#cell phone diary | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

leaderwon · 1 month

Note

hi! could you please do a part 2 to enha forgets ur birthday? pls part 1 was so good🫵🏼🫶🏻 i just wanna see them grovel lol

non!idol enhypen x non!idol reader

forgetting your birthday pt. 2 !

pt. 1

warnings : she/her pronouns used, cursing, crying, mentions of grief.

luna's diary : this one kinda sucks ugh. HELLA RUSHED because I went to a trip (Singapore + Malaysia) AND THE CELL SERVICE WAS terrible I'm so so so sorry anons this is very dissapointing but I felt bad making yall wait for so long. Promise to edit this as soon as I reach home!

HEESEUNG

After the realisation that your boyfriend, had indeed forgotten your birthday, the birthday spirits you had in the starting of the day had blown away. As promised he appeared to your door step with flowers in his hands as he murmured a set of apologies for forgetting your special day. Saying you were mad at your boyfriend would be a huge understatement. You were furious with a hint of disappointment. "baby I'm sorry please" he said as you closed your eyes felt a few tears threatening to fall. Noticing this heeseung hugged you tight and ran his hands in your head wondering how he could make it up to you. He knew he messed up and this couldn't be mended easily. Like a broken dam, your tears started flowing uncontrollably. "How could you forget hee?" you questioned him finally using your voice for the first time since he arrived. "I know pretty girl im so sorry" he said as his voice hitched and eyes swelling up with tears, his mind running on a marathon trying to find ways to make it up to you. Like a bulb lighting above his head, he left you on the spot and rushed to the living room.

A few minutes later he rushed back ushering you to follow him. Upon reaching the living room you saw a beautifully decorated living room with fairy lights, your favourite blankets with your snacks and your favorite movie ready to play. A smiled adorned your features as you heard him say "i know what I did was terrible but let me try to make it up to you".

JAY

He was at a party with the boys when you made him realised that he had messed up the date. He couldn't believe it. This man was shocked, mind blank wtf type shock. By the time he reached home he was already in tears. But when he saw how dark your house was with sadness evident on your face as you slept in your bed he broke down right in front of your sleeping figure.

How could he mess up the date that marks your creation? He was more dissapointed in him than you were tbh. You were soon awaken by the sounds of your boyfriend's cries. "Baby what's wrong?" You questioned him cradling his face. "I'm sorry princess I'm so sorry i can't believe I forgot your birthday"

He was more heartbroken than you were, his emotions all over the place. "Baby it's okay i promise" Cuddles and kisses you the whole night and clears his schedule for the next day.

JAKE

The whole day you patiently waited for Jake to show his existence to you. It was your birthday and you were excited to spend the day with him. But to no avail, he didn't show up. Deciding to occupy yourself with your phone, you saw a notification indicating that Jake had uploaded a story. The light in your eyes faded away as you took in Jake with Iseul, a junior, on your birthday.

Having done with this, you decided to finally text him. Upon realising what he had done, he rushed home to see you on the couch with a dark cloud above your head. "Hey baby" Jake started slowly. "I'm really sorr-" "Save it Jake I don't want to hear it" You responded cutting him off. "But baby you know Iseul is like a younger sister to me" He started again. He was walking on eggshells right now knowing that if he said anything wrong you would crack. "I get that she's a younger sister to you, but Jake it's my birthday, you could have comforted her tomorrow, but my birthday wont be tomorrow" You replied. "I waited for you so long, try and look at this in my point of view Jake" as you said that his eyes softened. "I'm so sorry, i get why you're mad at me baby please let me try and make it up to you" He said trying to mend things. "Just give me time Jake, i don't think I'll get over this easily" You said as you left the house.

You were back 3 hours later, with jake in the same spot you left him. He expression blanked as he looked at you. You were spooked out by him as you stared back at him for a moment. "Are you just gonna stand there for the rest of your life?" You asked giggling. Hearing your precious laughter he looked at you with a slight smile on his face. "Baby, I'm sorry i really am. I don't know how it managed to slip out of my mind. I swear i remembered it I'm so sorry" He said starting to ramble as you looked at him. His words barely registered in your mind due to how fast he was speaking. "Jake it's okay" "and i get it if you're still mad at me and don- wait what?" He asked confused. "You accept my apology?" He continued as you nodded. Finally moving after hours he engulfed you in a hug. "Thank you Thank you, I'll make sure this never happens again" he said gratefully. "You better not do this shit again" You said.

"Now tell me the Iseul tea"

SUNGHOON

When you asked him if he checked his calendar out of the blue he was confused. Why would you suddenly want him to check his calendar?

Upon actually checking his calendar he went pale realising he forgot your birthday, an occasion that shouldn't be remembered through a calendar. This guy was going through five stages of grief.

"no way i forgot my princess' birthday"

"how the fuck did I manage to forget her birthday?"

"God please let this be a dream"

"i forgot her birthday"

"okay i forgot her birthday, let's make it up to her" He said finally reaching the last stage of grief, acceptance. He rushed to your house to see you not there. He called your name multiple times hoping to get an answer from you finally seeing you sitting in the balcony.

"Hey baby, whatcha doin'?" your boyfriend asked you slowly walking towards you. "Nothing just sitting" You replied slowly, sadness evident in your voice. "Baby" Sunghoon starts again sitting next to you this time. He passed you a chocolate eyeing you to open it.

Upon opening it you noticed a small peice of paper with "I love you" and "I'm sorry" written on it. "I don't know how it slipped my mind, princess. But I will make it up to you, I promise". You understood his point of view, it was common to forget stuff. Though you were still hurt by this, you laid your head on his shoulder and the both of you silently enjoyed the scenery your balcony offered in silence.

SUNOO

The day had ended by the time your boyfriend had finally remembered your existence and decided to text you. You had held a party to celebrate your special day with your friends and family hoping to see a sign of sunoo. When sunoo had first texted you, you were shocked to find out that he had absolutely no idea what party or what special occasion you were talking about. You were devastated to find out that not only did he not know what day it was, but he expected you to tell him.

