point for a story. That’s not what the story is about.” This is where “The Kindest” shares something with “Cat Person,” the celebrated 2017 short story in The New Yorker by Kristen Roupenian that, in a recent essay in Slate, a woman named Alexis Nowicki claimed used elements of her life story. That piece prompted a round of outrage from Writer Twitter (“I have held every human I’ve ever met upside down by the ankles,” the author Lauren Groff vented, “and shaken every last detail that I can steal out of their pockets”).

“The Kindest,” however, contains something that “Cat Person” does not: an actual piece of text that even Larson says was inspired by Dorland’s original letter. At some point, Larson must have realized that was the story’s great legal vulnerability. Did she ever consider just pulling it out entirely?

“Yeah, that absolutely was an option,” Larson said. “We could have easily treated the same moment in that story using a phone call, or some other literary device.” But once she made those changes for One City One Story, she said, the festival had told her the story was fine as is. (That version of “The Kindest” ended up in print elsewhere, as part of an anthology published in 2019 by Ohio University’s Swallow Press.) All that was left, she believes, was a smear campaign. “It’s hard for me to see what the common denominator of all of her demands has been, aside from wanting to punish me in some way.”

Dorland filed a counterclaim against Larson on April 24, 2020, accusing Larson of violating the copyright of her letter and intentional infliction of emotional distress — sleeplessness, anxiety, depression, panic attacks, weight loss “and several incidents of self-harm.” Dorland says she’d had some bouts of slapping herself, which dissipated after therapy. (This wasn’t her first lawsuit claiming emotional distress. A few years earlier, Dorland filed papers in small-claims court against a Los Angeles writing workshop where she’d taught, accusing the workshop of mishandling a sexual-harassment report she had made against a student. After requesting several postponements, she withdrew the complaint.) As for her new complaint against Larson, the judge knocked out the emotional-distress claim this past February, but the question of whether “The Kindest” violates Dorland’s copyrighted letter remains in play.

The litigation crept along quietly until earlier this year, when the discovery phase uncorked something unexpected — a trove of documents that seemed to recast the conflict in an entirely new way. There, in black and white, were pages and pages of printed texts and emails between Larson and her writer friends, gossiping about Dorland and deriding everything about her — not just her claim of being appropriated but the way she talked publicly about her kidney donation.

“I’m now following Dawn Dorland’s kidney posts with creepy fascination,” Whitney Scharer, a GrubStreet co-worker and fellow Chunky Monkey, texted to Larson in October 2015 — the day after Larson sent her first draft of “The Kindest” to the group. Dorland had announced she’d be walking in the Rose Bowl parade, as an ambassador for nondirected organ donations. “I’m thrilled to be part of their public face,” Dorland wrote, throwing in a few hashtags: #domoreforeachother and #livingkidneydonation.

Larson replied: “Oh, my god. Right? The whole thing — though I try to ignore it — persists in making me uncomfortable. … I just can’t help but think that she is feeding off the whole thing. … Of course, I feel evil saying this and can’t really talk with anyone about it.”

“I don’t know,” Scharer wrote. “A hashtag seems to me like a cry for attention.”

“Right??” Larson wrote. “#domoreforeachother. Like, what am I supposed to do? DONATE MY ORGANS?”

Among her friends, Larson clearly explained the influence of Dorland’s letter. In January 2016, she texted two friends: “I think I’m DONE with the kidney story but I feel nervous about sending it out b/c it literally has sentences that I verbatim grabbed from Dawn’s letter on FB. I’ve tried to change it but I can’t seem to — that letter was just too damn good. I’m not sure what to do … feeling morally compromised/like a good artist but a shitty person.”

That summer, when Dorland emailed Larson with her complaints, Larson was updating the Chunky Monkeys regularly, and they were encouraging her to stand her ground. “This is all very excruciating,” Larson wrote on July 18, 2016. “I feel like I am becoming the protagonist in my own story: She wants something from me, something that she can show to lots of people, and I’m not giving it.”

“Maybe she was too busy waving from her floating thing at a Macy’s Day parade,” wrote Jennifer De Leon, “instead of, you know, writing and stuff.”

Others were more nuanced. “It’s totally OK for Dawn to be upset,” Celeste Ng wrote, “but it doesn’t mean that Sonya did anything wrong, or that she is responsible for fixing Dawn’s hurt feelings.”

“I can understand the anxiety,” Larson replied. “I just think she’s trying to control something that she doesn’t have the ability or right to control.”

“The first draft of the story really was a takedown of Dawn, wasn’t it?” Calvin Hennick wrote. “But Sonya didn’t publish that draft. … She created a new, better story that used Dawn’s Facebook messages as initial inspiration, but that was about a lot of big things, instead of being about the small thing of taking down Dawn Dorland.”

On Aug. 15, 2016 — a day before telling Dorland, “I value our relationship” — Larson wrote in a chat with Alison Murphy: “Dude, I could write pages and pages more about Dawn. Or at least about this particular narcissistic dynamic, especially as it relates to race. The woman is a gold mine!”

Later on, Larson was even more emboldened. “If she tries to come after me, I will FIGHT BACK!” she wrote Murphy in 2017. Murphy suggested renaming the story “Kindly, Dawn,” prompting Larson to reply, “HA HA HA.”

Dorland learned about the emails — a few hundred pages of them — from her new lawyer, Suzanne Elovecky, who read them first and warned her that they might be triggering. When she finally went through them, she saw what she meant. The Chunky Monkeys knew the donor in “The Kindest” was Dorland, and they were laughing at her. Everything she’d dreaded and feared about raising her voice — that so many writers she revered secretly dismissed and ostracized her; that absolutely no one except her own lawyers seemed to care that her words were sitting there, trapped inside someone else’s work of art; that a slew of people, supposedly her friends, might actually believe she’d donated an organ just for the likes — now seemed completely confirmed, with no way to sugarcoat it. “It’s like I became some sort of dark-matter mascot to all of them somehow,” she said.

But there also was something clarifying about it. Now more than ever, she believes that “The Kindest” was personal. “I think she wanted me to read her story,” Dorland said, “and for me and possibly no one else to recognize my letter.”

Larson, naturally, finds this outrageous. “Did I feel some criticism toward the way that Dawn was posting about her kidney donation?” she said. “Yes. But am I trying to write a takedown of Dawn? No. I don’t care about Dawn.” All the gossiping about Dorland, now made public, would seem to put Larson into a corner. But many of the writer friends quoted in those texts and emails (those who responded to requests for comment) say they still stand behind her; if they were ridiculing Dorland, it was all in the service of protecting their friend. “I’m very fortunate to have friends in my life who I’ve known for 10, 20, over 30 years,” Larson told me. “I do not, and have never, considered Dawn one of them.”

What about the texts where she says that Dorland is behaving just like her character? Here, Larson chose her words carefully. “Dawn might behave like the character in my story,” she said. “But that doesn’t mean that the character in my story is behaving like Dawn. I know she’s trying to work through every angle she can to say that I’ve done something wrong. I have not done anything wrong.”

In writing, plagiarism is a straight-up cardinal sin: If you copy, you’re wrong. But in the courts, copyright infringement is an evolving legal concept. The courts are continuously working out the moment when someone’s words cross over into property that can be protected; as with any intellectual property, the courts have to balance the protections of creators with a desire not to stifle innovation. One major help to Dorland, however, is the rights that the courts have given writers over their own unpublished letters, even after they’re sent to someone else. J.D. Salinger famously prevented personal letters from being quoted by a would-be biographer. They were his property, the courts said, not anyone else’s. Similarly, Dorland could argue that this letter, despite having made its way onto Facebook, qualifies.

Let’s say the courts agree that Dorland’s letter is protected. What then? Larson’s main defense may be that the most recent version of the letter in “The Kindest” — the one significantly reworded for the book festival — simply doesn’t include enough material from Dorland’s original to rise to the level of infringement. This argument is, curiously, helped by how Larson has always, when it has come down to it, acknowledged Dorland’s letter as an influence. The courts like it when you don’t hide what you’ve done, according to Daniel Novack, chairman of the New York State Bar Association’s committee on media law. “You don’t want her to be punished for being clear about where she got it from,” he said. “If anything, that helps people find the original work.”

Larson’s other strategy is to argue that by repurposing snippets of the letter in this story, it qualifies as “transformative use,” and could never be mistaken for the original. Arguing transformative use might require arguing that a phrase of Larson’s like “imagining and rejoicing in YOU” has a different inherent meaning from the phrase in Dorland’s letter “imagining and celebrating you.” While they are similar, Larson’s lawyer, Andrew Epstein, argues that the story overall is different, and makes the letter different. “It didn’t steal from the letter,” he told me, “but it added something new and it was a totally different narrative.”

Larson put it more bluntly to me: “Her letter, it wasn’t art! It was informational. It doesn’t have market value. It’s like language that we glean from menus, from tombstones, from tweets. And Dorland ought to know this. She’s taken writing workshops.”

Transformative use most often turns up in cases of commentary or satire, or with appropriation artists like Andy Warhol. The idea is not to have such strong copyright protections that people can’t innovate. While Larson may have a case, one potential wrinkle is a recent federal ruling, just earlier this year, against the Andy Warhol Foundation. An appeals court determined that Warhol’s use of a photograph by Lynn Goldsmith as the basis for his own work of art was not a distinctive enough transformation. Whether Larson’s letter is derivative, in the end, may be up to a jury to decide. Dorland’s lawyer, meanwhile, can point to that 2016 text message of Larson’s, when she says she tried to reword the letter but just couldn’t. (“That letter was just too damn good.”)

“The whole reason they want it in the first place is because it’s special,” Dorland told me. “Otherwise, they wouldn’t bother.”

If anything, the letter, for Dorland, has only grown more important over time. While Larson openly wonders why Dorland doesn’t just write about her donation her own way — “I feel instead of running the race herself, she’s standing on the sidelines and trying to disqualify everybody else based on minor technicalities,” Larson told me — Dorland sometimes muses, however improbably, that because vestiges of her letter remain in Larson’s story, Larson might actually take her to court and sue her for copyright infringement if she published any parts of the letter. It’s almost as if Dorland believes that Larson, by getting there first, has grabbed some of the best light, leaving nothing for her.

Last year, as the pandemic set in, Dorland attended three different online events that featured Larson as a panelist. The third one, in August, was a Cambridge Public Library event featuring many of the Chunky Monkeys, gathering online to discuss what makes for a good writing group. “I know virtually all of them,” Dorland said. “It was just like seeing friends.”

Larson, while on camera, learned that Dorland’s name was on the attendees list, and her heart leapt into her throat. Larson’s life had moved on in so many ways. She’d published another story. She and her husband had just had their baby. Now Larson was with her friends, talking about the importance of community. And there was Dorland, the woman who’d branded her a plagiarist, watching her. “It really just freaks me out,” Larson said. “At times I’ve felt kind of stalked.”

Dorland remembers that moment, too, seeing Larson’s face fall, convinced she was the reason. There was, for lack of a better word, a connection. When I asked how she felt in that moment, Dorland was slow to answer. It’s not as if she meant for it to happen, she said. Still, it struck her as telling.

“To me? It seemed like she had dropped the facade for a minute. I’m not saying that — I don’t want her to feel scared, because I’m not threatening. To me, it seemed like she knew she was full of shit, to put it bluntly — like, in terms of our dispute, that she was going to be found out.”

Then Dorland quickly circled back and rejected the premise of the question. There was nothing strange at all, Dorland said, about her watching three different events featuring Larson. She was watching, she said, to conduct due diligence for her ongoing case. And, she added, seeing Larson there seemed to be working for her as a sort of exposure therapy — to defuse the hurt she still feels, by making Larson something more real and less imagined, to diminish the space that she takes up in her mind, in her life.

“I think it saves me from villainizing Sonya,” she wrote me later, after our call. “I proceed in this experience as an artist and not an adversary, learning and absorbing everything, making use of it eventually.”

Robert Kolker is a writer based in Brooklyn, N.Y. In 2020, his book “Hidden Valley Road” became a selection of Oprah’s Book Club and a New York Times best seller. His last article for the magazine was about the legacy of Jan Baalsrud, the Norwegian World War II hero.

Correction: Oct. 6, 2021

An earlier version of this article misstated the GrubStreet writing center's action after Dorland's initial questions about potential plagiarism. It did reply; it's not the case that she received no response. The article also misstated Dorland’s thoughts on what could happen if she loses the court case. Dorland said she fears that Larson would be able to sue her for copyright infringement should she publish her letter to the end recipient of the kidney donation chain. It is not the case that she said she fears that Larson might be able to sue her for copyright infringement should she write anything about organ donation.

#emmie this for you

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love-dreams · 4 years ago

Text

pairing: hoshi x fem!reader

content: based off of the netflix show, the queen’s gambit, with different character names (check the masterlist!) - please note the original time period means lots of racism and sexism; adoption; drug misuse; anxiety and stress

wc: 5,897

note: this took awhile to finish, but i have a feeling that this will turn out to be a trilogy! hoshi and y/n finally are crossing paths next chapter :)) please let me know if you’d like to be tagged! HAPPY NEW YEARS YALL

recap: (Y/N) is a genius prodigy chess player who learned from Mr. Jihoon Lee, the orphanage janitor. The orphanage, Methuen, feeds the girls tranquilizers that help (Y/N) hallucinate chess moves. This allows her to “play inside her head.” At the end of the last chapter, (Y/N) had broken into the cafeteria’s storage and overdosed on drugs.

the queen’s gambit masterlist: 1 2

Soapy water dripped off the mop’s wool locks to the cold, cement floor, leaving a bubbly wet trail on the floor. You cautiously avoided the reflected areas.

“Mr. Lee?” you meekly greeted. Your voice was low and hesitant as you inched toward his stout, hunched over figure. He kept on mopping, seemingly paying no attention to you. “I can’t play chess anymore. Kim said so.”

He paused for a moment, turning his head toward her. His cold eyes raked over your figure, but Mr. Lee still didn’t respond, choosing instead to return his attention back to cleaning the floor.

Your chest tightened in remorse from your actions, but eventually, you took the hint and walked back to the moving train of students, disappearing into the masses.

That would be the last time you and Mr. Lee ever spoke.

Soonyoung remembered when he first played against the country’s champion.

His name was Yoon Jeonghan.

At the time, Soonyoung was still in high school, and Jeonghan was twice his age. He still looked as young as Soonyoung did, though, he noted sullenly. His younger step-brother, Chan, idolized Jeonghan, and for good measure. He was the undefeated champion for three consecutive years.

They played at the eye of a hurricane of onlookers. Reporters weren’t allowed to take photos, in fear of disturbing the duo chess players, but Soonyoung wouldn’t have heard the shutters snapping anyway.

The rush of blood to his head would have drowned out anything else.

The first time Soonyoung played Jeonghan, he lost. Quite terribly, he remembers, but Chan assures him it was a close game.

All he could remember was Jeonghan’s poise. His confidence. It radiated from him and into the fingers that moved his pieces. His intellect was far superior to Soonyoung’s at the time, honed by years of experience and studying. To Soonyoung, it felt like playing in front of a god, someone who was on a completely different level.

It was awe-inspiring.

Soonyoung played him two more times in two years. And then he won him in the third.

In the middle of the day, seemingly out of nowhere, Mr. Jun interrupted your class, calling for you to follow him. Everyone in the classroom, including the teacher, stared at you expectantly.

It’s not like you had any other choice.

Your heart rate gathered speed as Mr. Jun motioned for you at the doorway of the office. You cautiously ambled through the narrow hallway until you caught sight of two other people. One male, and one female.

“Mr. and Mrs. Park, this is (Y/N)!” You had never heard the Headmaster’s voice sound so friendly. You almost reeled back in shock at her change in tone and demeanor. What a joke... you thought darkly.

The two adults turned to face her. “Yes, (Y/N) is thirteen years old,” Headmaster Kim paused for affirmation glaring straight into your eyes.

“Actually, I’m fiftee-” you trailed off, seeing the expression on Kim’s face. You cleared your throat to cough over your previous sentence, straightening up your back. “Yes, I’m thirteen. I’m thirteen years old.”

Kim smiled and the foreign scene caused you to shiver. If you found Headmaster Kim’s punishments scary before, you found her act of friendliness simply unnerving. “(Y/N) is at the top of her class in English, reading, and geography. She also assists with the local chapel.” You nodded along. “(Y/N) truly is the model Methuen girl.”

You let your face be effortlessly played by your puppet master, painting on an innocent smile and crossing your hands formally. The woman, Mrs. Park, had a bright smile on her face that made you feel automatically welcomed and safe. The man, on the other hand, refused to even look at you. He had a newspaper outstretched in front of him, and his aura was just as cold as Headmaster Kim’s.

The two opposites puzzled you, but you tried to keep your thoughts from showing on your face. You let your eyes take small peeks down at the couple as you continued to stand trough their talking.

After what seemed like hours of negotiations and paperwork being passed from one person to another, Headmaster Kim finally let you go. You waited patiently outside the office, saying small greetings to the students passing you in the hallway. Just as you were trying to figure out what to make of the couple, the Headmaster, followed by the duo exited the office.

You watched as they walked straight through the doors and to the car parked on the driveway in astonishment before noticing the tall figure walking toward her.

Suddenly, you realized that the hall outside the cafeteria was deserted, except for you. Everyone else was inside, enjoying themselves.

Headmaster Kim bent down slightly so her face was closer to yours. You withheld the urge to flee on sight and retch in front of her.

“You should go pack.”

“You know it’s highly irregular for someone to be armed with a knife regularly, you know?”

“I have it for self-defense.”

“Against who?”

“Anyone.”

“You’re crazy, Soons. That’s not a legitimate answer.”

He shrugged. “I like control, like on the chess board. Having this knife with me is part of that, I guess.”

“So you’re a control freak.”

Soonyoung laughed, touching your shoulder gently. “I guess I am.”

That night was the same as all the ones before it. The sky was dark and so was the room. It felt too quiet to you, like there was an absence of something. The other Methuen girls hadn’t finished with class yet, but Kim had dismissed you early from school, not that you were complaining about that.

It might’ve been the one nice thing she’d done for you.

You found Ruth in her adjacent bed, lying on her side. From the way she was acting, you’d guess that she hadn’t gone to class all day.

You set your open suitcase on the wrinkled bed sheets and started to fold all of your clothes with moderate care. You packed your shirts, your skirts, and of course, your chess books. The latter being the most important possession you ever owned.

You ran a fingertip down the old spine of the book lovingly, creasing over any parts that were starting to jut out. You did this to every single book, running your own hands over the letters imprinted onto the leather

Slowly, the stack of books shrank until one last book was sitting on your bed. Your heart erupted into anxiety as you started to shuffle through your stacked clothes, opening all the drawers in the small bedside table.

“Have you seen my book?” you asked impatiently, panic slowly dripping into your voice.

Ruth cracked open one brown, chocolate eye, huffing as she pushed herself up. “Which book, cracker? You’ve got a dozen of ‘em.”

Your fists clenched in stress. “Modern Chess Openings, have you seen it?” you clipped, short and curt.

“Now don’t you go accusing me,” Ruth snipped back in annoyance. “I ain’t got any use for no book like that.” You sighed in defeat, letting your hands go loose. “Plus,” Ruth added. “You don’t need a book to play anyway.”

Your eyes dropped in shame to the ground, diverting your gaze. Your heart felt heavy all of a sudden: guilty. You hesitantly seated yourself beside Ruth’s still figure, letting your hand rest on top of your friend’s hip.

“You know, I’m sorry.”

Ruth scoffed, but you could hear the raw huskiness of her voice. “Sorry for what?”

“That nobody wanted to adopt you,” you replied.

Your friend didn’t respond for a few moments.

“No one wants to adopt a black kid as old as me anyway,” Ruth finally said.

“If you ever have kids, do you think they’d have to learn chess?”

“Well, I already have a kid and he plays just fine! Not as good as me, I guess, but he’s alright.”

Chan looked over his hamburger, cheeks slightly rounded as he chewed. “Wait, who is it?”

“I think you mean ‘who is he,’ right?”

Chan rolled his eyes and swallowed. “Yes.”

Soonyoung winked and rummaged through his coat pocket. “I think I have a picture of him somewhere...”

Chan craned his neck and body to see the small, pixelated picture on his cell phone.

“Oh, screw you, Soons. I’m not a damn kid.”

Soonyoung laughed, letting his voice roll over his vocal chords. He winked once more for good measure, feeling very pleased over Chan’s reaction.

“That, you are, kid brother.”

It was your first time riding in a car since you were nine years old, driving to the high school to play your first tournament of chess. You couldn’t help your fascination with the scenery outside of the black gates. Green strips of landscape flew by in a blur and color exploded in your retinas.

It was breathtakingly beautiful. So much so that you didn’t even have the capacity to respond to it.

As the car entered the suburban neighborhood, you took time to study each individual house’s features: the window shapes, door colors, everything. You saw kids on front porches with their parents, people were everywhere. Unlike Methuen, the women wore colorful skirts and they were all different.

When Mr. Park finally pulled up to the driveway, the whole situation’s magnitude hadn’t settled on your shoulders yet. Mrs. Park exited the car first, closing the door behind her and opening the door for you. She’s nice to do that for you, you thought.

You followed Mrs. Park into the house, eyes scanning everything around you in pure fascination.

It was when you were in the front living room of the house that you felt out of place with your dreary Methuen uniform. The windows were decorated with lace drapes so only a few bars of golden sunlight were shining on a muted primary rug that sat underneath a grand piano.

“Well? Home sweet home,” said Mrs. Park breathlessly. She did a small twirl in the living room with her arms outstretched. You felt the small inklings of a smile.

Mr. Park cleared his throat behind you, startling you. Sensing his prickly displeasure, you moved aside hurriedly as the man walked past both women to a velvet maroon arm-chair.

Jimin was a practical man, you could tell. He wore glasses when reading and a tie with his suit. He never seemed to take particular interest in being welcoming or loving to you unlike Chaeyoung. He seemed cold and disconnected to his wife and you and his stares were often condescending. You didn’t fear Jimin like Headmaster Kim, but you definitely didn’t like him as much as Chaeyoung.

“Ah,” Mrs. Park nodded. She clapped her hands together. “(Y/N), we should get you acquainted with your room!”

Chaeyoung quickly whisked you away from the living room, guiding you up the carpeted stairs. You tentatively grabbed your suitcase, sending one last curious glance at Jimin before following Chaeyoung upstairs.

Upstairs had more than one bedroom, much to your amazement. Methuen never had walls in between bedrooms. Chaeyoung kept walking down the hallway until stopping at the very last open doorway.

She gestured toward the inside as you moved to stand by her side. Your neck craned as you peered over the edge of the door frame.

“You have no idea how hard it is to find good chestnut furniture,” commented Mrs. Park from the doorway.

You took small, shy steps into the interior of the room. Then, you whipped around to face Mrs. Park. “Is this.. Is this all for me?”

“Why of course!” Chaeyoung replied. “I should leave you alone for now. If you need any help, just call!”

Your heart swelled as she stood in the bedroom alone. The room was entirely covered in pink. Your bed covers were pink and on top, there was a light pink veil covering it. The carpets were fluffy salmon-colored. You set her suitcase down near the doorway before flinging your body onto the bed, bouncing upward slightly.

You laughed in amazement, scrunching your eyes in disbelief. You had a family, you had her own room. It was like life was repaying every loss you ever had, like something had finally gone your way.

“You’re leaving for two weeks?”

Chaeyoung’s voice woke you up from your sleep. You looked out the window to see the married couple out on the driveway. Chaeyoung seemed to just have gotten up as well, dressed only in her nightgown and dyed hair still unruly. Jimin was in his normal attire and it seemed like they were in some sort of argument. You decided to eavesdrop a little, pressing your face to the glass pane.

“Yes. I’ve got some business in the Midwest, apparently. I could be there for weeks. Maybe a month.” Jimin got into the car promptly, shutting the door in front of Chaeyoung.

“Do you have to take the car?” Chaeyoung desperately asked.

“How the hell would I get anywhere without a car? You’re a terrible driver anyway.”

“You could get a rental,” she suggested.

“I’m taking the car with me, Chaeyoung.” He started the engine. “Remember what the doctor said?” His head turned to look his wife up and down. “Some exercise will do you good.”

Then, the engine rumbled to life, carrying the car and Mr. Park away from the house. Mrs. Park physically sighed before slipping out of your sight.

As you got dressed, there was a different sound replacing the cold voice of Mr. Park: the melancholy melody of an instrument. You let your feet drop on each stair step, your ears savoring the beautiful tune. A head of dyed hair appeared over the staircase railing and the piano. You held your breath, sitting down gently on the carpeted stairs.

“Stop staring over there, you’re making me nervous.”

Chaeyoung’s voice cut through the piano’s noise. You broke out of your trance. You quickly walked down the stairs and into the living room normally.

“You play beautifully.”

Chaeyoung’s lips upturned for a moment, but dropped soon after. The smile did not reach her eyes. Instead, it seemed broken and hollow, a deep sadness filling the woman.

“I used to want to become a professional pianist.” Her fingers twitched into movement and music flowed from the belly of the piano. “But I had terrible stage fright, not the best for an aspiring professional,” she laughed dryly. You stood stationery, transfixed with Alma. “And then I got pregnant.”

“You had a child?” You blurted out, too shocked to even think through your question.

Chaeyoung’s finger slipped and dissonance jarred the entire piece into chaos. This time, she did not continue. Her eyes were downcast and her misery spread throughout the room. “We did,” she answered.

You felt your throat close up. Maybe life just had a grudge with you after all. There was obviously conflict between Chaeyoung and Jimin and now you were in the middle of it.

Suddenly, Chaeyoung lifted herself and the same melancholy smile was directed toward you. “Would you like some tuna casserole? We have some left over.”

You shook her head, adamantly. The recent tsunami of new information was making you nauseous. “I’m good.”

“Do you want me to walk you to school?” she tried again.

“I think I’ll be alright,” you answered curtly. Chaeyoung sighed but didn’t force herself upon you. You had never been the most sociable person and you had no intention of creating more trouble for yourself.

The school was a short walk away from home. Along the way there, the few straggler students walking on the sidewalk grew into an entire flock. Noise erupted from the open doors of the school building and you vaguely felt the hints of deja vu from her first encounter with outside students.

During your free block, you got to work inspecting the school’s library.

Your head turned left and right while watching some of the other students hurrying around in the room. There were sounds of giggling laughter between shelves and the light rustling of paper pages. Then, your attention turned toward the librarian in front of you.

“Do you have any books on chess?” you rushed out, uncomfortable in the swarms of people.

She looked up at you through her rounded glasses. The librarian slowly took them off to study you. “Sorry?”

You tapped your foot impatiently, feeling all sorts of embarrassed and shy. “Books on chess.”

“I don’t believe we do,” she pondered. “Oh! But if we do have any, they’ll be at the back shelf over there.” Your body instinctively started to move toward the direction she pointed, desperate to get out of this awkward situation. “There should be some books on Xu Minghao too.”

That name caught your ear.

“Who’s that?”

The librarian smiled, but looked at you quizzically. “Why he’s a grandmaster, of course.”

“What’s a grandmaster?”

“A very, very good chess player.”

“(Y/N), would you be a dear and run down to the local pharmacy? I need to fulfill a prescription.”

You automatically stood up from your bed and walked a few steps to the adjacent bedroom. Chaeyoung looked awful with her dry, dirty hair and blotchy red features.

She sniffled a little bit before reaching to her bedside table. “Here’s a note.”

Her hands were weak and skin and fat clung to the bones of her arm. You nodded with sympathy and carefully slipped the note from in between Chaeyoung’s frail fingers.

You left the Park house shortly, hurrying down the street toward the town center. There were a few people there along with cars bustling down the road. Spotting the pharmacy’s sign over the store, you quickly crossed the street towards it. The door bell jingled as you stepped into the store.

Catching the owner’s attention, you slid the prescription note over the counter, tapping your fingers on the wood as he disappeared behind a shelf.

You then took the liberty to look around the store while he was gone. You rotated your body until you found something on the side of the brick wall.

“TIMES: CHESS MASTERS”

“And this is it,” he muttered. A small pill bottle was sitting on top of the wooden counter. You grabbed it, pocketing it in your dress. Your eyes were still fixated on the magazine.

Reaching to grab it, a gruff voice suddenly stopped you.

“Hey.” It was the store owner. “Buying only,” he said, pointing to the sign above the magazine holders. Then, he turned his back onto you.

You nodded and on your way out, reached for a newspaper beside the magazine. You dropped a few coins onto the counter and strode with long confident paces.

The red outline of the magazine peeked from the pages of the newspaper.

“I think I might start giving you allowance.”

“Hm?” You murmured over the pages of the Times magazine.

“An allowance,” Chaeyoung repeated. “It’s good for young girls like you to start learning how to manage your finances.”

You blinked up at her. “Okay.” You rose from your spot and hurried up the staircase. “Can I go buy a chess board then? I think I might want to attend a tournament this weekend and I need to practice.”

Chaeyoung scrunched her brow, she was displeased. “I don’t want to discourage you from social events, but don’t you think there are better opportunities for girls like you to meet new friends? Like dance classes or something,” she suggested.

You sighed and looked down at Mrs. Park from the railing. “What did you do to socialize when you were my age?”

You didn’t wait for her response and ran into your room. Hope fluttered in your chest as you opened the magazine again.

“KENTUCKY CHAMPIONSHIP THIS WEEKEND. 10$ ADMISSION FEE.”

“I’ll be there,” you murmured to yourself. You rolled over onto your back to stare at the two green speckled pills on your bedside table. You swallowed them and waited.

And waited.

Nothing was happening.

Finally, you jumped up on your bed and ripped off the pink canopy. Huffing in frustration, you threw the remaining, scratchy fabric onto the ground. You let your head rest on your pillow as transcendence settled over your body.

Familiar shapes soon began to fade into reality onto the ceiling.

The address on the magazine was a high school. People were bustling everywhere in the forum. You quickly found the registration table and walked towards it, careful not to bump into anyone along the way.

Two young-looking men were conversing when you walked up.

“Excuse me,” you said.

They looked up at you. When they noticed your gender, they immediately smirked, clearly sleazy about a woman being in front of them. One of them leaned forward towards you.

“Lost your way, lady?”

You internally groaned at his condescending tone, wanting nothing but to walk straight out of the building. You let out a breath of annoyance.

“I’m here for the chess tournament?”

The two males glance at each other.

“Well, do you have a ranking?”

This time, the other man spoke. They looked like twins with their nearly identical outfits and slicked back, brown hair.

You shook your head. “This is the first tournament I’ve joined.”

Twin #1 scoffed and shook his head. “Then you’ll join the beginners bracket.”

What?

“But I’m not a beginner.”

Twin #2 chimed in, his voice firm and unyielding. “Doesn’t matter, no ranking means you’re start as a beginner.”

Cooling yourself down, you started to think. “How long does it take for me to get a ranking?” you inquired.

“3-6 months,” Twin #2 answered.

Then, the perfect idea settled into your head. You started rummaging through your bag for the spare change.

“Put me in the open then.”

“What?” sputtered Twin #1. “Are you crazy? There are professional players in that open. Lee Chan is going to be playing.”

“Who’s Lee Chan?” You ignored them and finally fished out the ten dollar bill.

The both looked at each other again, sharing some kind of secret message in between them.

Twin #1 sighed. “Do you have a clock?”

A clock?

“No,” you answered faithfully.

“We have a clock sharing system. If you don’t have a clock, your partner will have one for you.”

You nodded in response, still confused about what a clock was supposed to be doing in chess.

Twin #2 slid a sheet of paper to you. “Here’s your first round.”

You took it and promptly left the desk, feeling relieved that it was over.

“So.. do they usually put the girls together like this?”

“Huh?”

There was another girl sitting in front of you. The only one, as far as you could tell. She had pretty curled brown hair and she introduced herself as Oh Seunghee.

“I don’t know, are they supposed to put the girls together like this?”

You looked around the empty gym filled with tables of chess players. You were seated right next to the coffee station.

“Well, they’re not supposed to,” she responded.

Seunghee had an innocent smile and pretty, dainty fingers.

“The chessboard is a battlefield,” Mr. Lee’s words rang through your head. “Naivety gets you killed.”

You nodded and looked over at the wooden framed clock to your right. “So, how does that work?”

“Oh, right!” Seunghee clapped her hands together excitedly. “So, once you make a move, I hit the button up there and your time starts to count down. Once the red flag falls, your time is up and you lose.”

“Seems simple,” you murmured. “And this thing?” You tapped the sheet of paper you got from the registration desk.

“To track your moves. Afterwards, you circle the winner.”

You nodded and picked up the pencil to write your name in. “So I can start your clock now, right?”

Seunghee waved her hands, “Go ahead!”

You carefully clicked the metal button down, testing it. Immediately, the clock started ticking off the seconds.

Seunghee moved her pawn forward and leaned on her clasped hands. Her big brown eyes stared at you with a hint of mischief. You nodded awkwardly at her gawking.

“Um, aren’t you supposed to hit the clock?”

“Oh, yes! Sorry. It’s just.. I’ve never played against a girl before.”

Your steps up were fast, the adrenaline rush from the chess game creating the perfect haze for you. You missed this.

When you got to the top, you turned a sharp corner to the registration desk. The two sleazy men were still there.

“What do I do with this?”

You waved around the heavy card paper for dramatics.

The twins looked around together.

“That fast?”

“Mhm.” You didn’t felt the need to verbally respond to the sleazeballs.

“Just put it into the basket,” they sighed.

Having nothing to do, you went back downstairs. Your eyes scanned over the empty tables and chairs that held only a few scarce players, a complete change from a couple minutes ago.

Noticing a crowd, you walked closer towards a divider that had a sign reading, “QUIET PLEASE.”

You weaved your way through sweaty backs and chests until you could somewhat make out what was in the middle of all the commotion.

A chess game.

In the middle was a table with two chairs and two players. Two male players, you noted. The setting seemed to be no different than any of the other games that played around you, making you wonder why this one attracted such a crowd.

You nudged someone close to you. “Who are those people?”

The man looked down at you in amusement mixed in with surprise. “That’s Lee Chan, the current state championship holder. And that’s Park Jisung, a rising chess player. Jisung’s the best of his town and his university.”

You nodded. Lee Chan.. you had heard that name before. At the registration desk.

“Is he a grandmaster?” you pointed abruptly.

Chan’s eyes narrowed at you. “Sorry, could you quiet down over there?”