What kind of boyfriend doesn't remember his girlfriend's birthday and then expect her to tell him? You were mad at him with alot of hurt lingering inside you.

The clock read 1:30 am the moment he stepped inside the house. Looking around he saw leftover confetti, balloons and alocholic beverages yet to be picked up. All of this indicating that there was infact a party held. Sunoo knew that what he had done would not take a good turn and that it would take alot of fighting and apologizing to make it up to you. Spotting you with tears in your eyes, he made his way to you slowly pulling you into a hug and started apologizing.

He was sorry and guilty, you knew he was. But him expecting you to tell him that it was your birthday was where you drew the line.

You were unsure on whether you could forgive him at all. He promised to take you out tomorrow and attempt to make it up to you. You knew that wouldn't heal the hurt this had caused you, but you appreciated his efforts and agreed as you hugged him back.

JUNGWON

Out of all the people you liked in your life, you never expected Yang Jungwon to forget your birthday. If someone told you he would, you would laugh your ass off. But now, you were in tears as you held your phone finally deciding to text him.

You were in disbelief as you found out that he thought your birthday was next weekend. Thoughts like "How can someone mess up their lover's birthday?" "does he care less to not know which day" were running through your head.

He rushed into your home apologizing immediately mentioning how much he had planned and got a date wrong. He was on the verge of tears as you looked up at him rambling.

"Baby i promise i remembered, look I even had some gifts prepared" He said as he sped walk towards your shared dresser in the bedroom opening up a random compartment you had no idea existed. "What the fuck? Since when was that there?" You asked him in utter shock.

"It's always been there baby, you never noticed it" Jungwon said taking out a huge amount of gifts for you. "You weren't kidding when you said you were prepared huh?" You spoke as you scanned the bags. "Since last month" He winked at you as he led you to your living room.

"I'm so sorry, i can't believe I forgot your birthday I'm such a bad boyfriend" Jungwon apologized to you as guilt and shamed swirled in his orbs ( is this even right wtf - leaderwon ).l

"Won it's fine, don't worry" You said as a smile finally made its way on your face. "Now let's see what you got me I'm so excited" you said again as you smiled wider in happiness.

NI-KI

You were raging as you watched him play his video games for the entire day. You weren't an anti of games for you were also into playing. But it was your birthday today, a day he was supposed to spend with you instead of the ps5 Jay had gotten him on his birthday last year.

You were heartbroken as you tried to knock some sense into your boyfriend. Unfortunately, it didn't work. Finally giving up, you took your wallet and coat and left the house to get fresh air.

You could feel your phone vibrate as Ni-ki spammed your phone asking where you were. You decided against on replying and just walked ahead. Soon, you heard your boyfriend call your name from behind as he ran towards you. You tried walking faster since you didn't want to be with him at the moment. But your luck was unfortunate as he had legs long asf and caught up to you within moments.

"baby stop, come back home it's late" he begged. "Go back to your game, it's never too late for that" You said in a monotonous tone. "I'm sorry" "Sorry won't fix the day I lost waiting for you to fucking realise and rejecting all my friends who cared enough to want to spend the day with me" You said almost tearing up and walking again.

"I'm sorry" You heard him say as he stopped following you. You never heard his voice be so gentle in the 2 years you have been dating him. His voice sounded like he was on the brink of having a mental breakdown. "I really am" He said again and your heart dropped. You wondered if you were being too harsh on him.

Frozen in place, you could feel the tension in the air as the cool air blew through your hair. You were trying really hard to stay strong and hard but when you turned back to look at him, you could feel your heart drop to your stomach. You knew you were soft for this man, but the moment you looked at him you could feel emotions that you weren't aware yu could feel.

"Please" You heard him say. His eyes were pitiful with a tear threatening to fall. "I know i fucked up but please please let me try and make it up to you". You couldn't bare to see him like this anymore. "Fine" You sighed and walked towards him again.

You were hurt he missed your birthday, yes. But seeing him like that hurt you more. You knew you were deep as you held his hand and walked to the house the both of you resided in.

496 notes · View notes

luveline · 1 year

Text

𝐚 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫 𝐛𝐞𝐭𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐬 | 𝐣𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐬 𝐩𝐨𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫

one | two

Finding out you're a princess isn't half as intimidating as suddenly acquiring a full-time bodyguard. Especially when that bodyguard is disarmingly handsome, charming, and can't seem to stop flirting with you.

bodyguard!james, fem!reader, shy!reader, princess diaries au (sort of), all characters in their 20s or older, star-crossed lovers/ forbidden romance james isn't flirty this chapter i lied but he will be <3

˗ˋˏ ♡ ˎˊ˗

You're in the process of ruining your pyjama bottoms with willow charcoal when your father dies.

The charcoal is fragile, unhoused, and it snaps with too much pressure. An uneven half falls between the sheets of your sketchbook, marring the artwork it rolls over indiscriminately.

You sigh without thinking and rub your tired eyes, spreading a line of smudgy black under your brow. Squinting, you peek at the portrait you'd been drawing. A young woman with deep, dark skin, her cheek shaded by the leaves of a sycamore tree. The branches arc over her skin in shadowed lines, sunlight dappling illustrated by sparse triangles of the white paper underneath.

It had been an okay sketch. The snapped charcoal distracts from what you'd originally set out to do — a dynamic, revealing portrait — and instead replaces it with a more abstract feel.

You sigh again, this time with a melodrama you'd only ever feel comfortable displaying alone. Thankfully, that's the case more often than not. You live by yourself, no partner, no pets, nobody around to see you drop your sketchbook onto the floor beside your bed, kick out your feet toward the rug, and moan. Your socks slide against the hardwood. You kick them like a child as you slip down the side of the bed, shirt caught behind you, soft middle exposed.