You flushed with embarrassment and gauged the man’s reaction as well. He had a small small on his face when he glanced down at you as well.

He leaned closer to you to whisper, ““Not yet. He’s working towards it though.”

“I want to play against him.”

“Not everyone can play him. You need to win all of your rounds and so does he.”

You remembered the book you’d checked out from the library. Then you remembered the Times magazine and Mr. Choi. And of course, Mr. Lee.

A grandmaster...

“You want to play Lee Chan?”

The twins had names: Hyunjin and Jinyuh. They reminded you of the high school players you beat during your time of at the orphanage.

You nodded, not understanding why Jinyuh seemed so flabbergasted. “Is there anything wrong?”

Hyunjin scoffed, “You know you’d have to win all of your rounds in order to do that right?”

You remained nonchalant. “And I will.”

“No you won’t,” Jinyuh cut in. “You’d have to go through Joshua!”

“Forget Joshua,” Hyunjin chuckled humorlessly. “Your next round is Seungkwan and he’s way underestimated. He’s the captain of his college chess team and his team hasn’t lost a single tournament this year!”

You let out a sigh and grabbed the score card, leaving the twins speechless. Your pace was brisk as you walked toward the designated table for your round. Being doubted constantly was starting to get onto your nerves.

You tapped your fingers impatiently on the wooden table before a familiar face made you halt your motion.

“So I guess I’m your next round.”

It was the man from before. The one who was with you when Lee Chan was playing. This was Seungkwan?

“Um, yeah, I guess so,” you stuttered out.

His smile was just as mischievous as before, however, this time it had a streak of competitiveness.

Seungkwan adjusted his cuff sleeves and settled into his chair. His brief case rested next to him, leaning against the legs of his chair.

He motioned for you to start his clock and you did. Leaning over slightly to push the rusty metal button down.

The game was on.

The clock was still ticking down the time. There were roughly twenty tables set out around you, all of which were holding chess games.

You didn’t waste time trying to count the tables exactly though. The man in front of you was providing enough entertainment.

Seungkwan’s brows furrowed as he studied the board, cautiously making a move and hitting the clock.

Your hand moved automatically, pushing a chess piece toward its designated position in your mind. Seungkwan huffed. You grinned.

“Jesus, (Y/N), you’re humiliating my rook.”

“He won’t have to suffer for much longer,” you murmured.

Seungkwan’s eyebrow arched up as if coaxing you to tell him your strategy. You shook your head and motioned for him to return his move.

He sighed and slowly, slowly, tipped the white crown of his king to the board.

“Alright, you got me there, (Y/N). I lose.”

You blinked. He forfeited?

All of a sudden, a rush of deja vu hit you. You were reminded of one of the first games you had played with Mr. Lee. How ironic, you thought. Now I’m on the other side of the board.

Seungkwan extended a hand out to you. You daintily shook his hand, feeling shy from his act of sportsmanship.

He bowed slightly and picked up his briefcase. “I wish you luck on your next rounds, (Y/N).” Seungkwan winked and then left in a blink.

You followed him toward the cork board announcing all the pairings. You watched in satisfaction as your name went from the bottom of the board, to the top.

It was getting slightly tiring playing four consecutive chess matches, but as you walked up the stairs toward registration, you figured that it was all worth it to see the look of pure shock on Hyunjin and Jinyuh’s faces.

You stared at them expectantly, tapping your foot impatiently as you waited for your next pairing to be announced.

“You’re done,” Jinyuh sputtered.

Your brow raised. You had won all your games, how was that possible? “What do you mean?”

“The games are done for today. The finals are tomorrow,” Hyunjin said.

You nodded, satisfied with today’s results. “Thank you,” you replied and walked out of the forum, feeling even more confident when you realized that everyone’s eyes in the room were on you.

The clock ticked away as your fingers tapped against the table. Your eyes were everywhere in search, looking at every person standing around the chess board. Lee Chan was not here yet.

You let out a sigh and kept tapping away. The empty chair in front of you taunted you. Your gaze kept darting to the clock mounted on the wall, the red seconds hand traveling in rotations.

“Sorry about that,” Chan huffed.

You turned your heads toward him, your gaze sharp and burning. If he was bothered by it, he didn’t show it.

Chan shuffled in his chair for a few seconds before leaning in on his elbows. “Ready?” he asked, a grin on his face.

You let out a small scoff and leaned to start his clock.

It was a long game and long made you stressed. You weren’t used to this level of competition and it was starting to get to your head. It was harder to predict Lee Chan’s moves and counter them, almost like your eyesight was fogging up and blurring.

“Excuse me,” you gasped out before racing towards the bathroom. The crowd parted like the sea when you moved.

You splashed water all over your face before reaching into your pocket for your reassurance. Your tranquility. Your fingers fumbled with the pill bottle before tipping it forward. Pills tumbled into the palm of your hand.

You dumped all of them back in except for one and swallowed the green pill without a second thought. You let out a relieved pant and let your breathing stead.

As you slowly raised your head at the mirror, you stared at the reflection, memorizing each flutter of movement on the bathroom ceiling.

When you exited the bathroom doors, your sight was back, zeroing in on the chess board. You sat down in the chair and moved your piece swiftly.

Chan’s brows raised in concentration as he leaned further in.

The next few moves were all just as swift as the first one. Your strategy was played with no hesitation and as the end game drew near, Chan was starting to catch up.

Unfortunately, his pieces were still too behind.

“You see it don’t you?” you murmured, staring at him with widened eyes.

Chan was sweating now. He kept shifting in his seat and breathing heavily. “I can get out of this.”

“No you can’t. If you avoid my bishop, I’ll just take with the r-”

“Move!” Chan spit out.

You sighed, rolling your eyes, but complied.

The game played on into the end game. As you closed in on the king, you were two steps away from it. Your heart sped up in giddiness, feeling the sweetness of adrenaline on your tongue.

Chan’s voice broke through the illusion.

“Draw?” he whispered.

Your heart stopped. A draw? Your eyes whirled to the bystanders around you, some of which were now muttering underneath their breath. Your eyes rested on the familiar face of Seungkwan. His eyes were swirling with a mischievous mirth.

“No,” he mouthed at you, shaking his head.

You nodded, a smile returning to your face. “No way.”

Chan huffed, bracing himself against the table. He threw down his king.

The crowd erupted into applause as Chan walked away from the board.

You had won the state championship.

“So, I heard you lost your… whatever tournament that was.”

Chan sighs, “It was the state championship, damn it. What the hell are you doing here?”

Soonyoung grins and leans back in his chair. “C’mon, Chan. We’re family, remember? Don’t big brothers check up on their siblings’ interests and stuff?”

Chan glances up at him bemusedly. “Is chess the only interesting thing you ask about?”

“Hm,” Soonyoung pondered. “I don’t know about you, but it sure is for me. Say, what was her name? I think I saw it in the newspaper somewhere…”

“(Y/N) (L/N),” Chan grits. It was an embarrassing defeat on his part and celebrating his loss with the country’s champion wasn’t helping. Smirking, Chan decides to take a little bit of petty revenge. “I think she might beat you.”

“Oh ho!” This caught Soonyoung’s attention. “The girl who beat you?” He immediately sits up straighter, his eyes ablaze with competition. “Hm, is she coming to Vegas?”

“Probably.”

“Well then, we’ll just have to see. All in due time, right?”

Chan chuckles, “She might not go, though. You never know. And if she does go, I hope she beats your ass. Jeonghan’s always saying you got it coming.”

Soonyoung lets out a dry chuckle. “Now I’m intrigued by this mystery lady. However,” he pauses and contemplates his next words.

Chan looks up at him suspiciously, “However, what?”

Soonyoung grinned.

“I don’t plan on losing my title just yet.”

Chess was a game of delicacy. Like a pyramid of stacked cards, there was a method and a strategy to complete it. Missing a step meant a pile of lost cards on the table.

“You were too caught up with double pawns last game. You’ll win this one, (Y/N). You have to.”

previous part: here

next part: here (unavailable)

tag list: @haotheheckk @gryffindor-jun

#caratwritersclub #seventeen/reader #hoshi/reader #soonyoung/reader #seventeen hoshi #seventeen fluff #seventeen angst #svt fluff #svt angst #hoshi fluff #hoshi angst #soonyoung fluff #soonyoung angst #g:seventeen

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coldwind-shiningstars · 4 years ago

Note

ok ok prompts!!! so, I would be Delighted by some more qinxiyao family fic (deleted scenes or things you might have wanted to include in the big bang fic but didn't get to?), or, alternately, anything in the modern tcgf au? anything at all; they're all so excellent <3

both of these are such excellent prompts I started working on both of them, but the modern au got finished first! I’ll probably both a) do a lot of edits on this and b) do the qinxiyao family fic in a week or so, but here this is for now. Also, for those not in James and my brains, this is a very small part of a very large AU! Small note, all characters appearing in this fic are trans; however, He Xuan is still very much an egg and so they are referred to throughout the fic as “he/him,” although SQX at least is aware of this and wondering when to bring it up with her. She is, however, unaware that “Ming Yi” is a stolen identity and He Xuan is actually the eco-terrorist who’s been blowing up her brother’s fish hatcheries. It’s a long story.

If Xie Lian was being honest, he didn't much like the internet. It was so bright and everything moved too fast. People used a bewildering array of slang and images. It was surprisingly difficult to avoid spending hours reading upsetting news stories. People spent days arguing about pornography.

Also, his phone didn't really connect to WiFi very well. Even by the loosest definitions of the word, he hardly counted as a netizen.

People were usually shocked when he told them this, though, because Xie Lian's best friend was one of China's most popular beauty influencers.

Xie Lian's face appeared on her Weibo with some regularity. She talked about him often. He'd gone viral three separate times on Douyin, entirely accidentally.

What Shi Qingxuan was most famous for, however, was makeup tutorials. He had never actually appeared in one of these, but, since there were very few people in the world capable of saying no to a very determined Shi Qingxuan, this was about to change. He was used to being in her charmingly decorated little apartment but not quite used to becoming a decorated thing himself. He'd even put on one of the outfits Hua Cheng had designed and sewn for him, based on some of his old dance costumes and a few frantic weeks of historical research, and kept swishing the skirts around his legs.

Shi Qingxuan started setting up, chattering away to Xie Lian as she did. "You need anything before we start? Bathroom, water, a snack? I edit my videos pretty heavily, so we can always take a break, but it’s good to be comfy."

"No, I'm fine," Xie Lian said, and then had to close his eyes when she clicked on the ring light.

He fiddled with the makeup compacts laid out on the table.

Shi Qingxuan adjusted her light, scootched Xie Lian’s chair a little to the left and a little back, and then fiddled with the camera. It was quite the involved operation, Xie Lian thought; he knew a lot went into making videos, but he hadn’t realized it took this much effort before the camera was even on. Shi Qingxuan had done his makeup before, of course, but mostly just for fun, or something she could take a picture of and post on Weibo. It had been so long since he'd been filmed.

He watched Shi Qingxuan press record on her camera and then sit back and flash it a smile, putting on her Influencer Face. She squeezed his hand under the table.

“Hi everyone, welcome to Feng Shi!” she said, chirpy. “I’m Shi Qingxuan, and today we’re doing xianxia makeup with my good friend, Xie Lian. Now, for this look, we’re going to need…”

When Xie Lian was little, the makeup artists for his dance troupe had known he took about twice as long as anyone else did to get his makeup done. He was the darling of the company, though, so this was tolerated with fondness.

He didn't like the way the foundation felt on his face when it dried. His eyes watered when they put on eyeliner. He liked to spin his chair from side to side.

He'd had much worse things on his face than paint since then, and had learned how to be still.

Shi Qingxuan patted his hand cheerfully as she pulled out the setting powder.

"You're always one of my favorite models," she said. "You're so photogenic and so patient!"

"Thank you," Xie Lian said, and held still while she brushed it in his face.

Ruoye, probably noticing the warmth, slithered out of Xie Lian's robes and curled up on top of his head so she could get the full blast of heat from the ring light. She flickered out her tongue to scent Shi Qingxuan when she leaned in with a liquid eyeliner pen.

Shi Qingxuan made little kissy sounds at her, which only confirmed Xie Lian's certainty that he had good taste in friends. Most people were startled by Ruoye originally, but how they responded to her after Xie Lian introduced them was a good litmus test.

Ruoye settled in, and Xie Lian reached up a finger to stroke her scales.

He was feeling good, content and warm, happy to sit still. Then the apartment door clicked open, and Xie Lian stiffened.

"Ming-xiong? Is that you?" Shi Qingxuan called.

Ming Yi mumbled something back and shuffled into the room, buried deep in his black hoodie. As always, Xie Lian's first thought upon seeing him was wondering how he could see through all that hair.

The hoodie had a fish skeleton painted on it that he recognized instantly as one of Hua Cheng's drawings; it made Xie Lian smile, thinking of how insistent San Lang was that they absolutely weren't friends, no way, there was no particular reason he would make custom hoodies for Ming Yi. The fish were a coincidence. He’d even made Ming Yi custom salmon breakup boots while proclaiming it meant nothing.

Xie Lian, wearing an elaborate hanfu Hua Cheng had designed, sewn, and embroidered himself, even making him a period-appropriate duduo to flatten his chest, absolutely did not buy any of these excuses. Hua Cheng covered people he cared about with his art.

Ming Yi grunted a greeting and wandered off, probably to raid the fridge. Shi Qingxuan winked at Xie Lian.

“I’ll edit most of this out,” she said, conspiratorial, “But my viewers love Ming-xiong. Especially when he’s out of focus in the background. They’ve made memes. I haven’t told them anything about him. It’s good to keep a little mystery! It keeps people watching.”

Xie Lian, having no real idea what she was talking about, smiled and suppressed his instinct to nod. Shi Qingxuan began painting a flower on his forehead with red pigment.

Finally, Shi Qingxuan gently removed Ruoye from Xie Lian’s head and shoulders and settled a wig cap over his hair, then the wig she’d pre-prepared. A few bobby pins, a few tucks, and then she stepped back, grinning.

“Ta-dah! How do you like it, taizi dianxia?”

“It’s beautiful,” Xie Lian said, honestly.

“We’ll end the video here, I think,” she said, “But I’ll get some posed photos of you to edit in here if that’s alright. Oh, tilt your head back and forth a little? Good. Smile at the camera!”

Shi Qingxuan fluttered her fingers at the camera in a wave; Xie Lian waved too, a few seconds later. As she leaned forward to click off the camera he straightened his legs out to try and loosen them up. His knees made terrible crunching sounds as they stretched.

“You can take a little break if you want,” Shi Qingxuan said. “I’ll set up the area where we’ll take photos, but I’ll try to make it quick. You’re a darling for sitting through all this, you know?"

She was already bustling around again. She seemed to have an endless fountain of energy; Xie Lian found it admirable. He laid flat on his back on her bed, careful to not get makeup on her sheets or wrinkle his clothes. Ming Yi sat next to him, eating shrimp chips. He put a few directly into Xie Lian's mouth, feeding him like a little bird, and Xie Lian felt warm. Like Hua Cheng, it could be hard to know when Ming Yi liked you, but there were ways to tell.

He let Shi Qingxuan pose him until she was satisfied with the numbers of pictures she’d taken, trying very hard not to feel like the chuunibyou teenager he’d once been. He felt himself mostly immune to embarrassment at this point, but he supposed there were always exceptions.

Eventually, they cleaned up, although Xie Lian had promised Hua Cheng to show off the full look, so he didn’t get changed or clean his face.

“I’ll buy dinner,” Shi Qingxuan said. “We deserve it. You too, Ming-xiong!”

She herded them both out of the apartment and down the street to a small noodles stall. They all ordered (in He Xuan’s case, three bowls) and Xie Lian was fumbling for his phone when he heard Shi Qingxuan cheerfully tell the clerk to put it all on the same ticket. She tapped her phone to pay for it all before Xie Lian could protest.

A few people asked Xie Lian for pictures as they ate. He posed obligingly, hoping he hadn't spilled any sauce on his clothes while eating. When he was done, he packed up his leftovers, let Shi Qingxuan nag him into calling a Didi instead of trying to walk home, and bid both her and Ming Yi farewell. Ruoye, who had spent most of the time they were eating in Xie Lian's backpack, made a brief appearance too like she wanted to say goodbye as well.

Xie Lian clicked his own apartment door closed quietly and tiptoed over to slide his leftovers into the refrigerator. Down the hall, a light shone out from underneath Hua Cheng's studio door.

There was an old picture of the two of them on the fridge; it was them in a hospital pediatric ward group room. Xie Lian, age fifteen, was beaming at the camera, his "FIGHT! JUVENILE SLE" shirt a bright red and his pants an immaculate white. Next to him, Hua Cheng, his right eye patched with patterned tape, bald and tiny, stared up at him with devotion.

Ruoye bonked her head gently on the freezer door. Xie Lian pulled out one of her mice and slid her gently into her tank before giving her the treat; she was swallowing the mouse as he left the kitchen.

Hua Cheng turned to him as Xie Lian opened the door to his studio. His eye got wide, and his face looked like it did sometimes when he looked at Xie Lian, like he was seeing something holy. He slid his headphones off his ears.

Xie Lian did a little twirl for him, letting him see the way the fabric moved, and then tilted his face up for a kiss when Hua Cheng came over to him.

“Gege, you look beautiful,” he said.