You swear to yourself quietly, pressing the backs of your hands to your eyes.

A sharp trilling sound chimes. On the nightstand, your phone vibrates hard, and the water in the glass next to it crests against the sides like tiny shockwaves.

You pull it into your lap and stare at the number. It goes to voicemail, and then it rings again. Again, again, and again.

You consider turning your phone off. Five phone calls and counting indicates an emergency, but every cell begs to avoid whatever it is on the other side.

You can't avoid everything, no matter how much you want to. You answer the phone.

"Hello," you greet.

The muffled echo of a cheerful voice responds.

"Yeah, that's me… Okay. Yeah, now is fine."

More chattering. Less cheerful, diplomatic.

"My father?" you ask.

You are told two impossible truths.

"Oh," you say. The walls spin. "Right."

—

"I hate flying," Sirius mutters.

James hums, noncommittal.

"You know, my good looks are wasted if we end up lost in the middle of the Atlantic ocean."

"It's not the middle of the Atlantic ocean," Remus says, sounding about as interested in Sirius' whining as James is currently. "It's an arm."

"It's the fucking English channel," James says. It's barely the ocean. "How much do you reckon a pair of in flight headphones will cost?"

Sirius, despite his anxiety, has the bandwidth to appreciate James' bad mood. "What crawled up your arse?"

James sinks down into his seat, knees immediately pressed into the hard plastic of the chair in front, back aching and head heavy from a lack of rest he won't make up anytime soon.

"He's agitated," Remus says.

"Helpful, Moony. Super helpful."

"Fuck yourself, then," Remus says, pulling his sleep mask over his eyes and plugging in his earbuds.

The tannoy dings. The seatbelt light flashes.

A flight attendant raises his voice from the start of the aisle. "If everybody could take their seats and buckle in, we'll be taking off in less than two minutes. Please turn all electronics to aeroplane mode. Thanks so much."

"Is your phone off?" Sirius asks.

"No, I actually want us to drown in the channel, but thanks for asking."

A dark shock of curls lands against his shoulder. Sirius drapes himself unabashedly across James lap, hand on his friend's thigh, ankle crossing over ankle. Genovian through and through, Sirius doles out affection wantonly, smelling ridiculously nice as he does: a heady smell like browned sugar and citrus blossoms coalescing tickles the inside of James' nose.

"Are you still cranky that you got demoted?" Sirius asks, smooth tones pitched into bubbly baby talk.

"I didn't get demoted," James argues.

James had, in fact, been demoted.

"No, of course not. You've fallen from third guard to the Royal Prince of Genovia, may he rest in peace, to glorified babysitter of said Prince's illegitimate, forgotten child. Sounds the same to me."

"Then we agree," James says, wanting to close his eyes.

He'd pretend to sleep if he thought Sirius would believe it. Growing up together erases any semblance of privacy. Sirius knows James as James knows Sirius, and as they know Remus. Remus likely knows them all better than he'd ever admit, the youngest of the trio and the smartest, most perceptive man James has ever met.

Sirius isn't perceptive, he's vigilant. He can read even the smallest signs of unrest, and it makes him uneasy. There will likely always be a shadow cast over him from a rough childhood, and while James is in a god awful mood, he reaches out to alleviate Sirius' anxiety.

"I'm fine," James assures him, "just tired." Not mad at you goes unsaid.

"It won't be as bad as you're thinking."

"I'm fine. I'm not worried. Didn't sleep last night, and," —he grins as Sirius clasps his arm, their seats shaking underneath them, the plane beginning its race across tarmac— "some scrawny git is squeezing fuck out of my arm."

Sirius flinches away from him. "You're annoying."

James presses his shoe up to the side of Sirius' and leans back in his chair, wincing at the rattling carriage as they take off, and again when he remembers where they're going. You wait in London, though nobody in the task force assigned to your assimilation or the advisement team could come to explain how you'd ended up there. Your Genovian citizenship is unacknowledged on your passport, your birth certificate, even, and as far as Lily had been able to suss, you have little understanding of who you are.

"She sounded tired, mostly," Lily had said when pressed for details about the new princess' personality. "In shock. Slightly disbelieving, but could you believe it?"

Lily, James'... friend, and work colleague at a stretch, is an ambassador for the UK and full-time genovian resident. Along with a handful of other representatives and officials, she’d been responsible for opening the talks between Genovia and yourself. That is to say, she'd broken the news.

Surprise! Your dad just died! Double surprise, you're a princess. And, no pressure or anything, but we kind of need you to come back to Genovia to maintain the royal lineage before your grandmother abdicates the throne (unwillingly).

"Did you mention the tiara?" he'd asked Lily. The Princess' diadem, a master craftsmanship of silver-gold with a diamond the size of an apple.

"Weirdly, Potter, I didn’t mention the jewellery."

He supposes there hadn't been time to weasel that tidbit in between condolences and recruitment.

You haven't promised anything in ways of returning to Genova or taking up the mantle. James understands. If he were in your shoes, he likely would've laughed down the line and blocked the number. You’d shown incredible promise as a future leader, agreeing to meet with Lily and her team at the Genovian embassy. Then, a day later, they'd modified the plan and asked if you'd be okay meeting somewhere more private.

You'd said yes.

As someone who may be very involved in your bodily safety in the near future, James thinks you're an idiot. Somebody calls you, claiming that you're a princess, though nobody has ever bothered telling you this before because you were never heir apparent, and that they'll tell you more should you deign to meet with them in a place with meagre surveillance, and you say yes to this?

How you've survived as long as you have is a mystery.

He hopes you won't make his job difficult. Isn't that what everyone hopes? He feels guilty for judging you without meeting you, promising in his head to be nicer to you in actuality. You're probably grieving and definitely confused. He shouldn't be worrying about his job.

Redetermined, James lets the anxiety of his new assignment water down.

Sirius is thinking along the same lines: how easy will you make his particular occupation. "Bets are on. Scruffy or sweet?"

"Huh?" James asks, pretending he doesn't understand in hopes of rectifying Sirius' attitude.

"Slovenly or love-nly?"

"I'm sure she's fine."

"You should hope so, you'll be looking at the back of her head for a while."

James rolls his eyes.

"I'll manage, pretty or not."

His confidence draws Sirius' curiosity. "How're you so sure?" Sirius asks, chin-lifted, light eyes narrowed in bemusement. His expression dances with the surety of somebody well-raised. He could wear a potato sack and his regal air would endeavour, deep-seeded and neat like the trim stitching of his expensive clothes.

"Look at my face right now. Do I seem affected?"

Sirius laughs much too loudly at the implication. "Don't act like I'm not handsome, Prongs."

"Years of practice." James schools his features into an unaffected mask. "Uggos have no effect on me."

"How else would you look in the mirror?" Sirius drawls.

When Remus wakes afterward, he finds they haven't quite killed each other, though James has threatened it twice. With one hand, Black.

"Far are we?" he asks.

Sleep has made little difference to him. He’s the kind of fatigued that can't be improved with an afternoon nap, and the kind of unwell that can't be fixed. Medicated, diminished, but never fully healed. He rolls his neck and makes three separate, unfortunate sounds, stretching his tight hands out flat over his thighs.

"Landing any minute now is my guess," Sirius answers. "How are you feeling?"

He waves his hand around, tired eyes locking onto James' lasting frown. "Sorry for leaving you alone with him."

Sirius gasps his indignation. The three of them all smile in tandem, James in a rush to add to the joke.

"You should be, fucker, I don't care how sick you are. You're sick in the mind if you think it's acceptable to-"

"You're sick for acting like I'm some misbehaved child you've been pandering to. You're bullies, and as soon as we're in the airport I'm ditching you both in favour of a Great British Burger King."

"One," James says, still smiling widely, "I have your per diem, so unless you brought your wallet, you're sunk." Sirius frowns. "Two, I'd love it if you would repeat that little moniker you gave me a minute before he woke up. Seriously. Shed some light on the real bully."

Sirius pulls his sunglasses from his jacket pocket and places them over the bridge of his nose delicately. "Unnecessary."

"I wouldn't mind Burger King," Remus says.

"We have to be quick," James says.

Sirius is so incensed he actually spits a bit as he scathes, "You fuckers. I want food and it's lorded over my head, but Moons wants something and your only limitation is how fast he can eat it?"

He's not truly as angry as he appears. He's joking, and he's fallen into a familiarity that can only come with years of ragging on one another relentlessly. Still Remus pats his tight shoulder and smiles.

"I'm a slow chewer."

"He's a slow chewer, Sirius. Have some compassion."

“How fast could he chew missing a few teeth, I wonder?” Sirius asks.

James gasps, delighted at his friend's casual threat. Remus does a better job at hiding his amusement, tamping back a smile as he reaches over the armrest between their seats and slapping a hand into Sirius’ seatbelt. The mechanism unlatches, the ‘Fasten Your Seatbelts’ sign flashes, and a shaming beeping sound rings overhead.

Sirius squeaks.

—

What do you wear to meet a British ambassador? A Genovian ambassador? Any sort of diplomat? You aren't too sure what an ambassador even is, only that every word Lily Evans has said to you sounds shockingly official.

"Your citizenship has been reinstated whether you choose to move forward or not. We want to stress that you have choices," Lily says. Call me Lily, please. "You don't have to do anything you don't want to."

"We also want to stress," says Emmeline, the Genovian ambassador, "that your presence in Genovia is greatly desired. For the funeral."

"The funeral," you say softly.

"It will be a… very, very big event. We don't have to talk about all of the logistics now. Or ever, if you're not interested."

Emmeline clears her throat. "The family would appreciate it."

The family. The royal family. The Queen of Genovia, your grandmother, and her… unfortunate younger sister, who's behaviour (according to the Internet) has been less than ideal. Her sisters son, who might take the throne if you refuse it. Or, so you've come to understand.

All this lineage and politics has been hard to navigate by yourself, though rest assured, you've been assigned two personal assistants of a sort. One for appearances of the physical, and one for appearances of the mind.

A stylist and a tutor.

"And a bodyguard," Lily says, "your safety is the most important thing."

You grip the end of your dress in your hands and squeeze the skirts tightly. Safety? You'd rather not embarrass yourself by asking.

"We actually want you to meet them now," Emmeline says.

"Whenever they show up," Lily adds. She sounds embarrassed but unsurprised, like this has happened before.

There's a small silence. You pull your bag into your lap and squeeze it, hoping it hides the curve of your stomach. You aren't sure what you're supposed to wear to occasions like this, and so you'd worn the nicest thing you owned, a pretty, simplistic dress ruched under the chest, and a cardigan overtop.

You catch yourself frowning and quirk your lips up into a practised smile. Gentle, amicable, the kind you'd offer a passing stranger.

"Well," Lily says, filling the awkwardness, "I'm sure they'll come around soon. Maybe we should talk about inheritance."

"Legally, you're entitled to an inheritance. You could think of it like a pension, an allowance you'd be given from the age of eighteen. You've already passed that, and so you'll be given the years upto, and then the rest in annual increments," Emmeline says. "There's a team of people who can and will explain it better at a later date, or whenever you want to discuss it, once you've agreed to a paternity test."

"A paternity test?" you ask.

You feel rather useless. All you've done is ask for explanations since you sat down, your head a spinning mill. Information goes around and around with no time to sink in.

Emmeline opens her mouth to continue and is interrupted by three sharp knocks.

"Come in," Lily calls. She turns her gaze to you, orange hair moving over her shoulder in a silken sheet, and raises her eyebrows.

You don't know what it means.

First to enter the room is a modestly dressed man with straight, sandy hair. It's long enough to peek out from under his ears, where it curls. He steps into the light, illuminating a shock of shiny scars clawed over the bridge of his nose and teasing up into one thick eyebrow.