“San Lang,” said Xie Lian. “It’s all you and Qingxuan. I’ll get her to send you the pictures later.”

Hua Cheng kissed the top of his head. He was dressed down, in a soft shirt and pants, not wearing his prosthetic eye. Xie Lian leaned his head into Hua Cheng’s chest.

“Gege seems tired,” Hua Cheng said. “Would you like to get ready for bed? Do you need dinner or your medicine? I can help you take all that off.”

“San Lang, you’re working,” Xie Lian said. “I already ate, so I think I’d like to sleep. But you don’t have to help.”

"Gege is more important than commissions," Hua Cheng said, and Xie Lian let him bundle him off to bed.

post about prompts!

#replies #my writing #body in abyss heart in paradise #paradife-loft

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leerongrong · 5 years ago

Text

Model!Renjun -

part of the NCT DREAM living the Y/N life collection.

okay first of all lemme introduce y’all to renjun

full name: huang renjun

age: 20 [international]

height: 173cm

renjun’s a chinese boi with lots of passion and spunk

the kid’s got a sharp tongue but his parents love him for it

always stays in school

good grades

teachers pet

imagine his mom’s surprise when he told her that he wanted to be an actor at 13yrs old

one based in korea no less

his parents went cray cray

“you don’t even know any korean”

“mom, i can learn.”

brushes up on his korean every single day

goes to google translate and watches youtube videos until late at night

he wants to be a model, so a model he will become.

works part time jobs on the side

earns little bits of money so he can start up his own life

his parents are scared but proud

fast forward to when junie hits 16

the boy packs his bags

collects his money

hugs his parents goodbye

he promises to call everyday

and flies to korea all alone

iMAGINE his surprise

when all the korean he learned becomes useless once he gets there

people not understanding a single thing he says

his chinese accent’s too thick

poor boy doesn’t know what to do

he isn’t going to call his parents,, he aint gonna hurt his pride

lives in his own little apartment

he has little to no friends bcs of his accent

which is getting better with time

he’s wandering around at night,, exploring the han river alone

when someone taps on his shoulder

boy was ready to throw hands

and when the stranger explains he’s from SM

renjun got bug eyed

they wanted to scout him?? to be an actor??

that’s his dream come true!

that night he called his parents,, they supported him all the way

fell asleep with a little smile on his face

he debuted at the ripe age of 18

and now, at 20, renjun’s a well known actor in korea

snagging roles here and there both as the main and the lead

girls falling at his feet bcs of the characters he portrays

the boy got the recognition he wanted

his trophy case is filling up

just like tonight,, people are expecting him to bag an actor of the year award

that’s where you come in

you’re a top idol

blackpink’s 5th member and maknae to be exact

rap prodigy and dance extraordinaire

trainee for 5 years and highly anticipated by GD himself

you and your group are performing tonight in front of all these highly acclaimed actors and actresses and you. are. stressed.

rose and lisa are calming you down

jennie and jisoo reminding you about the last minute changes

your heart’s beating fast but you push through and go onto stage when your manager give the queue

renjun tries his best to not look bored

but award shows like this aren’t his style

he enjoys the complex cinematography and appreciates his seniors

but he isn’t much for rigged award shows

he’s smart enough to know who’s going to win tonight based on netizen’s views

he’s talking to one of his seniors when you show up on stage

he knows the song, he listens to your group songs on the radio but he’s never seen the performances

renjun’s favorite part is coming up

its your part

renjun’s shocked to say the least after seeing you rap

the dashing lights,, backing vocals,, background images

and your dangerous smile at the camera that almost made him drop his drink

boy has to stop staring at you on the stage

boy has to cover his grin the whole performance

which proved useless when multiple of his colleagues asked him about it

“i’m just a little nervous.”

he’s a terrible liar and he knows it, he’s sure the people around him knows it too

people pointed out that he didn’t even smile that hard when he won actor of the year

when he gets home renjun searches for you and watches all your performances,, he wont admit it but hes got a littttllleee crush on you now

time skip a few months

you’ve got your own solo activities after releasing a whole solo album

which renjun streamed the heck out of

hitting number 1 in multiple countries and the mv reached 100M in an insanely fast amount of time renjun helped w that

knowing brothers is a delight to go to

the cast and all around crew are so helpful and funny you don’t feel scared or think you’ll mess up-

that is until you find out renjun’s there

you’re trying to keep a calm exterior and facade its not as if your favorite actor and celebrity crush is standing next to you and whoops, look he is!

you’re trying not to melt when you realize the cameras and screens don’t do him justice- you swear he looks 10 times more handsome than what you’re used to seeing

while renjun’s not sure if he should laugh or cry or maybe both because the person he’s been into is right there standing next to him

and he’s completely in awe because you’re nothing like your stage persona

he’s so used to watching you be savage but here you’re cute and giggly and all renjun wants is to squish you

so the both of you started out shy but are SNARKY and the mcs LOVE it

hodong and su-geun are having the time of their lives entertaining the both of you

both men laughing their butts off when renjun call’s sangmin out

janghoon’s lowkey scared of renjun

the atmosphere’s fun and laughter is all around until heechul tries to bring out one of your past dating scandals

“so, y/n i heard you were dating fellow actor park seo jun?”

and you freeze

people have always brought it up to your face but you’ve always had the girls to support you and have your back

and you don’t know what to do until renjun saves your ass

“heechul hyung, do you really want me to open up my mouth about your dating history?”

and you don’t think you’ve ever seen anyone shut heechul up so quickly

so you make a quick mental note to thank renjun privately

you and renjun make the PERFECT team

and later, when you let it slip that his drama is one of your favorites?

renjun goes red

and he purposely lets it slip that he’s a big fan of you too

which have heechul and sugeun smirking because they KNOW what’s gonna happen soon

after the shoot ends you remind yourself to thank renjun for saving your career, pushing away all the nerves to go and talk to him

“renjun, i wanted to thank you so much for shutting him up back there. i would’ve lost my career if it weren’t for you.”

renjun’s reminding himself to stay cool and not freak out while he smiles at you

“it’s fine. someone needs to shut him up once in a while.”

you treat renjun to a cafe nearby as a thank you, coincidentally where a blink snaps a photo of you two and spreads it like wild fire

lets just say the relationship escalates real quick from that point on.

176 notes · View notes

flamehairedwritings · 4 years ago

Text

The Fiancé: Chapter Six

Characters: Steve Rogers x Female Plus-Size Reader

Rating: The whole series will be E, 18+ ONLY

Summary: A lie about your best friend at a Christmas party spirals into world news, but a previously unknown threat leaves you having to now live the lie of Steve Rogers being your fiancé.

Originally based on the prompt ‘Character A’s ex will be at the Christmas Party A is attending. Character B poses as A’s fiancé,’ by @alloftheprompts.

A/N: The whole series will include swearing, alcohol, threat, violence, apartment sharing, protected sex, and more tags to be added!

The title has been taken from the Ella Fitzgerald song of the same name.

The Fiancé Masterlist

All Works Masterlist

Read on AO3

Please don’t copy or steal my work, and please don’t post it on any other sites; credit does not count.

It’s Only A Paper Moon

WEDNESDAY

“I am in heaven.”

“Doll’, this is Y/N’s wedding, not yours.”

“We have the whole place to ourselves, I can try on one thing, right?”

Well, the first part of that is true. Sitting on a couch not designed for sitting on, you play with your hands in your lap as your gaze travels the room. Nat had, she’d told you before you’d left that morning, bought the whole place out, for the sake of sensationalism, security and it just seemed like something a very famous person would do.

‘Sensationalism’ is so far so successful; there is a crowd of people similar in size to the one at the cake shop outside, trying to look through the French windows, though you’re located at the back of the shop. As for security, it means Nat doesn’t have to plant people inside and you won’t get crowded and overwhelmed by people coming up to you, and for seeming like something a famous person would do? Yeah, probably, you don’t know.

“Just have some fun,” Nat had said as you’d gone down in the elevator. “It’s just trying on some dresses and having a fun time with your friends.”

Fun.

You’d nearly laughed. But, you’d just smiled and nodded, because that’s what you do now, smile and nod and go along with things. If you don’t, that leads to conversations, and conversations lead to you having to admit to things, like the panic attack you’d had that morning as you’d dressed or the fact you have feelings for your best friend and every moment of this week is both wonderful and torturous.

Speaking of... you haven’t seen Steve today.

Last night, after you’d woken up from your nap, you’d showered, masturbated while in there, ‘cause, hey, things had only gotten more stressful, and changed and wandered downstairs, but Steve was nowhere to be seen. Then you’d heard sounds of machines in the gym room and realised he was working out. He’d left a note for you on the island, though, saying there were leftovers in the oven of what he’d cooked. You’d eaten alone, watching TV.

You did that for about two hours, and Steve didn’t emerge once, still working out. You hadn’t thought anything of it, though, he is super-human. So, you’d gone to bed, leaving him a note in return saying thank you, you hadn’t wanted to disturb him and that you were going to bed, with a little drawn smiley face.

There’d been no note when you’d come down after calming yourself and pulling your shoes on, not wanting to be caught out like yesterday morning, just Nat.

But space is good for you two.

Even if you never usually go this long without at least messaging each other.

But this isn’t a ‘usually’ time.

“Y/N?”

The Christmas jazz music filters back into your hearing as your head snaps up to look at Dolly, sat on a gorgeous pale pink shell chair, her big eyes wider than usual.

“Yeah, sorry?”

Her smile is wide and her eyes seem to be only getting wider. “I can try on one thing, right?”

You nod as you smile. “Uh, yeah. As bridesmaids, you probably actually should try something.”

She releases a sound akin to a squeal and claps her hands together. “Great! What colour do you want for us?”

“Uh...” Oh, you know this, you talked about it with Nat in the car... “... Red.”

Bridget looks at you, then exhales a sigh of relief. “Oh, thank God, I thought you were gonna carry on and say ‘white and blue’.”

Your lips twitch as you tilt your head. “Come on, we’re not gonna be that on the nose.”

Bridget raises their eyebrows but before they can retort a woman, Sally, appears with an ice bucket, a bottle of champagne inside, and three glasses. All three of you give some kind of very grateful sound before thanking her as she sets them down on the glass table before you. You also all cheer as she pops the champagne, (God, who are we... desperate for free alcohol, that’s who), and thank her again as she fills the glasses and hands one to you each.

Beaming, she stands back, her hands clasped together. “Can I get anything else for y’all?”

You hum as you quickly swallow your mouthful. “Mmh. Yes, please. Do you have any dresses in red, for these two?”

She glances at them, her gaze sweeping over them and you realise she’s expertly measuring them, and nods. “Absolutely. What style would you like?”

“Uh, any, we’ve got time.”

Her beam grows as she nods. “Wonderful, I’ll be five minutes.”

You take another sip as she trots off to the back room. Much like at the cake shop, you’d said to the shop attendants assisting you, all five of them now having nothing to do but assist you, that you will try everything and anything. Like Damilola, they’d looked delighted, probably used to, as you’d seen on reality shows, people coming in with very specific requests.

And, boy, do you all have the time to try every damn thing on. Dolly and Bridget have the day off, Yvette being very understanding at the short notice, officially, though unofficially she probably isn’t too pleased to not have her best receptionist and the Head of IT on the same day.

Who am I kidding, she never breaks a sweat. Probably a good time to get those interns trained up, too.

You also have the time as you were meant to be visiting two places today, though the first hadn’t exactly gone to plan. In other words, you’d walked out.

“Oh, our, uhm, our plus-size section isn’t very large.”

You fold your arms as Bridget raises their eyebrows and Dolly narrows her eyes.

“Oh? And why not?”

The woman, Candace, looks between you, her cheeks pink. “Oh, because we, uhm...”

You raise your eyebrows, placing your hands on the counter. “I’m about to blow your mind, Candace, but bigger people get married, too. And you’ve just lost my custom.”

You’d walked out seconds after, a smug smile hinting on your lips as Candace had called after you, practically begging for you to return, that they could order whatever you wanted in, but you’d just kept walking, Bridget telling Candace to save it as Dolly looped her arm through yours.

Nat had apologised profusely once you’d gotten into the SUV she was going to spend the day ferrying you three around in, saying it hadn’t occurred to her to check, as Dolly and Bridget had stared at her, still unused to being in her presence.

Of course it hadn’t occurred to her.

This place, though, The Pearl... It’s gorgeous. Despite not having felt offended at the last place, just angry and exasperated, you couldn’t help but feel a little intimidated. What if this was going to be your whole day? Going from place to place just because they were dumb and exclusionary? You’d felt welcomed the moment you walked in, though, all five assistants and Sally smiling as they greeted each of you in turn, and all Sally, obviously the senior member from how she led the conversation, had done was ask you your usual dress size and that had been it.

You look at the interior again, taking in the pale pink and white walls, framed photos on them of dresses or models in them, or real people on their wedding days in them, the plush cream carpet, the crystal chandeliers, the gorgeously decorated Christmas trees in each corner, the fairy lights adorning the counter by the front door.

Yeah... I can have fun here. And why the fuck not? Trying on dresses is always fun, no matter what, and there’s free champagne and I’m here with Dolly and Bridge’.

Sitting back on the pale pink couch, the tightening in your chest easing, you sip your champagne with a smile.

Am I a champagne person now? This week’s telling me yes.

Bridget stretches their legs out as they sigh contentedly. Looking at you, they smile softly. “How are you feeling about the interview?”

You pull a face as you hold the glass between both hands. “You know about that?”

“Uh, it’s been trending on Twitter for the last two days is all anyone’s talking about.”

You groan as you take another, longer sip.

“So how do you feel?” Dolly gently repeats the question.

You smile lightly, looking between them with raised brows. “How do you think?”

She smiles softly, endearing assurance in her tone. “You’re gonna be fine, Y/N.”

You open your mouth, then close it. Then again... you can talk about it freely with these two, they’ll understand without feeling guilty or worrying too much or treating you like a breakable vase.

You exhale a breath, one you feel like you’ve been holding for days. “I don’t know, it’s live and we haven’t been able to get an idea of what they’re gonna ask yet and... I just don’t want to think about it too much, really.”

Bridget rests their arm on the back of the couch, turning their body to you. “That’s not like you. I’ve watched you spend months preparing for one meeting.”

“That’s different.”

“No, it’s not.” They point a finger at you. “This is a meeting, and you’re pitching your marriage.”

You have no idea how close to the truth that is.

You take a breath. “Can I practise on you two, then?”

Both of them perk up, smiles wide.

“Absolutely!” Dolly enthuses. “We’ve been dying for you to tell us all the details, we’ve been so patient.”

“And a little bit offended,” Bridget adds good-naturedly with an arched brow.

“I know, I know,” you smile, even as your chest twinges.

“It’s fine, two birds, one stone, you can make up for it now and practise,” Bridget says, holding their glass on their knee and fixing you with an expectant gaze and adopting a stereotypical news reader voice. “So, how did this happen, when was the first kiss, the first fondle, the engagement, I want every dirty detail, and the romantic details, too.”

“Okay,” you say through your laughter as Dolly giggles. “All right, all right... God, I’m gonna need more champagne.”

—

He could see the headline now; Cap Goes To Seek Former Flame’s Approval!

At least it would be better than the one’s that had been written when he’d gone on two dates with Sharon. Had that been why they’d both ended it? The media pressure, the questions, the constant hounding? No, but maybe that had been a factor in it. Sharon is great, but... He hadn’t felt a real connection, and neither had she.

He’d only felt that connection a few times in his life, so he knew when something was worth fighting for.

"Engaged, hm?” Peggy Carter fixes him with her gaze, an eyebrow arched, and, God, nothing ever passes her by, not even now.

A smile pulling at his lips, he raises his own eyebrows a little. “Peg—”

She exhales a laugh. “You can’t tell me, I understand.” Lacing her fingers together on her stomach, she smiles. “I do like her.”

“You’ve never met her,” he reminds her gently.

“I know,” she adjusts her head on her pillow, “but the way you talk about her makes me like her. How is she doing with all of this?”

He nods, his own hands clasped together. “Okay, I think. She’s tough.”

Peggy looks at him, her jaw moving minutely. “Hm.”

“What?”

Her lips lift a little, her features soft. “People called me tough. Said I handled things okay. But I can’t tell you how many times I cried in my office, then pulled myself together. I don’t mind crying, it’s very therapeutic, but I would have hated them to see me do it, hated what they would have twisted it into. Or even some of my friends, how they might have gently told me to maybe cut back my hours or something like that, to take on less. But just because I cried it didn’t mean I couldn’t handle matters.”

Steve opens his mouth when she continues, “Did you know that after you went into the ice our relationship is all anyone wanted to talk to me about? Interview me about? Even when I became Director of SHIELD the same questions followed me around, ‘What do you think Steve would think? Would he be proud? Do you still miss him?’”

Something in him twists as he looks at her. “I’m sorry, Peg.”

She laughs, shaking her head. “Lord, I’m not saying it to make you feel bad, Steve, still so dramatic...” Her features soften again, but her gaze fixes on his. “I’m just trying to give a little perspective, having been in the position she is. It’s not easy.”

He exhales a long breath, his shoulders dropping a little. “That’s what I’m afraid of, actually.”

Her brow dips. “What do you mean?”

“Like you just said, it’s not easy being with me.”

“Steve Rogers...” His gaze, having lowered, meets hers again, and he finds it faintly incredulous. “... It’s the easiest thing in the world being with you. You are easy to be with. It’s the rest of the world that’s the problem.”