"Sorry," he says, not quietly but certainly not loudly. "We had trouble finding the room."

Behind him immediately stands a man with dark hair to his shoulders, white but tanned. He wears slacks, in which a shirt has been tucked on one side and not the other, a purposeful dishevelment.

"And the building," adds the second.

Last to enter is the biggest of the three. You'd hazard a guess that he's six foot or taller, not the tallest of his companions but the most imposing, with a monotone outfit of pristine blacks that he fills too well, his shirt clinging to the muscle underneath it. His skin is a warm brown that soaks up the big light overhead and shines golden, his hair black and thick, laying in mussed ringlets stroked back from his face.

He is the most handsome person you've ever seen in real life. It startles you. Worse, when he meets your eyes.

You smile carefully. He smiles back.

Lily stands to gesture toward each man in turn. The first, "Remus Lupin," she says, "your tutor on all things Genovia." The second, "Sirius Black, stylist and your guide on media presence."

The third.

"James Potter," Lily says, not looking at him. "Bodyguard. James will be with you for the foreseeable future, even if you decide on– Well. You should get to know one another, at any rate." You must wear your worries on your face, as she continues, "You're in safe hands. James was third in command in the protection of His Highness."

"Hello," you say.

Sirius' eyes widen in tandem with his smile. "Hello."

"It's nice to meet you. We're sorry for your loss," Remus says.

"No," you say, head tilted toward your shoulder as you frown at James sympathetically, "I should be sorry, you actually knew him. I can't imagine how this feels for you."

"Thank you. But don't be," James says. "You have nothing to be sorry for, Princess."

You look to Emmeline, almost like you're waiting for her to correct him.

She smiles at you hopefully. "Shall we talk arrangements for your departure?"

—

James is trying not to look at you too much, though if he is he can write it off as purely protective. You're sitting in your seat like you're worried about touching a seat mate who doesn't exist, arms wrapped around your middle and face pointed to the floor.

"I'll rent a car," he says.

You curl into yourself a little more. "What for?"

"It's much safer."

"I don't want you to– I mean, you aren't a chauffer."

"I'm not." He bends at the knees to speak directly to you. "There are seven other people on this bus. One is elderly. Three are younger than sixteen. All seven could potentially harm you."

You look to the left without turning your head, toward the sound of young laughter. He'd bet money on your thoughts. Even the children?

"The driver could have an aneurysm. He could be paid off. He could be carrying a concealed weapon." James smiles at you placatingly. "Understand? If I drive, the potential danger goes down to one."

"Me?"

"No. Me." He tries very hard not to wink and look like a dickhead. "But I'm not going to hurt you. Not really my perogative."

"Oh, good."

James recall what Lily had said, rightfully. You and James will be in each other's company for the foreseeable future, and while he has a job to do, there's room for friendliness. Sort of.

He splits his attention between you and the front of the bus, where a small family carts a pushchair.

"What do you do?" he asks.

He knows you attend classes for a degree equivalent at your local college. He knows you're a waitress. He knows you moved to central London when you were very young, and that your estranged mother had been the cause of all this confusion. He asks you because he wants to know how you'll frame it. In your own eyes, what is your life?

"I'm a waitress."

He nods. "Local?"

"Mm. At a pub called The Morgan."

"You have a shift today?"

"Not today. I took the day off." You stand up and click the STOP call button on the rail James is holding. Your arm brushes against his. "It's this stop."

James trails behind you, off of the bus and straight into a busy street.

"How far is it to your house?" he asks, loud to be heard over the hubbub and the roadworks.

"Not long. Are you okay to walk?"

James finds himself oddly charmed by your question. "I'm just fine."

You squeeze through the crowded pavements lining the street, folded in, keeping your arms close, and you apologise every time you touch someone, even if it's the other person's fault. James keeps close to your back, moving to your side when he worries you might sprain your neck trying to check that you're following. He had some height on you, which is a good thing for security purposes — he can see uninterrupted over the top of your head when he stands this close.

The day is cool, the last dregs of an end of summer heat lingering in the air and encouraged by so many bodies in one place. James wonders if you're too warm, dressed as you are in tights, but the thought fades when you trip.

James grabs the top of your arm, fingers sliding between your arm and your chest. Closer than he wants to be, crueller than he means to be as he keeps you steady.

To his surprise, you laugh. A really nice sound, sudden but sweet.

"Sorry, Princess," he says.

"You saved me," you say, a hint of breathlessness in your tone. "Thank you. My flat's in the next building over."

"Brilliant." His bag is fucking heavy, a weight between his shoulders that aches when he lifts his hand to shield his eyes from the sun as it sets. You've got a long, long night ahead of doing nothing. "What's your address?"

You tell it to him. "Why?"

"For the rest of your security detail."

He slows as you come to the main door of your building. It's quieter here, the loudest sounds a symphony of barking dogs, car engines revving, and the jangle of your keys as you unlock the door and bump it with your hip.

"More people?" you ask. "Is that really necessary?"

"You always do that?"

"It gets stuck," you explain.

He hums. "It's necessary. The media's been paid handsomely to keep our operation to themselves for now, but there's always pressure to be the first to break a story."

"And I'm the story?" you ask, nodding toward the stairs in the centre of the room.

He steps over a bundle of scattered letters. The building is mostly clean, but mail bulges from cubbies, and an old mattress has been left propped against a wall.

"You're the story," he says, head up to analyse the atrium. There's a skylight spotted with green moss above.

You take the stairs up to the first floor, where your flat is the first he comes across. That increases your risk of a break in, rapists or robbers. He asks you to wait at the door while he clears each room, knowing it's an unecessary precaution but taking it anyway. It's not worth saving the half a minute it costs on the off-chance you've been infiltrated.

He snorts at his own train of thought and returns to you, where you're sliding a special locking mechanism between the door latch and the frame. You shake the lock.

"Did you get that recently?"

You look up at him and smile. "Since I moved in. I'm first on the floor. Don't want to get murdered in my sleep."

"Good girl," he says absentmindedly, crossing the room to secure your window.

He moves into your room again and secures the larger window over your bed. Then, because he's awful and curious, he catalogues your things.

"You're an artist," he says, head listed toward the doorway.

You stop by the dresser, hastily stuffing clothes left aside back into the top drawer. "Not– not really."

The room is a crammed collection of things. It's clear you've attempted to keep it clean. You were doomed to fail, an outpouring of your heart stuffed into a matchbox; books, sketchbooks, notebooks are stacked against the leftmost wall between your bed and your dresser, while paints and pencils take up two thirds of your desk. A small sketchbook rests closed in the mess of your unmade bed, dark bed sheets disrupted by a pair of white pyjamas discarded at the end. Soot or something similar stains the fabric.

He averts his gaze from your dirty hamper and faces you.

"At 8PM, one of my team will swap duty with me. His name is Frank, and I've worked with him before, but if you aren't comfortable with anything he does while I'm not working, you can tell me. If I do something that makes you uncomfortable, you can tell Lily. You can tell me, of course," he amends. "I can take the couch."

"You sleep at eight?"

"I sleep at nine."

"You don't mind sleeping on the couch?"

"Not at all."

You walk to your dresser and pull open the bottom drawer. Inside is a layer of linens, and you pull them out neatly.

"You don't have to, uh, put on a show for me," you say with a wince.

"Sorry?"

"I'm not a princess. I'm not the princess."

"You don't think so?"

You look sweet, kneeling on the floor, hair in pretty disarray from the walk home. You move it out of your face and offer a folded square to him with both hands.

"It's a misunderstanding. But…" You take a pillowcase into your hand and stand up, closing the drawer with your ankle. "Even if I were, I don't think you need to be so formal, you know?"

You move past him, a wave of nice smells.

"It's my job."

Again, you surprise him by laughing, climbing on top of your unmade sheets to grab one of your pillows. "Right," you say, stripping it of its pillowcase and shaking it into a new one. The tip of your tongue makes a brief appearance as you plump up the corners.

You climb off of the bed. "Here," you say, taking the sheet he's holding to press the pillow into his hands.

"Oh," he says, looking down at the pillowcase. It's covered in small pink flowers. "I don't need this."

"My settee isn't comfortable."

"Half of my job is being able to sleep anywhere."

You smile at him. His words don't discourage you, and he stands in the doorway between your bedroom and your living room as you lay down an old quilt over the settee and tuck a sheet around it and under the sofa cushions.

"I know it's strange, but you could take my bed, if you wanted to. You're so tall, I don't think-"

James cuts you off, not unkindly. "Thank you, but I couldn't." He lets the side of his chest rest against the doorway, arms crossed. Your back is straight, tense with anxiety. "I have something for you."

You blink at him. "For me?"

He grins, his first proper smile all day, and pulls his bag onto the freshly made settee to unzip the front compartment. He pulls out a small jewellery box, pulling the lid off to hold between his arm and chest.

The tennis bracelet inside is thin but strong, made up of gold-silver links with sapphire-coloured gemstone. He assumes them to be real sapphire or something similar, like blue-hued ruby.

"This is a panic button."

You seem more anxious than when he'd pulled out the box.

"Don't worry about losing it. I'm sure the Genovian coffers will recover."

"It's not that. Do you think it will fit?" you ask.

He hadn't thought about it. Luckily, Mary had.

"There are spare links hidden under the velvet."

James puts the box on your coffee table and clicks the links into place, handling the bracelet with less care than he ought to. Firmly snapped into place, he offers the lengthened bracelet to you unlatched.

"Here," he says, pointing toward one link in particular. "If you squeeze this tightly, the heat sensor will alert me."

"It won't feel the heat of my wrist?"

"It will. It's sophisticated, it'll disregard anything that isn't a sudden spike. That's your panic button. You squeeze that–" He pinches it in demonstration. The small radio clipped discreetly to his shoulder starts to beep, a circling alarm. He removes his fingers from the bracelet and it stops. "Okay?"

"I haven't even passed the paternity test yet."

"My being here indicates that you're of special interest. We don't know if you're the Princess for certain, and neither do the newspapers. You're still in danger either way."

You press your lips together and hold out your wrist.

James steps close to you, enough to see details and lines he's missed. The longer he stays in your company, the more endeared he is to your shy smile, and your kindness, and he thinks you're the type of person who's outsides reflect the insides. You smile.

Either side of your wrist glows with heat as he drapes the bracelet over your skin and clicks it closed, wary of pinching you.

The room is quiet. The clock over your small kitchen table ticks.

"There," James murmurs, taking back his hands.

"Thank you."

He disregards it completely. "No worries."

His informality gets you, and you smile, your own first and proper smile since you'd been introduced.

By the time Frank arrives for turnover, James is confident that his assignment to your protection won't be nearly as awful as he'd thought. You'd insisted on making him something to eat, which he'd been sincerely grateful for, as a man can't run on Burger King alone, and then you'd practically showered him in an awkward but entirely genuine hospitality, offering your bathroom and all its contents, every blanket you owned, the TV remote, and a tin of biscuits.

He introduces you to Frank, and for an hour you make yourself busy in the kitchen, cleaning dishes you'd refused his help with and wiping down the counters.

He senses your unease at being outnumbered in your own home. Unfortunately, there isn't much he can do to make you feel better, besides appoint Frank to door duty and try to offer some words of comfort.

James tries not to look as imposing as he feels, clearing his throat to draw your attention as you leave the kitchenette.

"Listen," he says softly, a mirror of you now that you're both changed into lounge clothes and damp-haired from the shower, "I want to reassure you— I'm here to protect you from any and every threat. I know this is unconventional, but I promise to do my best to make this easy for you."