A corner of his mouth lifts. “I liked where that was goin’ but that last part doesn’t make me feel any better.”

She huffs out a laugh, tilting her head. “But the rest of the world doesn’t matter, though, does it? Not if you’re with someone you love, hm?”

He looks at her, his lips lifting a little higher. “No, it doesn’t.”

—

“... So, it was only a couple of weeks ago... We were out at the park we like to walk in, you know the one, I go on about it all the time, the trees are always on my Instagram ‘cause it’s just so pretty, ‘nd it’s quiet, y’know, we’re in the middle of winter, and it’s dark, no one wants to really be out walking, except us...”

You’ve had a bit more champagne than you probably should, but, hey, go away, morals, this is a nice story.

“... so we’re walking, and we’re just talking, and then we stop, and we’re looking up at the stars...”

Dolly, Bridget, Sally, and the other five shop assistants, Donna, Nicole, Max, Jamie and Priya all sigh together at the imagery, and your eyebrows raise and you nod in an expression of, ‘I know’.

“... and then he just gets down on one knee and asks me to marry him.”

They all sigh again, a couple of them putting their hands to their chests and ‘aww’ing and you nod as you sip your champagne because, yeah, that is very cute.

Good one, me.

“What did he say? How did he ask you?” Max asks, all the assistants bunched together on a long couch they’d dragged over.

You take another, longer sip of champagne because what did he say...

“... Oh, well, that’s just between me and him,” you say with a coy smile and they all boo good-naturedly.

Nice one.

“That’s such a lovely story,” Sally smiles warmly and you return it before raising your eyebrows.

“Shall we carry on trying these gorgeous dresses?”

They all cheer and the assistants get to their feet and scurry off to the back to find more for you and Dolly and Bridget. You look at your two friends, Dolly in a yellow ballgown, Bridget in a multi-coloured floral suit, and beam. You are wearing an ivory lace number that hugs your figure and then flows out just below your hips, and are trying very hard not to spill champagne on it.

The session had quickly escalated into Dolly and Bridget trying on whatever they wanted between red dresses, and you just putting on whatever was brought out. You’d told Sally you were here to get an idea of what you wanted, but that you’d be returning very soon. Nat has scheduled in another dress shopping day for Friday and you’d quickly messaged her about half an hour ago while you were changing to cancel wherever that was and make it here. She hadn’t argued.

You’re also giving little bits of details here and there to practise for the interview, your first kiss (at your place after watching a film), when you’d said I love you, (at his place after having dinner and watching a film together), and the story of how he proposed. You’re going to have to remember all this to tell Steve, though, so you keep making notes on your phone as you get changed.

You’ve also sent him a message because you still haven’t spoken.

You know he’s with Peggy, though, so he absolutely won’t be checking his phone, but...

It just feels strange.

“Right...” Your attention comes back into the room as Sally and Jamie appear with an armful of dresses each, “... We have a vintage style one here that we think y’all are gonna love.”

Dolly claps her hands together as Bridget gasps dramatically.

“Vintage? Oh, he’s absolutely gonna love that.”

You don’t know why that makes you feel warm. It’s not like he’s actually going to see you in it... Unless...

—

“... Thank you so much! ... We will! We’ll see you Friday!”

You have to practically drag Dolly out of the back doors of The Pearl, the three of you giggling as you wave at the assistants. Who knew you could become such firm friends with people in the space of in five hours? Well, two bottles of champagne will do that.

You’re on the higher end of tipsy, in a lovely, warm, chatty way, and you have lined your stomach and soaked some of it up, Sally having ordered you all food so you wouldn’t have to leave and 1) Face the crowd, and 2) You couldn’t be bothered to leave, really.

The crowd is also the reason you’re leaving out the back doors, none of you wanting to face the horde outside. It has grown throughout the day, people desperate to get even the tiniest glimpse of you and what you’re wearing. Priya had closed the curtains after an hour, though, and they’d had two of their security guards stationed outside the front doors and it was just bliss. You’d had the chance to forget all about the outside world and just have some fun. Moving across the staff parking lot for The Pearl and a couple of surrounding shops, people haven’t had the chance to get in because it’s guarded, and the man whose job that is looks up from his newspaper in his little station, then looks back down.

Bliss.

Nat waits for you in the SUV, those sunglasses on, one hand leaning against the steering wheel.

“Such a ‘top’ pose,” Bridget stage-whispers and you’re all falling into giggles again.

You’re still gigging as you climb into the car, you in the passenger seat, Dolly and Bridget behind you. Nat’s lips twitch as she raises an eyebrow.

“Did we all have a fun time?”

“So fun.” Dolly, who is usually the most intimidated by Nat, which isn’t surprising considering she has a crush on her and they’ve both only met her three times before, including today, launches into a glowing review of the shop and day, “Everyone was so nice and the dresses and suits and jumpsuits and shoes are gorgeous, I can’t wait until we go back, oh my God, it’s all I’m gonna think about tomorrow...”

Nat’s smile lingers on her lips as she heads towards Dolly’s apartment, Dolly carrying on for the whole journey with Bridget occasionally butting in to add a comment. You laugh the whole way, your cheeks almost hurting from how much you’ve been grinning.

Nat parks up outside Dolly’s building, and turns in her seat, pushing her sunglasses up onto her head and meeting Dolly’s gaze, which provokes a pink blush to rise on her cheeks.

“Sounds like a really good day, then.”

Dolly just nods now, swallowing lightly. “Yep.”

Glancing from her to Bridget, Nat smiles and you think you hear Bridget let out the quietest of sounds. Wanting to save them both, or maybe they don’t want to be saved, they could be loving gazing into her eyes, who knows at this point, you turn to them, too.

“Oke doke, we’ll see you later, Doll’, I’ll text you when Sam and I are on the way.”

Bridget’s eyes whip to you, their mouth dropping open. “Sam’s picking us up?!”

You can’t stop your smile from widening, your eyebrows rising. “Yeah.”

“Oh my God, right, I need to go home and get ready now, Doll’ get out, I only have three hours, oh my God...”

Dolly is laughing so hard she nearly trips out of the SUV, and one hand is on your chest as the other wipes at your eyes as you laugh. Dolly waves from the pavement as she grins before she trots into the building, and all feelings of intimidation have left Bridget as they point ahead.

“Step on it, Nat, this is a national emergency, go...”

Nat just shakes her head as she turns back around, but she’s still smiling and you’re still laughing. “All right, all right, don’t worry, hold on...”

And, boy, does she mean it.

How does she drive this fast and this safely.

—

There’s just something about getting ready for a night-out while you’re tipsy.

Sometimes, if you haven’t had a chance to pre-drink, you have a few moments of ‘ugh, do I really want to go out, I can’t be bothered, there’s that new show out, I’m so tired, oh my God, what if I do something embarrassing...’ but now, the champagne having only worn off a little from what you made yourself for dinner, and, okay, it probably didn’t help that you also made yourself an alcoholic beverage to have with it, you’re still quite buzzed.

Steve hadn’t been home yet and Nat had left a few minutes after making sure you were inside the penthouse so you’d been able to play your music and yell along to it. You’d been able to take your time getting ready, trying on a few outfits before settling on a true classic number that makes a lot of appearances on nights out because 1) you look amazing in it, and 2) you look really damn amazing in it.

You’d even, Nat having requested it, taken a selfie once you were ready and uploaded it to your Instagram story, along with a few gifs of glasses clinking together and someone dancing.

Job done, you’d returned to the group chat you have with Dolly and Bridget and sent them the picture, accompanied with, ‘time to fuckin party’. You could send them a picture of you in a bin bag and they’d still reply with the same thing they do for every photo, and you would for them.

Bridge’ 🌟: Y E S

Dolly ✨: WHO IS SHE???

Bridge’ 🌟: INCREDIBLE, SHOW STOPPING, AMAZING, ICONIC, LIFE CHANGING

Dolly ✨: I LOVE IT

They swiftly send their own photos.

You: LOOK AT US

Bridge’ 🌟: WHO ARE WE

God, they’re great.

You ignored the slight, unpleasant flip in your stomach at seeing Steve’s message, that he sent an hour ago and you haven’t replied to yet.

I hope you had a good day, have fun tonight x

You message each other every day so you never send ‘kisses’, so this just makes you think he’s done it to soften the blow of a slightly blunt message. Is it blunt? Or are you reading too much in to it? He has had a busy day based on what Nat told you when she’d driven you to the penthouse. He was seeing Peggy all day and then going over to Bucky’s to see him, and then they are going to have their own night out.

That’s busy, right.

Whatever, he doesn’t have to reply all the time, it’s fine.

You reply:

Thanks, you too! :-) x

Which is the kind of reply you’d give to someone at work.

You’d ignored your phone vibrating as people, strangers, react to your Instagram story, slipped it into your bag and headed downstairs.

If you were an ego-maniac, Sam’s reaction on top of your friends would just make your head explode.

“Well, hello, ma’am!”

“Oh, stop it.”

“Nu-uh, let me look at you... Wo-ow. You look amazing.”

“Stop it... but thank you, I know.”

The moment you got into his SUV, (does everyone get one the moment they join SHIELD?) he has music playing that you can both sing along and dance in your seats to. Bridget had told you to pick them up last to give them more time so you swing by Dolly’s place first and she looks gorgeous as always in a short, glittery pink dress with matching eyeshadow and lipstick, her blonde hair curled and bouncing.

You give little squeals as you see each other, despite having only seen each other a few hours ago, and she’s definitely still buzzed, too. Sam gives her the same reaction he gave you and, God, you love him.

As you pull up outside Bridget’s building, you can’t stop meeting Dolly’s gaze in the rear-view mirror, your lips twitching. She’s doing a worst job than you at hiding her smile, her hand in front of her mouth, and you’re both trying so hard to stop a laugh.

It escapes when he gets out of the car and closes the door and you’re both turning in your seats to stare at Bridget as they walk out, gorgeous as always in a buttoned up, black blazer with no shirt underneath and matching black shorts, one side of their head freshly shaved. Dolly’s hand darts out and grips your arm as Sam approaches them and kisses their cheek and they’re both smiling but you can’t hear what they’re saying and you hate SUVs, are these things sound-proof, I’ll ask Nat...

As they climb into the car, you and Dolly are staring at Bridget, smiling. They just raise their eyebrows, grinning and say, “Hey, girls.”

“Well, hello.”

“Hi.”

You have to once again stop a laugh as Sam starts to drive, turning the music up, and you were all soon yelling along to the songs.

Now here you are, at a roof-top bar, being escorted to a table that had been reserved for you. Usually, you’d go to your favourite bar opposite work but Sam had gently insisted that you move it to another place he was more familiar with and where he could have better access to an exit and eyes on you. For a place simply titled The Venue, it’s very nice up here; it’s large, fire pits and heaters dotted around so you can’t feel the cold, a stunning view of the city, low, sultry tunes playing, a dance-floor in one corner, everything either purple, red, or gold. There’s even table service, and you recognise a few people dotted around.

“Is that—”

“Oh my God, yes...” Bridget whispers back to Dolly’s question as they stare at a table a little way away.

Your lips twitch as you each take a seat at a wooden table with a candle on it, the chairs red and plush. Your server informs you that a tab has already been set up for you, so you each grab a menu and debate for a good few minutes about what to get, the server standing patiently. Settling on cocktails, the server leaves with a beam, promising to be back in a few minutes.

“God, this place is fancy,” Bridget says, turning in their seat to get another look at everything.

“And we actually have a table!” Dolly sighs delightedly.

“Perks of being Mrs America, huh?” Bridget turns back around to look at you, their eyebrows raising with a smirk.

You snort, your cheeks heating. “Not quite yet.”

Bridget opens their mouth but Dolly gets in first, gasping suddenly. “Did you see the news by the way?”

You pull a slight face. “No, I don’t tend to look at it anymore.”

She beams, her eyes sparkling. “Well, what happened at the dress shop, at the first place, everyone’s talking about it. People are so happy you said something and brought attention to it, there’s so many discussions being had about the wedding dress industry and the fashion industry in general when it comes to plus size clothing.”

The server returns before you can reply, and as she sets your drinks down you feel heat rise on your face again as you bite at your lower lip, pride spreading through you.

Well... Great power, great responsibility... I could get all kinds of stuff to be talked about... Note to self, change world tomorrow.

The three of you take long sips of your chosen drinks, humming in delight at the taste. As you lick your lips and set your glass down, Bridget places their arms on the table and leans forward.

“Now, come on, Y/N...”

Your eyebrows raise. “... What?”

Bridget tilts their head. “What’s he like in bed.”

You give your best scandalised gasp as Dolly laughs and Bridget smirks, continuing, “He’s kinky, isn’t he? It’s always the quiet ones...”

“Bridget Sanderson,” you gasp again, even as you grin, Dolly’s laugh infectious, “A lady never tells.”

“Well, you ain’t no lady so spill.”

You take a long sip of your drink to buy some time.

Could you? Should you?

Well, I’m in this far... And they won’t let it slide...

Licking your lips, you lean forward and lower your voice. “All the details?”

Dolly giggles and claps her hands together as Bridget grins. “All of them, you saucy bitch.”

—

Who knew you were so imaginative. Who knew you could remember every detail of every fantasy you have ever had about your best friend. Who knew you could think up such filthy, delightful things. Who knew you’d start comparing these imaginings with actual things you’ve done in your life, and that Dolly and Bridget have done with their sexual partners.

Who knew all three of you could drink so much.

Sorry to whoever’s paying the tab. The government? Shit, sorry, government, no wait, no I’m not, another round!

As the server, Melanie, you found out is her name while ordering the second drink, brings you your fourth drinks, you’re currently in the middle of laughing so hard it hurts at a story Dolly is telling of a sexual encounter, tears streaming from your eyes.

“... and then...” She dissolves into laughter herself, leaning over. “... and then her cat came in and it just, it just sat on the bedside table and made eye contact with me and...” God, you bloody love her laugh. “... she was doin’ such great things and sayin’ such good dirty talk but all I could do was stare at this cat and I just felt like apologising to it... and then it just started licking itself!”

Bridget is practically curled up in their chair as they laugh and you’re having to wipe at your cheeks, practically crying. Once you’ve all calmed down, you blow out a breath and massage your stomach.

“Oh my God, Doll’, I can’t believe you never told us that story...”

“I’m gonna wanna hear it again every day,” Bridget says, running a hand through their hair as they grin.

Dolly beams, sipping her drink. “I’d forgotten ‘bout it, think I repressed it.”

“So Steve’s into dirty talk, too, huh?” Bridget asks, sipping their own drink.

You nod several times, because part of you had always just thought, with him being such a great commander and leader, that he would be... and you’ve already told them that he is. “Mmhm, he’s made me come by jus’ his words alone.”

“No.”

“Get th’ fuck outta here.”

You nod smugly, your tongue catching your straw and you take a long sip. Not a total lie, you’ve imagined his voice in your ear several times... with a vibrator helping you along. And, hey, you won’t feel guilty about any of this ‘cause this is boosting his image... to your friends.

Dolly’s eye are wide and she and Bridget lean in, wanting more sordid details. You grin, happy to oblige and divulge more of your fantasies.

“So, it was when he was away one time ‘nd he called me ‘nd—”

“Excuse me?”

All three of you pause and turn to look at a woman, close to your age, smiling as she pushes her brown straight hair over her shoulder.

“Hi.”

“H’llo.”

“Hiya.”

“Hey,” she says, holding a phone in her hands as she looks at you. “I’m sorry to bother you, but can my friends and I get a photo with you?”

You blink, and look at her. Did... Yeah, you heard it right. Photo? With you?

You nod quickly, realising you’re just staring and silent. “Oh, yeah, sure, absolutely.”

What the fuck is happening. I hope I don’t sound as drunk as I feel. Or look it, oh my God, are my eyes open properly?

You push yourself up and, oh, fuck, yep, you’re drunk, and step around your chair as the woman beams and beckons her five friends over.

“Thank you so much!”

Bridget offers to take the photo, the woman very grateful, and she and her friends introduce themselves, a little tipsy and giddy with nerves and being with a celebrity, oh my God, I’m a celebrity, this is hilarious...

You stand in the middle, your arms around the girls either side of you, and you smile, making sure your eyes are open properly, as they pose. Bridget takes a few photos before smiling and handing the phone back to the first woman as they break away from you.

“Oh my God, thank you so much!”

“You’re so pretty!”

“We’re so jealous of you!”

You just smile and nod, trying to appear a little more sober.

“Thank you, have a nice night!” you call as they wander off, still giddy with excitement and all wanting to look at the photo.

Sitting back down, blinking, you look at Bridget and Dolly. They’re looking at you, blinking, too. It’s Bridget who finally speaks.

“... So, as you were sayin’ ‘bout gettin’ absolutely railed by America’s Finest?”

The three of you dissolve into giggles again, Dolly throwing her head back as Bridget leans over the table and your hands cover your mouth.

“Hey!”

Oh my God, I really am a celebrity.

Your wide smile lingering, you lower your hands and look up at the woman. You hear a chair scrape back on the stone floor somewhere as you pause. Hang on, you know this woman—

“You worthless bitch!”

Dolly screams as the woman throws some kind of small can at you and you’re suddenly drenched in a thick, liquid, your eyes closing just in time. Someone else screams as you hear Bridget shove their chair back and yell obscenities at the woman, lunging for her, but suddenly other voices are there, and they must be pulling the woman away because her own screams are coming from further and further away.