You look down at your trainer socks. "Sorry."

"Can you do me a favour?"

"Yeah, of course," you say, raising your chin.

"No more apologies. This is hard, and I know that, you don't have to say sorry for anything. I'll promise you whatever you need me to if that will make you feel more comfortable."

Princess or no princess, you're confused, and you're unhappy in your own home. James wouldn't want that for anybody.

"Do you think someone's going to kill me?" you ask.

James softens. "No. Nobody is going to kill you." His smile melds slowly to mischief, dark lashes kissing in the corners of his eyes as he squints. "I'm a brilliant bodyguard, okay? Don't doubt my skills. And Frank's alright."

You laugh under your breath, relieved. "I'm not doubting your skills."

"Good. I'm not just a pretty face, Princess."

You sober at the title. The flicker of camaraderie between you fizzles, and you shake it off.

"Can I get you anything?" you ask.

He hopes that in a month, or a year, when you're living the high life in Genovia with a hundred serfs and lavish goods beyond your wildest dreams, you'll keep your earnest smile, and your good heart. He's seen exactly what court politics can do to timid young women like you.

"No," he says, matching your volume, "nothing."

"Okay. You can wake me if you need anything."

He absolutely won't. "Thank you... Goodnight."

"Goodnight."

You disappear behind your bedroom door. James lays down over the small sofa, alarm set for a dry-eyed 4:30AM, and listens to your flat as it cools. You close the blinds, sharpen a pencil, and for a period of time, he's lulled by the mild shushing of a pencil over paper.

He falls asleep. He must. A silence settles, thick and uninterrupted as poured molasses.

A splintering crash pulls him back to consciousness, and every nerve-ending sings as a weight falls to the floor. A thump sounds from behind your closed door. James practically leaps over the settee's arm to your door, Frank hot on his heels.

He throws open the door, braced for impact.

You aren't anywhere to be seen.

˗ˋˏ ♡ ˎˊ˗

thanks for reading!! i hope you enjoyed this first part, and if you did and you have the time please consider reblogging, it makes a difference! plus i'd love to know what u think or what you'd love to see in future<3

the fics title is adapted from a line in piedra del sol by octavio paz

#james potter fic #james potter #marauders era #marauders #james potter x reader #james potter x y/n #james potter x you #james potter fluff #james potter blurb #james potter drabble #james potter imagine #james potter fanfic #james potter fanfiction #the marauders #the marauders fanfiction #the marauders x reader #the marauders fanfic #james potter x fem!reader

4K notes · View notes

gatheringbones · 6 months

Text

[“As computer programs determine how many patients can be profitably squeezed into a day, doctors become tools. Then the actual machines march triumphantly into the wards.

Nurses are now separated from patients by computers on wheels that roll everywhere with them: their bossy robot taskmasters. When you first see a nurse, she or he will likely have eyes on the screen rather than on you. This has dreadful consequences for your treatment, since you become a checklist rather than a person. If you are having a problem unrelated to what is on the screen, some nurses will have a hard time gathering themselves and paying attention. For example, after my first liver procedure my liver drain was improperly attached. This was a serious problem that was easily reparable. Yet although I tried for four days to draw attention to it, I could not get through. It was not on the lists. And so I had a second liver procedure.

When I read my own medical record, I was struck by how often doctors wrote what was convenient rather than what was true. It’s hard to blame them: they are locked in a terrible record-keeping system that sucks away their time and our money. When doctors enter their records, their hands are guided by the possible entries in the digital system, which are arranged to maximize revenue. The electronic medical record offers none of the research benefits that we might expect from its name; it is electronic in the same sense that a credit card reader or an ATM is electronic. It is of little help in assembling data that might be useful for doctors and patients.

During the coronavirus pandemic, doctors could not use it to communicate about symptoms and treatments. As one doctor explained, “Notes are used to bill, determine level of service, and document it rather than their intended purpose, which was to convey our observations, assessment, and plan. Our important work has been co-opted by billing.” Doctors hate all of this.

Doctors of an older generation say that things were better in their time—and, what is more worthy of note, younger doctors agree with them. Doctors feel crushed by their many masters and miss the authority that they used to enjoy, or that they anticipated that they would enjoy when they decided to go to medical school. Young people go to medical school for good reasons, then find their sense of mission exploited by their bosses. Pressured to see as many patients as possible, they come to feel like cogs in a machine. Hassled constantly by companies that seek to pry open every aspect of medical practice for profit, they find it hard to remember the nobility of their calling. Tormented by electronic records that take as much time as patient care, and tortured by mandatory cell phones that draw them away from thinking, they lose their ability to concentrate and communicate. When doctors are disempowered, we do not learn what we need to be healthy and free.”]

timothy snyder, from our malady: lessons in liberty from a hospital diary, 2020

#timothy snyder #currently reading #horror! horror! horror!

416 notes · View notes

saiidahyunie · 17 days

Text

i wish i hated you

son chaeyoung x f!reader

synopsis: it’s not the truth nor the cure, but hating you’s the only way it doesn’t hurt.

warnings: a lot of heartbreaking feelings, sorry.

a/n: my first entry for chaepril and my (only) entry for angst april (angst4@nr1chaedickrider agenda)

putting pen to paper sounds easy, but it’s a lot more difficult to journal your thoughts when your heart is being ripped out.

writing had always been the escape for you, pouring out these feelings and emotions to different degrees of ‘how’s your day going’ or ‘today, this happened because i did x,y, and z.’ the silence of your house filled with the occasional beep of your smoke detector in your kitchen was more therapeutic than being in a cafe where it’s busy and distracting.

sure, there could be some prose of the classic-old cliche of ‘dear diary’ where you write in the lines of having this crush on someone in the same class as you, or how they complimented the clips in your hair, the shirt that was the new from hot topic, maybe even being partnered up for a school project was enough to report in that silly little book.

the phone vibrates next to your laptop followed by a sound of the doorbell with combined knocking, peering over the screen where it immediately lights up to present your notification form the message app.