You’re frozen in your seat, hands half-raised. People are shouting around you but you barely listen. Dazed, your hands continue moving up, as they had been doing to protect yourself, and you wipe the liquid away from your eyes, and slowly open them.

You can feel the cold now, the heaters and fire-pits worthless, the liquid sticking to your skin and clothes. Or maybe you’re just shaking because you’re in shock.

You suddenly realise someone has been talking to you. Your head moving, you meet Sam’s gaze, suddenly feeling his hand on your back. His features are soft and his voice is gentle, but you can see the rage in his eyes.

“I got you, it’s all right. Can you get up? And we’ll get you out of here?”

You nod and lower your gaze, going to reach for your bag.

“It’s all right, I got it,” he says and your eyes move to his other hand, confirming that he does.

Getting to your feet, Sam’s arm goes around your shoulders and your feet are moving. People are still shouting, some trying to take photos, but there are people pushing them away, giving you and Sam space to head towards a door he’s leading you to.

It’s paint, you realise suddenly. Blue paint. You look back down at yourself again, watching it stain your skin and clothes.

“Where’s Bridge’ and Dolly?” you hear yourself ask.

“Another agent’s got ‘em, don’t worry, she’s gonna take ‘em home.”

Sam shoves the door open and you step into a stairwell, two men stood inside it. One of them moves to your left and you see an elevator, which the man opens by typing in a code on a keypad. Sam’s hand is still on your back, gently guiding you into it. The doors shut as the man types in another code, and Sam drops his hand from you and presses a button marked ‘B’. The elevator starts to descend and you stare at the doors.

“We’re gonna get you home, all right?” Sam says quietly, and you just nod, not caring to ask if he means home home, or the penthouse.

You hear him unzip his jacket. Yeah, it is hot in here. Your skin is warm all over and your throat feels tight, and you can’t quite take in a deep enough breath. Then you hear the sound of something ripping. Your gaze darting to Sam, he holds a section of his polo shirt in his hand and offers it to you. You stare at it, your brain putting the pieces together, and then you take it. You wipe at your eyes, mouth and face, and Sam zips his jacket back up and looks at you.

“You okay?” His voice is quiet again and you’re grateful for it because even the sound of his shirt tearing has made your heart beat faster.

“That was the woman from my work, who got in, wasn’t it?” you ask blankly, your volume matching his.

He shifts a little, scratching at his jaw as you hear him release a breath. “Yeah.”

You nod, swallowing hard and you wish the lump in your throat would go away. “Right.” He opens his mouth when you continue, finally meeting his gaze, “Why did you do that, Sam? You’ve blown your cover, surely, or they’ll know I’m being watched.”

He gives a light smile. “People will expect you to be watched, it would’ve been suspicious if no one stepped in.”

“Ah.” You start to wipe at your hands.

Sam tilts his head slightly, his smile softening. “And I wanted to get you out of there.”

You meet his gaze again, but you don’t have the energy to smile, despite the sentiment being touching, and just nod. His eyes linger on you as you look back down at your hands, concern swiftly replacing his smile.

The elevator slows then comes to a halt, the doors sliding open a moment later, and the cold night air washes over you as you both step out into the underground parking garage, yet another one, Sam’s hand returning to your back. The place is silent, and you spot Sam’s SUV amongst a few other cars, both of you heading towards it. He gestures to someone in another car but you don’t care to look, assuming it’s another agent.

He moves a step ahead of you to open the passenger side door and you stop abruptly.

“What?” he says instantly, tensing.

“The paint. It’s gonna ruin the seat.”

He looks at you for a moment, his features relaxing into a smile. “Ah, that’s all right. That can be taken care of.”

You get in after he nods, and he places your bag on your lap. Closing the door, he jogs around to the driver’s side as you buckle your seatbelt then settle your hands over your bag, gripping it along with the piece of his shirt. Your eyes focus and stay on the dashboard as he secures his own seatbelt and puts the car into ‘drive’.

The barrier is more guarded than the other parking garages you’d been in this week but that hasn’t stopped paparazzi and occupants of the building from gathering, assuming that’s how you’d leave the area. You keep your eyes on the dashboard as lights flash and people shout.

Shouting, always shouting.

Sam doesn’t drive as fast as Nat, but he’s goes at some speed when you’re out on the main road. “Steve’s gonna meet us at the apartment,” he says after a couple of minutes, keeping his eyes on the road, “He was out with Barnes.”

“Okay.” Your voice sounds small to your own ears, distant.

Neither of you talk.

You look at your hands, the paint dry and barely having come off from when you’d rubbed at them in the elevator.

You start rubbing at them again, then use your nail, trying to scrape what you can off.

“Shit...” Sam murmurs suddenly.

Glancing up at him, you find him looking in the rear-view mirror every few moments.

“What is it?”

“Someone’s followin’ us.”

Your stomach drops, and exhaustion hits you like a fucking freight train. From his reaction, you guess it’s not a news van.

Sam presses a button on the steering wheel and the sound of dialling fills the interior.

Nat answers on the first ring.

"Where are you?”

“Nat, we’re bein’ followed.”

“Shit. All right, there’s a car on the way. Change your route.”

“Okay.” He takes the next left, and you know your heart should be pounding but you’re just so tired.

“How far away are you?”

“About fifteen minutes,” Sam replies, glancing up at the rear-view mirror. “We’re definitely bein’ followed, Nat.”

“The car will be there in three minutes. Keep taking turns, it’ll follow behind them.”

“Don’t worry, Y/N, nearly home,” Sam murmurs.

“Mhm.”

“Are you okay, Y/N?” Nat asks, her voice a little softer.

“Mhm.”

Sam glances at you as he pulls up at a red light, his lips pressing together. “Not long now.”

“Mhm—”

The sound twists into a gasp as you’re thrown forward slightly, the seatbelt catching you. Sucking in a breath through your teeth, you lift your head and look in the wing mirror as Sam spits out a curse.

A car, its bonnet dented, is reversing... then it speeds towards you again.

“Sam—”

“I see it.”

“Sam, what’s going on?” Nat demands to know as Sam pushes his foot down on the accelerator, the SUV lurching forward.

“We just got hit, they’re tryna ram us.”

“Are you both okay?”

Sam’s expertly weaving through the traffic, leaving horns blaring in your wake, but he just keeps going.

“Y/N, you okay?” he asks.

“Yeah, yeah, fine.” It’s an automatic response, but you think you are. Physically, at least. Whiplash will properly rear its head soon, though.

A faint memory comes to you, however, of Sam telling you all the SHIELD cars have been built to absorb the impact of things like this, it having happened a fair few times, leaving the occupants with minimal damage, if none, so maybe not.

“Are they still following?”

“Nah, I don’t think so. Think we lost ‘em.” He only slows his speed a little, though.

“You’re right, the agents are following them now, just get back here as quick as you can.”

“All right.”

The call ends and Sam glances at you.

“Y/N, you gotta tell me if you’re not okay, are you hu—”

“I’m fine, Sam, thank you.” You swallow hard, the lump still in your throat.

He falls silent, leaving you be, and you’re grateful for it because you’re so fucking tired.

Several minutes later, he pulls up at the penthouse building and he makes you wait, sliding out of his seat and jogging round to open your door. People stare as he ushers you across the main foyer to the elevator that’ll take you up to your floor but you just look ahead. Thankfully, Sam doesn’t say a word as the elevator ascends and you just look at the doors. When they slide open at the penthouse floor and you step out into the tiny circular foyer, you let Sam get his keycard out, opening the door.

And then the noise washes over you.

People talking, to each other, over each other, on phones, demanding, ordering, snapping. You hear the door close and feel Sam behind you as you slowly walk down the short hallway, then into the living room area.

There are agents everywhere, maybe about twenty, all stood around, talking. Loudly.

They don’t look up at you as they continue on with whatever they’re doing, typing on tablets, staring at tablets, standing over a hologram of what you realise is the floor-plan of the penthouse.

“Y/N.” Your eyes dart up to Nat as she approaches, striding across the carpet. “Are you okay? How are you feeling?”

“Fine. Tired.”

“Okay.” Her gaze scans you, assessing, and you’re too drained to care that she knows you’re lying. Her hand settles on your arm gently and she holds your gaze, her voice lowering. “We analysed what this is, okay, we got the can of it from the woman, and it’s just paint—”

“Who is she?”

Nat pauses at your abrupt question, and you know she’s weighing up what to tell you. Her hand doesn’t move from your arm as she speaks, “Her name’s Marise Daniels. She’s one of Steve’s stalkers, we’ve been aware of her for a while.”

Stalkers. One of.

“Oh.”

“She...” Sam starts to say, choosing his own words carefully. “... She isn’t meant to be out, especially after what happened at your work.”

“Apparently there was a system error. Someone’s seriously fucked up,” Nat continues, the information new to you both considering Sam’s hissed release of a breath.

“Is that why these people are all here.” You don’t think you’ve ever heard your own voice sound so lifeless.

Nat pauses again, weighing her words again and, God, just tell me. “Someone tried to break in. They got into the elevator and overrode it, got up here but they couldn’t get in. The tampering alerted our systems but by the time we got here they’d gone. We’re checking CCTV footage now and asking people if they saw anything.”

You look at her, her words barely feeling like they reach you. “So why are all these people in here.”

Her hand is gently rubbing your arm now, and it’s faintly starting to ground you. “They’re checking the security systems in place here, making sure they’re secure or reinforced.”

“Okay.”

“They’ll be gone in thirty minutes, I promise.”

“Okay.”

She takes in a breath and smiles lightly. “How about we—”

“Agent Romanoff?”

A muscle in her jaw ticks slightly but she turns to the agent, her eyebrows raising. “Yeah?”

The agent lowers her phone from her ear. “Captain Rogers has helped to apprehend the suspect. He’s on his way over. Agents Moore and Lane are taking the suspect back to HQ.”

“All right, tell them to...”

Nat’s voice drops out of your hearing, and your gaze drifts to the stairs. Sam’s hand settles on your back, rubbing gently, and you remember that he’s there.

“I’m gonna... gonna go upstairs and wash this off,” you mumble to him, and you don’t hear if he replies as you move forward.

People don’t look at you, continuing with their business, talking, talking, talking. You reach the top of the stairs before you know it, opening your bedroom door. You close it behind you, muffling the sounds of the people downstairs.

Removing your shoes, you drop your bag to join them on the floor as you head to the bathroom. You pull your outfit off, letting it drop to the floor, too, you can deal with it later, hopefully the washing machine will get it out.

You turn the shower on and step under the water. Head down, you watch some of the blue paint start to wash off, swirling and whirling in the water and disappearing down the drain. Only a little, though.

You have to use your hands and the body-wash to get it off. Scrubbing at your skin. Scraping at it.

You’re in there for twenty minutes. Scrubbing. Scraping.

When you finally make yourself get out your skin feels raw. There’s still a faint stain in some parts, though. You grab a towel and use it to continue rubbing at your skin, blue now staining the cream softness of it. The rest of your skin is dry by the time you make yourself stop and you pull the robe on.

Then you look at yourself in the mirror.

The lump returns to your throat and tears fill your eyes. You look... drained. And you fucking feel it. You’re exhausted. So exhausted, in every single way. You’ve spent all week fighting so hard to stay up-beat, to stay positive, to make this work, to see the good sides, but the world isn’t allowing that. You’d just wanted to yell at the woman, Marise, that you are doing this to keep him safe, that he is in danger, and you are just doing this to keep your fucking best friend safe.

The fact there’s still some blue paint staining your cheeks and neck is what makes the tears finally spill down your face. Sniffing, you swallow hard and grab a hand towel, wetting it and scrubbing at your skin once more.

It’s not moving.

You inhale a quiet, shuddering breath, almost a sob, as you stare at your reflection, scrubbing, scrubbing, scrubbing.

Three gentle knocks sound on your bedroom door.

“Come in,” you say automatically, your voice cracking, and you wipe at your eyes.

You look up as the door opens and see in the reflection... Steve.

He pauses, the door nearly closed behind him. You sniff again as you look at him, his eyes assessing you.

“Hey,” he says softly.

“Hey,” you answer. You shrug then, your features crumbling. “... It’s not coming off.”

The door closes and he’s moving towards you.

“Come here, it’s okay...”

As you turn from the mirror, you’re then enveloped in his embrace, your cheek pressed against his chest as he holds you. A jagged sob escapes you as your arms go around him, holding onto his shirt, gripping it.

“It’s okay...” he murmurs again, and you feel his voice rumbling in his chest, his chin resting on your head.

You’ve tried so hard to stave off tears all week that now that you can, now you don’t care anymore, now that you’re so tired, they’re not stopping. The front of his grey shirt must be damp, now, and your throat hurts and your chest is heaving but you just let the tears come and come, and he doesn’t stop you, doesn’t say anything, just holds you, his hands occasionally stroking your back and arms gently.

It’s not until you start to draw back that he does, guiding you to the sit on the rim of the bath.

“I’m sorry,” you mumble, wiping at your cheeks with one hand. “Still a bit drunk, I think.”

A corner of his mouth lifts a little as he crouches down before you and takes the hand towel. “You don’t need to apologise. You can cry as much as you like.”

Your own lips lift for a moment as you sniff, and then you want to cry all over again as he starts to gently dab at the stains on your face and neck. You watch him, your eyes tracing his nose and mouth, the small, concerned lines on his forehead. If he got into a fight with the suspect earlier, there’s no sign of it. His hair doesn’t even look tussled.

Your eyes continue moving and meet his. He lowers his hand and inhales a quiet breath.

“I’m sorry, about all of this, Y/N.”

You’re shaking your head before he’s even finished his sentence. “Steve, it’s not your fault.”

He looks almost pained at that, shaking his own head. “I could’ve prevented you being in this situation, though, I knew the risks of—”

“Don’t,” you interrupt sharply, surprising you both, but you continue on, “I already know what you’re going to say, and I will take it all, all of this, if it means I get to be your friend. Like we’ve said, we’re a team in this. I really wouldn’t want anyone else as my fake fiancé or as my friend.”

A smile pulls at his lips, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “You shouldn’t have to take all this, though, you shouldn’t—”

“No, I shouldn’t. But I will.” Your hand has found his free one, and grips it gently.

He turns his hand over instantly, curling his fingers around your hand, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. His smile softens.

“I think the world’s finally gonna see the stubborn pain in the ass I have to deal with.”

You exhale a laugh, and his smile widens at seeing yours.

“Well, it’s only fair others should have to suffer,” you say, shrugging a shoulder.

“You’re right there.” He resumes dabbing at your skin as you look at him.

“How was your day?” you ask quietly after a few silent moments, knowing he’ll just ask how you are if it stretches any longer.

“It was okay.” He’s dabbing at your chin now. “Peg says hi, and that she understands what you’re going through.”

God, you just want to cry all over again.

Your chest warms as you smile. “Really? Maybe I should go on your next visit.”

“I think she’d really like that.” His thumb is still brushing over your knuckles, and you wonder if he realises he’s still doing it. “She knows this isn’t real, though, think she figured it out.”

“Well, I wouldn’t expect anything less. How was Bucky?”

“Fine. He says hello, too.”

“Wow, everyone’s being so kind to me today.”

He arches an eyebrow at you as you laugh, trying to stop himself from doing the same. “I don’t know whether it’s a good sign or not that you’re already joking about this.”

“Humour’s a great coping mechanism, you know that.”

He’s still smiling, but you can see the concern returning, so you quickly continue, taking your hand from his so you can raise a finger, raising your eyebrows, “Well, Doll’ and Bridge’ told me to tell you, by the way, well done, on having me as a fiancée.”

The corners of his mouth lift higher, now reaching his eyes. "Yeah, I know how lucky I am.”

“Oh, and, you proposed to me in our park, by the way.”

He tilts his head as you smile somewhat smugly. “Did I, now?”

“Yeah, under the stars.”

His eyebrows raise as he smiles widely. “Wow, you’re also very lucky, then.”

You wave your hand slightly. “I said a lot of stuff today, I’ll have to fill you in. I made notes.”

He chuckles as he lowers the towel from your face and rises to his feet. “You can show me my homework tomorrow.”

You watch him as he moves to the sink, dropping the towel into it, then raise your hand suddenly. “Oh, there was a dress I actually really liked there, too.”

“The one you sent me a picture of?”

You freeze, staring at him as he turns to you.

“... What?”

Pulling his phone out of his pocket, he moves back towards you, unlocking it, then taps on a couple of things before turning it towards you.

Ohp.

And there you are.

In the vintage style dress, cascading flutter sleeves stopping just below your elbows, tight on your breasts and with a v-neckline, satin gold, your hand on your waist, beaming at your reflection in the gold mirror at The Pearl.

Ah, now you remember sending it...

“... Yeah, that’s the one.”

“It’s really nice,” he says, sliding his phone back into his pocket as he offers you a hand to get to your feet. “You look great in it.”

Your face heats as you take his hand and get up, shrugging a shoulder and smiling. “Oh, well, thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

Your hands drop, yours going to your side, his going into the pocket of his jeans. Looking up at him, you give a light smile, which he returns.

“You okay?” he asks softly, and you nod after a moment.

“Yeah. Just so fucking tired,” you say with a slight laugh. “Think I’m just gonna sleep now.”

He nods, his teeth grazing over his lower lip. “That sounds like a good idea. What a fuckin’ day, huh?”

You snort, your eyebrows raising. “Yeah, for both of us.”

He sighs, as if remembering that, oh, yeah, someone had tried to break in, too. “The agents have all gone, now. The place is even more secure, it’s like a fortress.”

“Well, that’s good.”

You head into the bedroom, and he follows you out, moving to the door. He opens it, turning to you, and you share another smile.

“Sure you’re okay?” he asks again, and you bite at your lower lip.

Stay.

You widen your smile. “Yeah. Just very ready for sleep.”

He nods, taps his fingers against the door and smiles. “All right. Goodnight. I’m just down the hall if you need me.”

“Yeah. Goodnight.”

Your smile lingers for a moment as the door closes, then fades as you hear him walk away.

—

Halfway down the stairs, Steve pauses, his hand on the railing.

He considers turning around.

Going back up the stairs.

Opening your door.

Taking you in his arms again.

After a minute, he carries on down.

—

In your pyjamas, phone in your hand, you climb into bed, sinking into the soft safeness of it.

You unlock it, finding several messages in the group chat from Dolly and Bridget, asking how you are, saying they’re home safe, that Sam had filled Bridget in and they’d filled Dolly in, that they both hope you’re okay.

You send a message back saying that you are okay, you’re tired, and that you’ll speak to them tomorrow, and you hope they’re okay.

There’s a message from someone else, too.

I’ve just seen what happened on the news, I really hope you’re okay x

I’d have a normal life with Aaron.

Where the fuck did that come from?

But you can’t help thinking it.

He’d slipped into your mind when you’d masturbated that morning. You hadn’t wanted to think about it. You’d just imagined him, out of curiosity at first, as he’d posted a photo on Instagram of him at the gym again, just to imagine what he’d be like, you do it with most people to pass the time... and then he’d stayed in your mind.

It had seemed... more real than when you’d imagine Steve. Probably because Steve is your best friend and you shouldn’t be thinking of him that way and you don’t want to ruin what you have, you really don’t, and Aaron... Aaron is the kind of person you could take a chance on.

You feel tears start to prick at your eyes because this is fucked, this is all so fucked, and you love your best friend and you can only think that in it’s entirety without your brain shutting down when you’re drunk or tipsy because it’s the only time your mind is free and you love him, you love him, you love him, you love him...

But there is no fucking way you will ever risk losing him as a friend.

—

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tangent101 · 4 years ago

Text

Let’s talk about Rachel...

Just recently over at Twitter I was commenting on how adult-teenager ships in LiS (and let’s be honest, most similar ships) is creepy as fuck and then I started wondering. What was it that caused Rachel to start going out with older men? Well, in canon she was “desperate” to get out of Arcadia Bay. But just what was going on that drove that need to escape?

While I consider BtS to be creative fanfiction at best, for this initial bit I’m going to pretend parts of it could be canon. So let’s pretend that Rachel’s father was the DA for the area (and chose to live in Arcadia Bay, a town based on Garibaldi Oregon with a population of around 1,000). His ex cleans up her act, gets off of drugs, and tries to get visitation rights for Rachel. He then contracts out the local drug dealer and has her kidnapped and dosed with drugs to “prove” she’s unfit.

The mere rumor of impropriety has sunk the political careers of better men than James Amber. But if Chloe told the truth to Rachel and they tried to spread the truth of what happened to Rachel’s biological mom and he got reelected anyway then yeah. I could potentially see Rachel being disgusted by the entire region and wanting to get the fuck out of what will be future Trump County, willing to vote for the white “law and justice” candidate and ignore the truth.

But somehow this theory falls flat because first, Chloe never tells Max about it, and second, it doesn’t begin to explain why Rachel is into older men. If anything, BtS would have Rachel be more like Chloe - hating older men and not trusting them. Frank, with his old connections to Damon Merrick, would never be trusted - not even after he (unarmed, wounded, and in tremendous pain) was able to save Chloe from an armed and murderous Damon Merrick. Yeah, that honestly doesn’t work.

So now let’s examine just the original game. We have no idea who Rachel’s parents are or what they do. We do know that in the original timeline they gave up looking for Rachel and Chloe is the only one seeking her. We also know that in the William Lives timeline they are still actively seeking Rachel. This suggests that Rachel’s relationship with Chloe somehow soured Rachel’s relationship with her parents.

Rachel is bisexual. She’s the one canon bisexual character in the game (while I understand folk like to see Max as bi due to the shoehorned shoddy relationship she can try to start up with Warren, when you read her journal it’s clear that she actually sees Warren as a brother and is a Narnian lesbian and it snows that first day in Arcadia Bay because she brought snow back with her from the closet she was in) and was in confirmed relationships with Jeffershit and Frank Bowers. Her relationship with Chloe was strong enough that Chloe truly acts like a spurned lover when she learns Rachel was sleeping with Frank. There were also rumors that Rachel was promiscuous with the graffiti and various catty things said about her.

It can be argued that Frank and Jefferson both had one thing Rachel wanted: a means of leaving Arcadia Bay. Chloe had her truck, but while they could leave Arcadia Bay, they’d not get far without money or shelter. Frank had his RV and his drugs were a source of income. Jefferson had contacts in the modeling industry that Rachel desperately wanted. Hell, if it’s to be believed, she even hit on some older male trucker because his truck was a way out of Arcadia Bay. But honestly... this starts to fall short. What was driving Rachel to leave?

Let’s look at the difference between the Prime Timeline and the William Lives timeline once again. When Chloe is in Rachel’s life, her parents have given up looking for Rachel. Only Chloe still seeks her. But in the William Lives timeline, they are still actively looking for her. Chloe seems to be one of the keys here. When Chloe is part of Rachel’s life, her parents have washed their hands of her. When Chloe is not a part of her life? They are worried for her.

Rachel’s parents were homophobes.

Chloe was never one to hide who she is. But let’s be honest... Chloe is also not exactly the most perceptive of people either. There was a wadded up ball of a note in her hideout for six months that she never once opened? She was truly surprised that Frank and Rachel had shacked up? She never once heard the rumors about Rachel and Jeffershit? Chloe was in her own world and that world was Rachel. Her parents were superfluous. Frank was their dealer. Jeffershit was some hipster photographer whose photos Rachel loved. And all those guys that Rachel flirted with? That was nothing, just Rachel getting Chloe’s goat.

So I could easily see Rachel’s parents with a “Southern hospitality” mentality who smile at you and say things akin to “bless your heart” and are quietly saying “fuck you and die slowly in a fire” with those three words. Ironically enough, Chloe was raised by a Southerner who, if she’d ever seen Rachel’s parents interact with Chloe would need David to hold her back because how dare those distinguished individuals say such truly nasty things about her angel. (Only she and David are allowed to treat Chloe like shit.)

Rachel’s parents wrote their daughter off when they realized their daughter was one of them. A lesbian. And she doesn’t swear off from Chloe, promise never to talk to her again. So “she moved away” and Chloe sees them in denial when in fact her parents are politely telling Chloe to go away and never return because it’s Chloe’s fault their daughter is missing, not their own for driving their daughter away from them.

There was no Chloe in Rachel’s life in the William Lives timeline. Her parents are leading the search much like Chloe did. Because their daughter never shamed them by being gay.

When I originally was crafting this examination into Rachel, I must admit my mind was going somewhere... well, it’s not darker per say. Because being in a homophobic environment is pretty damn dark. But I had speculated initially that Rachel was into “older men” because she was being molested. This could still be the case, but it doesn’t quite feel right. Rachel was into Frank and Jeffershit as a means to escape an abusive household. The abuse was not physical, but was emotional and psychological.

But having lived in a homophobic and transphobic household... you want to escape that. It slowly shreds your soul. Having parents that look at you as an insult, who consider your true self to be something that’s ruined their lives? You want to escape that. It colors your actions and views. More, it damages your relationships. Because I wonder if one reason Rachel cheated on Chloe was because of her parents’ reaction to her?

Did Rachel internalize that biphobia and hate? If her parents had been more accepting and loved their daughter and didn’t try to control their daughter’s life, then Rachel may have ended up remaining true to Chloe. More, we might have seen Rachel then as a more positive element in Chloe’s life. Chloe might have ended up trying in school because Rachel encouraged her to. Max may have gone to Arcadia Bay in 2013 to find Chloe was gone... off to college with Rachel Amber. The Amberprice relationship may have ended up healthy because Rachel was in a good place in her life.

It’s a shame that Deck Nine didn’t look at this. They went with a half-assed fanfic with drug dealers and ignoring the fact Joyce started flirting with David six weeks after the death of William and married him before Chloe’s 16th birthday, barely a year after William’s death. They failed to show how the hateful actions of parents can push a child away from them, and lead them down a tragic path. They forgot that conflict is not physical but can instead be psychological and emotional.

Because let’s face it. Many of us can identify with children whose parents don’t approve of them or have disowned them for being Other. Whether that’s queer, artistic, or just “not how we raised you.” Many of us have parents who treat us with disdain for being who we are, instead of some doll they can mold to be what they want to be. If that is the face of Rachel Amber? Then we all can see a glimpse of her when we stare into the mirror.

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petersasteria · 4 years ago

Text

Oof - Harry Holland (7)

𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄: 𝐈 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐢𝐭 𝐢𝐬𝐧'𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐡𝐨𝐥𝐢𝐝𝐚𝐲 𝐬𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐨𝐧, 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐢𝐭 𝐠𝐨𝐞𝐬 𝐰𝐞𝐥𝐥 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲.

Pairing: Harry Holland x Model!Reader

Based on my Harry Holland one shot of the same title.

Harry Holland Masterlist || Ultimate Masterlist || Oof Materlist

DISCLAIMER: *This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.*

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: He liked her for a long time, but she didn’t know he existed.

Ahh, the holiday season. It's that time of the year where gift giving is everywhere. Everyone is in the comfort of their own homes whilst wearing their most comfortable and warmest sweater. Every family is gathered around the table, feasting on what was cooked. Everything is so delicate and beautiful.

Tom and Harry decided that it'd be best to stay in their childhood home for the holidays. All of them are getting ready for the big Christmas dinner that will happen later that night. Everyone is busy doing their part. Paddy and Dom are busy decorating the Christmas tree, Sam and Nikki are in the kitchen preparing the food, and Tom and Harry are hanging the Christmas lights and decorations all over the house.

Tessa is sleeping in her little bed, unbothered. Paddy was envious that she had to sleep in. A growing boy needs his sleep, doesn't he?

Of course, there will always be something lacking or something forgotten in every single preparation. In this case, some ingredients for their dinner are needed but they aren't available in the kitchen which means it's time to go on a trip to the grocery store. Suddenly, the Christmas lights aren't working anymore when Tom turned it on. That means, it's time to buy a new one. They also needed new oven mittens and new pot holders.

Nikki quickly emerges out of the kitchen and calls for Tom and Harry who are just standing in the living room, trying to figure out how in the world did the Christmas lights stop working. They both look at their mum. Nikki says, "Can you please go to the grocery store to buy some ingredients for the party? Sam and I can't start without them. You guys can go after I list them down whilst it's early."

"I don't want to go." Harry whines. "Besides, I have to clean around here. Can Sam go with Tom instead?"

Nikki rolls her eyes, "Fine." She grabs a pen and a paper and writes down the things needed for cooking.

"Sam, you're coming with me!" Tom calls out. Sam walks out of the kitchen whilst eating a chocolate bar and just nods.

"Can I come too?" Paddy asks.

"Sure! The more the merrier." Tom laughs. He walks upstairs to his room to get his phone, wallet, and car keys. When he comes back down, Sam and Paddy are ready to go. Sam has the list and Paddy is already out of the door.

They arrive at the grocery store and they grab the stuff that's on the list. They even added their own treats in. Along the way, Sam decides that he'll make dessert instead of buying something store bought. Paddy, who's pushing the cart, immediately stops in his tracks causing Tom to bump into him which resulted in Sam bumping into Tom. It's such a domino effect.

"What the hell, Paddy!" Tom says, walking to the side of the cart.

"Isn't that Harry's life long crush, Y/N?" Paddy points at a girl with an oversized hoodie and a pair of leggings with running shoes who is standing in the vegetable aisle.

Sam and Tom simultaneously looks at the girl and they both smirk. "Yup." Sam says, popping the 'p'. He grabs some vanilla from the shelf and puts it in the cart.

"Let's ask for a selfie." Tom says all of a sudden.

"Are you mad?" Sam asks.

Tom looks at him and his smirks grows even bigger, "It's for making Harry jealous. If he wasn't a whiny little shit, he could've seen her. Since he isn't here, we could grab the opportunity to ask for a picture with her and show it to Harry!"

"I like that idea." Paddy grins.

Sam just sighs and looks down, "That's really mean." He slowly looks up, sporting a sly smile on his face, "I like it!"

With that, the three of them rush to where Y/N is, only slowing down when they're near her so that they aren't creepy. As the eldest Holland boy, Tom takes it upon himself to clear his throat to catch the young girl's attention.

Y/N looks up from the bell peppers with a shy smile on her face, "Oh, sorry. I must be in your way. I can-"

"No, actually." Tom stops her from rambling. He looks at his brothers with a smile before looking back at Y/N. 'I'm an actor, goddammit. I can do this shit in my sleep.' Tom thinks to himself before speaking to her again.

"We were just wondering if we could take a picture with you? We're such big fans of yours." Tom says in a fake giddy voice. Y/N flashes him her million dollar smile and nods, "Sure!"

She takes her hood off and fixes her hair. The three Holland boys look at her in awe. They may make fun of Harry and his undying love for this girl, but they don't blame him for loving her. Throughout the years of Harry showing them her pictures and telling them stories about her, they've grown to develop a small crush on her. They just don't want to admit it.

Y/N truly is a beautiful girl. Seeing her in person seems so surreal. They only ever heard of her from Harry's stories. Tom and the rest except for Sam, didn't have a clue who she was up until Harry showed them the school's website where she modeled for. They started following her on Instagram since then.

"Who's first?" Y/N asks politely. Tom, Paddy, and Sam look at each other. They thought it'll be a group photo but an individual photo with her seems so much better than what they had in mind!

"Oh, did you not want an individual photo? I'm so sorry that I assumed-"

"Oh, it's no problem!" Tom interrupts. "An individual photo is much better."

"Can we do poses?" Paddy blurts out as Y/N looks at him and giggles. Paddy could've sworn his heart exploded with happiness. She just nods at him with a cute smile on her face.

"I'll go first." Sam volunteers and hands Tom his phone. Y/N stands in the aisle seeing as there are only a few people in the grocery store. "What pose are we doing?" Y/N asks.

"I'll give you a piggyback ride." Sam says immediately causing her to laugh. She agrees and Sam slightly bends down so that Y/N can hop on. She wraps her arms around his neck as her legs are around his waist. Sam grips her thighs and they both smile for a picture.

Tom takes the picture. Y/N even insisted on doing wacky shots. So, they did.

Sam bends down again and so she can go down. Sam thanks her and takes his phone from Tom. "Who's next?" she asks.

"Me!" Paddy grins and hands Sam his phone. "Can we just do a simple one? Like hugging and stuff?" He asks and Y/N nods and immediately hugs him. Paddy hugs her too.

"I think it'd be cute if I look at you in a loving way. That'd be awesome, right?" Y/N suggests.

Paddy, Tom, and Sam all nod their heads. Her suggestions are genius and they totally fit their plans. Y/N smiles and looks at Paddy in a loving way. Paddy does the same too. Sam takes the photo with a huge grin on his face.

Paddy lets go and thanks her. Y/N looks at Tom with a slight smirk on her face, "Last one, big guy."

Tom hands Paddy his phone rushes up to Y/N and picks her up bridal style. Y/N squeals in surprise, "Jesus Christ, man!"

She wraps her arms around his neck and chuckles, "I assume this is the pose you had in mind?"

Tom looks at her and naturally turns on his charm, "Yeah. I thought it'd be cute."

"Okay, get ready." Paddy says, holding Tom's phone up to take the picture.

Not being able to take Tom seriously, her gaze moves to the floor as she smiles. Tom looks at her and kisses the top of her head. Paddy perfectly takes the picture and Sam has a look of surprise on his face.

"Done." Paddy says.

Tom sets her down and winks at her, "Thanks, love. You really made our day." She giggles and nods, "You're welcome. You guys made my day too. I'm really happy I met you, guys."

"One last photo...as a group this time?" Sam asks and Y/N shrugs, "Go for it."

Sam opens the front camera on his phone and all four of them get together to take a group selfie. After that, they bid their goodbyes and continue their shopping.

After grocery shopping and buying other things for the house, they come back and Sam immediately rushes to the kitchen with the grocery bags so he and Nikki can start cooking.

"What took you all so long?" Harry asks as he takes the new Christmas lights out of the bag. Paddy sits on the floor to play with Tessa who is now awake. Tom just shrugs, "Line was too long."

Harry just nods before he and Tom put up the Christmas lights.

Before going home, Tom, Sam, and Paddy planned to make their pictures with Y/N their wallpapers. They also plan on purposely leaving their phones in the living room so that when they ask Harry to fetch their phones, he'll see their lockscreens and go livid.

That's what's happening now.

Everyone is enjoying themselves out in the backyard where the celebration is happening. The whole family was there.

"Um, Harry? Can you please get my phone in the living room?" Tom asks nicely. Harry gets up from his seat and nods.

"Mine too!" Sam calls out.

"Same here!" Paddy adds.

Harry rolls his eyes and shakes his head. He goes back inside the house to fetch all three phones in the living room. As soon as he picks them up, their phones open and he sees their lockscreens.

"OH MY GOD." Harry says loudly.

The three culprits try to hide their laughter when Harry goes back outside.Harry glares at the three of them and asks, "You met Y/N?!"

"Yeah, at the grocery store." Sam laughs, not taking it anymore.

"If you've been with us, you could've seen her and told her your undying love for her." Tom says dramatically.

"Lucky bastards." Harry mumbles under his breath as he hands them their phones.

"You know it." Tom teases.

* * * *

lucky bastards indeed and mY DMS ARE NOW WORKING SO FEEL FREE TO SEND ME A DM SKSKSK

𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓: @marvelousell

𝐒𝐞𝐧𝐝 𝐚𝐧 𝐚𝐬𝐤 𝐢𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐞 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐠𝐞𝐝 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐇𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐲 𝐇𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐬𝐭𝐮𝐟𝐟

#harry holland #harry holland fanfiction #harry holland fanfic #harry holland fic #harry holland x reader #harry holland x y/n #in-a-lot-of-fandoms-tbh

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jae-canikeepyou · 5 years ago

Text

| cloud nine | j.jh

pair: jaehyun x fem!reader

genre: alternate universe

a/n: agh i really like this request because i’ve seen an edit of him in a pilot’s uniform :< tbh i re-wrote this three times before i was satisfied with it. hope it meets your imagination 💕~j.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

captain jung jaehyun.

once everyone heard that name or saw it on their monthly roasters, whispers of yeses and scoffs of disappointments were normal in the department. some were contented with only being in the same paper as him. and then there were some who were very lucky enough to trail behind him when they made their way to the aircraft.

one time when jaehyun was running late, his existence alone acted as if the entire airport was his own model runway. a little speed walk or even fixing the folds of his sleeve cuffs sent crowds upon crowds trampling over each other about that rumoured hot pilot; taking pictures of him like he was a famous celebrity. people’s comments have spread and hit the articles as well, more frequent and mentioned in any social platform online and it was titled several times.

‘this captain has the visuals to be a celebrity.’

‘captain is a living character out of a manhwa?’

‘a pilot caused a storm at the arrival hall of xxx airport due to his good looks.’

‘mr. viral pilot’s even has a handsome rbf.’

jaehyun gave a forced smile that melted the eyes of his ‘assumed’ fanbase. not again, he thought. it was just a normal gesture to greet them, yet they saw it differently. other than a pool of sakuras and pink hearts, his smile was equivalent to ‘i love you’.

“attaboy jung!” his co-pilot lee seokmin, caught up to him at the departure hall. “do a finger heart next time!”

“don’t reveal my name.” he gestured him to keep quiet. “finger hearts are for idols.”

“i will reveal it because you’re basically a celebrity pilot now. don’t be so stiff, jung” his sunshine smile also caused an uproar after shooting the ladies with many hearts. “it’s simple. just put your thumb and pointer like an x- wait what do you mean for idols? can’t you see how famous you are after that viral picture floating around the country? if you’re not convinced, the world? jaehyun, even the legendary IU agreed you’re attractive-”

seokmin’s words were stopped by jaehyun’s documents in front of his purses lips. he put the blocking papers down with his fingers and still continued with sending finger hearts. “fine. you can reveal my name but not my fanboying side please. and dude i’m having second hand embarrassment right now because of you.” jaehyun gritted his teeth.

“you gotta get used to it.” seokmin said, now doing a heart with his arms.

the crew went through security screening and soon reached the bottom of the flight of stairs connecting to the plane. it was the norm, or maybe not, that the whole crew took a picture before the flight.

jaehyun stood at the middle with seokmin when he noticed a familiar face by his side. based on her side profile, he was sure this was definitely her.

he observed her ever elegant posture; natural make up that wasn’t too heavy, something he always liked. the way her eyelashes flutter due to the wind’s breeze and gosh her gorgeous and gentle smile-

“you’re staring, captain.” you cleared your throat, snapping him out of the trance. a small grin curving by your lips at his aloof response.

“my apologies if i have been rude..” he bent down to whisper, eyes lowering down to see your name slightly on the document paper you were holding. heh, i was right.. “..y/n.”

“if there’s anyone who’s rude..” you trailed off, turning to him face to face now. “..wouldn’t that be you, mr. celebrity?” you quirked an eyebrow at him, referring to the recent articles about the handsome pilot visual. you then twirled still with a small smile as you headed up the flight of stairs.

seokmin nudged the tall male, lips agape at his interaction with you. “wow you just talked with the y/n!” his voice sounding softer than usual. “she’s just new to the airline and everyone has a crush on her. i think i’m falling for her too.”

“you fall for every girl you encounter with, lee.”

as they walked up as well, jaehyun’s eyebrows arched at the compliment seokmin gave you. they took a quick glance at you, now talking with the rest of attendants. it didn’t take long for them to realize that other men were awe-struck by your beauty, just like he did. even the senior attendants seem very smitten whenever you would bring out the enthusiasm from others for the flight. entering the cockpit, the two pilots sat at their seats in preparation for take-off.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

ten hours into the flight, you double checked the passengers, wherein you gave assistance, especially those with children.

at the corners of your eyes, you spotted a couple with three kids. and based on other passengers who seemed to not get any sleep or have broad understanding, were bothered with the continuous cries. the parents seemed new and they were ultimately blessed with triplets. two were already a handful for them and the other baby was left slight unattended, so you politely asked to step in to help.

you could feel that mobile phones were directly pointed at you, filming the moment as they planned to maybe make the gesture viral. you pat the baby’s back and managed to make her sleep.

since shifting airlines just four months ago, you were aware of the attention you’ve been getting from other staffs, passengers and even locals. as much as you didn’t want the spotlight onto you, your occupation somehow paved the way.

the parents thanked your service and as you bowed, the chief flight attendant called you to rest. you finally sat at the post where you were assigned at. out of heavy exhaustion, you massaged your neck to sooth the pain away. deciding to freshen up a bit, you used the service cart to block aisle and went to the lavatory before heading to the plane’s upper rest compartment.

the way you twirled around got stuck in jaehyun’s mind. he couldn’t seem to take you out of it. he would close his eyes for awhile and your smile would appear. it got him feeling so giddy to the point he felt his ears heat up.

“is she marked in your heart?” seokmin placed his legs up as the plane was on auto-pilot.

“no not really.” jaehyun said, removing the headphones.

seokmin noticed the fidgety movements jaehyun had been acting since the take-off. it was as if he was itching to leave. “jae, you’ll get your turn to rest, just let me finish my food.” he munched on his sandwich before gesturing his friend to leave.

now that he finally would get his rest, he exited the cockpit with a hammering heart. he wasn’t the type to reveal himself during the flight, but urgently needed to go for a break. other crew reminded him that he should sleep too, given the prominent dark circles around his eyes. as he waited for his turn to use the lavatory, the door slid open revealing you, whom maybe he, or might have growing heart eyes toward you.

your hands held the door as the grip on it tightened at the sight of the captain. you looked to where his hands were and he held the door’s outside handle. his dimples deepened the more he flattened his lips, and he too seemed shocked at your appearance.

even after hours into the flight, he thought you still looked the same like you did at the photo taking. “hi.” he chuckled, obviously feeling a mix of awkwardness and embarrassment in meeting you.

“hello. may i pass through?” you asked, almost taking jaehyun aback at your straight-forward question. the rest of the crew witnessing interaction made them giggle.

“oh, i’m sorry.” he turned his body 90 degree and you shyly nodded for the gesture.

idiot, jaehyun. you’re an idiot. he told himself.

jaehyun went back to the cockpit and retrieved his coat and he soon got down the steep ladder steps, where he spotted you reading a book you were so immersed in. the sleepiness in his eyes were long gone and this time he wanted to have a proper conversation with you. unlike in the previous two short ones where you seemed to brush him off.

you noticed his presence and closed the book, giving them the attention he sought for earlier. he stood opposite to you, leaning against the ladder. “do you have something to tell me?” you asked, placing the book in your bag. “i’m a pretty good listener.”

a smile from you had jaehyun head in the clouds. “oh, well captain lee said you’re new here.” he fixed to loosen his tie and unbuttoned the first bud. “so how long have you been in the airline?”

“i transferred four months ago.” you replied, putting a strand back with a bobby pin.

“i see. no wonder. i was probably busy at the time. lots of schedules and flights here and there. our paths never seemed to cross if you’ve been here that long.” he crossed his arms.

he was hesitant to ask because it would make him look full of himself. screw it anyway. “you’re not one of those who moved airlines just to see me, right?”

his question made you silent. “ i just thought maybe this airline is more suitable for me.” you lied. in fact you moved because you weren’t convinced enough from your co-workers, that this ‘jaehyun’, apparently your ex, could swoon the ladies.

oh heavens, it has been five years. and this man certainly did swoon you and definitely sent your chest aching again, in a good way.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

the city the airline was designated at filled with bustling people and chirping of the birds. the sun shone as its rays peeked through the little gaps between leaves. traditional music played publicly at the common and main street, some tourists lined up for the city’s landmark. it really seemed like a perfect picture.

you sat down at an outdoor café, legs crossed and memorised the scenery in front. glad that you were blessed with photographic memory and began a quick sketch on the blank paper. as much as you didn’t want to touch your new pocket-sized watercolor painting set, you had to dab the first droplet of water on the tabs.

the faint ash lines soon faded completely at the droplets and as you began to paint the first layer, the paper met a shadow figure that blocked the sun. you looked up to see jung jaehyun; with two coffees in hand, a sunshine smile, perfect dimples and in casual clothes. you didn’t want to make him wait long and invited him to sit with you.

“great day today huh?” he asked, leaning closer to look at what you were doing then shifting his eyes towards you. “it’s.. pretty.”

“thanks, but it’s only the first layer. you’ll see the details after i’m done with the fountain.” you brought up your sketchbook to let him see.

“have you been to the city before?” taking a sip from his cup. you shook your in response, still concentrated on the painting. “c’mon, i’ll tour you around.”

he grabbed your hand and you had no choice but to follow. street stalls filled with souvenirs and its people encouraged their ranges, and jaehyun spotted something that might suit you. it was a necklace. he gestured the man so he could pay for it. taking glances of you and stall, the man waved at him. “sir, this comes in pairs.”

“hm?” his eyes looked at the item. “oh then i’ll get a pair.” he gave the cash and as the man took it, he grinned at jaehyun for his hearty eyes; already catching the purpose of the quick decision.

“it is for the lady, am i right?” he asked.

jaehyun scratched his neck, mentally cursing to himself for being too obvious and transparent. “oh. she’s just- uh, we used to date.” jaehyun chuckled, taking the resin designed necklace in his hands.

“you both look good together.” the man winked like he was about to give the pilot a piece of advice. “she must be that special to be making you feel things.”

“well she still makes me feel i’m in the clouds.” jaehyun looked at you choose an souvenir with furrowed brows. “it’s kinda sad that we didn’t make it like most couples.”

the man’s loud laugh startled jaehyun. “you’re in the city of love. anything can change and anything is possible.”

jaehyun smiled at his remark and left with a contented, little hopeful heart. he went up to you who was still indecisive with the souvenir.

you felt his presence on your right. rising up to see what he was up to, you were shocked at the item he had dangling in his fingers. this certain gesture reminded of your first date; he waved a keychain he won through a carnival stall. you stared into his eyes like you saw the universe in them; the beauty continuously expanding, the stars shining and sparkling when it boasted its twinkles.

the smile on your face faded, but it was quite obvious to jaehyun. he brought down the item and bit his inner gums. “i got this for you.” he chuckled softly, eyes averting from you with reddened ears.

this was strange, awkward, how you both used to be a thing in the past and now meeting each other through work. it just didn’t seem right, to you at least.

“what happened to us?” your sudden question caused jaehyun bent even lower towards your face, sending you to step backwards at his action.

jaehyun knew what you referred to. in fact he asked himself the same question every day since losing contact with you after high school. a small grin curving by his lips disappeared, then mirroring the same expression as you did. “we were both young, carefree. we didn’t know what to prioritise and used each other to make people think differently of us.” he trailed. “we were pretty immature. we just stopped talking after our graduation and distance widened before we had the time to talk it out.” he cracked up slightly, beginning to walk slowly to continue touring you around.

you kinda bursted out in giggles, agreeing to every reason he had just said. the way you saw how much he changed physically and mentally, something in him seemed to draw you closer to him; like you wanted to go back to square one. because all you feel towards him at this very moment was the same as back then.

“couldn’t agree more. we were like those try hard couple goal wannabes that we annoy the heck out of our friends.” you put your hair strands behind your ear. “anyway, i feel the same-” you paused, realizing what you just said.

“uh-huh.” he now looked at you from the map.

“i shouldn’t have said-” you laughed and feeling panicky. the heat creeping from your forehead downwards.

“you mean ‘feel the same like before’ or ‘feel the same as me’?” he asked with a challenging grin. such a tease.

you rolled your eyes at his childish behaviour, not wanting to be caught in his web. “what do you mean by ‘feel the same as me’, hm?” your voice almost breaking to a laugh.

jaehyun inhaled and exhaled sharply because he did not know what else to say. his fingers waving everywhere to look for answers, but to no success, he could only smile awkwardly. you both stared at each other for a while before he spotted some people who recognised him from afar. he grabbed you and went for a run, pulling you with him and led you away from the main circle of the city.

how you wished you wore proper footwear. running with ballet flats on uneven ground brought more discomfort than it did with jaehyun’s company. but as you watched the way how his hair slowed with the wind and his smiling side profile turning towards you, all memories from back then came flooding in like waves. though you didn’t want them to, there wasn’t anything you could do because you knew that somewhere inside the deepest parts in your heart, there was still room for a second chance with him; there was still space for him to fill that missing gap that was left empty before.

now your body was pulled aside at one street, just by the edge of an outdoor neighbourhood home. jaehyun gestured you to keep quiet and he turned slightly to check on them. as you both hid, it was something similar when flynn rider and rapunzel hid from the patrolling royal guards. “remember how we were just like this when we hid from our homeroom teachers?” he asked, crossing his arms in reminisce and a grin from ear to ear.

“of course, it was your idea and we had to mop the whole gymnasium as punishment.” you tiptoed to take a peek behind him. “it’s clear now, let’s go-”

“let me do this for a while.” jaehyun pulled you to him for a hug. “i kind-”

“kinda missed this?” you finished his sentence.

his chuckle tickled your ears as his palms tightened around you. “you took the words right out of my mouth.”

“i know you too well, jae.” you pinched his cheek and he let go of you.

“too well that you figured i’m starting to fall for you again?” he licked his dry lips as he waited for you answer.

you exhaled a breathy air from your nostrils, turning around to walk around the city and giggled internally for leaving him unanswered.

jaehyun scoffed with reddened ears. “should i take that as a yes?”

“whatever you wanna think of, jae.”

he recalled what the salesman said. maybe something will change in this city of love and your words just now created a ray of hope in the sky. this inexplainable anticipation he felt in his chest got him realizing that, yeah, he actually, still is in love with you.

—

you bowed to the last batch passengers exiting the plane with jaehyun and seokmin on your side, along with other crew. finally on the way to arrival hall, all you wanted was to feel the soft sheets of your bed. grabbing your luggage, you slowed down your pace knowing that jaehyun was behind.

jaehyun’s hand laid on your shoulders, catching his breath slightly. “i’ll meet you at the carpark.” he bent down to a whisper.

“and what makes you think i’ll agree with your request?” you hummed, legs dragging your exhausted self to the walkalator.

“i’m gonna make my signature marinated spicy fried pork. i know you miss that.” he winked.

“mhm.” you singsonged, “more than i miss you.”

he groaned like a child and you could tell he purposely whined in a persuasive tone. “join me for dinner at least.” he nudged that you were lightly shoved to side, creating imbalance on your feet.

“fine i will.” you rolled your eyes as he cheered in soft ‘yeses’. “in one condition though.”

jaehyun lifted a brow at your habit and he should’ve seen it coming. “what is it?”

“live cooking. i’ll sit by your breakfast table, observing how you cut and hold the onions wrongly. i don’t want you to make me wait elsewhere of your apartment.”

“i didn’t invite you just so i could be bickered by you.” he held your head, sending vibrations for a second before you poked his armpits. “ow! okay you’ll get the live cooking in one condition, alright?”

you continued to walk towards the arrival hall, already noticing banners of jaehyun’s name and long lenses of cameras pointed at your direction. “that’s my word, but fine. what’s your condition, captain?”

a large hand find its way to interlock yours, then bringing it up to be visible to the public. “a pilot and a flight attendant dating.” his wink caused you to fluster in all sorts and now you were aware of the cameras. “it’d be a good topic, wouldn’t it?”

his lips seemed to inch closer towards you but it wasn’t a kiss since he refrained himself from doing so. your heart stopped for a moment before a certain camera flash blinked in front of the both of you, later hearing a voice of the photographer asking his mates to name the newsletter;

“captain jung is on cloud nine with y/f/n.”

#nct 127 #jung jaehyun #jung yoonoh #nct #nct jaehyun #jaehyun scenarios #jaehyun imagines #jaehyun fanfics #jaehyun au #jaehyun oneshot

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