// chae: hey, i’m outside !

// you: okay, one second.

before answering the door, you look at the google doc filled with lines of words that may have some subject to the story that you’re writing, putting an ellipsis at the end of the last sentence before stepping away to bring chaeyoung in.

swinging, the five foot three woman in front of your doorstep stands there unbothered, sunglasses primed and everything with earbuds on with not a single care in the world. she’s so free spirited and soft spoken, you can’t help but smile at the fact that of all people that she could’ve been friends with, she decided to have you as the closest.

“come on in,” you say. “nobody’s gonna be home until dinner.”

chaeyoung nods, following just behind you through the living room, plopping her handbag on the couch before trailing to the kitchen where your laptop was. “what you got there? another writing assignment?”

“no,” you laugh. “just some journalistic thoughts from the depths of my mind.”

chaeyoung nods, grabbing an orange before seamlessly peeling it while reading the last few paragraphs that were on your laptop screen, eyes scanning slowly but moving at a darting pace that it may look like she’s in a rush. “this story seems pretty interesting. where’s your journal.”

“oh, it’s in my bag next to you. i didn’t put an entry in yet for today, but i was planning to.”

“what was gonna be today’s report for this journal log, y.n?”

pursing your lips, you’re humming while the brain cells try to come up with a sufficient answer to chae’s question. “i dunno.” you say, tapping your cheek with a single finger before snorting out of nowhere. chaeyoung also laughs while you’re trying not to meet her face. “what? what’s so funny?”

“it’s nothing.” you start. “i think i was going to do something more of the theme of acceptance.”

“acceptance?”

“coming to terms with something.”

chaeyoung nods, swapping places with you, standing up as opposed to you sitting down in front of your laptop, staring again at the new blank page on the screen before opening a new page in your journal next to the left side.

“penny for your thoughts?” chaeyoung asks.

“is dr. son chaeyoung p.h.d in the office by any chance?”

“she is now.” she replies, smiling while tossing an orange slice into her mouth. “do you mind if i–?”

tilting your head, already knowing what her question was gonna be, “you don’t need to ask.” you say to her, standing up before reaching above the portion of the wall over the refrigerator to shut off the smoke detector.

—

“i need your help with something. writers block” you start again with chaeyoung.

“with what? what are you trying to type, or write?” she asks you, the cigarette between her mouth before taking it off and blowing the air to the open window next to her.

you’ve been friends with chaeyoung since the beginning of high school, it’s been long enough to the point that you and her know every single little detail about each other. from the bra sizes, to the different tastes of music. everyone had always complimented the contrasting vibes that you two gave off with chaeyoung being more artsy and individualistic as to you being more refined and structured.

there was one entry that you’ve always wanted to write or at least put to the damn book that shares all of your deepest and darkest secrets hidden away from the world that will never see the light of day.

you were in love with chaeyoung.

chaeyoung doesn’t know that.

because chaeyoung doesn’t like girls. she likes pretty girls, but somehow got swept up with a guy named zion.

zion, however, is a saint. he’s respectful, understanding, similar to the vibes that you give off which chaeyoung likes. you could say that he is you personified as a guy.

but in the end, zion isn’t you.

“so there’s this love story between these two characters.” beginning again while chaeyoung gave her full attention. “i’ve built up a lot of tension between them, but i’ve been stuck on how to get past the frustrated confession of love.”

“when was the last time you really tried to dig deep into writing something like that?”

“a while ago. you saw the journal entries that i had about feelings that were unclear for someone.”

“can you show me? or do you at least remember what you were trying to go for when writing?” chaeyoung asks you, looking at the journal with the blank page and the pen against the spine of the booklet.

“uh, let me see if i can find it,” you reply, flipping through the pages of the neat and scribbled writing before stopping, “there we go.” turing it around and sliding it for chaeyoung to read. she’s helped you get out your thoughts beforehand. if it weren’t for her, god help you for being in a different state compared to now.

“what’s this?” she asks, pointing to the topic next to the faded date and time.

“oh, the title? anecdotes.” you answer her, stopping your typing on the keyboard. “i’ve been writing thoughts down like these to see if i can crank out a big, sweeping scene that hits all the emotional checkmarks.”

“it was that one morning from that one sleepover we had with the girls, looking at your hair, because you’ve been thinking about whether to cut it. but your hair has so much volume, and so dense, so when you grow it out like this, it looks thick. it suits you.”

chaeyoung looks up with an arched eyebrow, unsure if she was okay to continue, so you nod.

“i know you hate styling your hair, so i thought, ‘it looks good like this. unstyled, but full and curly. don’t cut it.’”

“i’ve been planning for your birthday present for at least 6 months. two rolls of 35 mm film. a screen protector. a scrapbook with pockets that have the right size for your instant photos. the brand of those star-shaped pimple patches you asked me about that one night while staying over.”

“that first time we saw each other after i got dumped by that one girl one the cheer team who wasn’t into me. i made fun of how you kept yelling at me in the parking lot of how stupid and much of a people pleaser i was.”

while she was reading aloud, you see the last sentence on your document be something along the hurtful tone of hate. (“this pain i’m carrying, it’s unbearable. but at the same time. it’s perfect in a way to where i can handle it, but i still have a dissatisfaction towards you.”)

“i admired the way you text me, despite how dry and open ended they were. like a rupi kaur poem, the broken sentences structure like her books. you loved it anyway, and it made you emotional.”

“i remember you started texting me like that as a joke, but then i realized that i was also doing the same form of texts to my other friends and even my parents.”

“i’m sorry,” chaeyoung snorts. “this is too interesting and i can’t tell if you’re doing a journal entry or putting me through a whirlwind of fucking relateable.”

some of it– you stop your train of thought before the words can even leave your lips, “i don’t know what i was doing that day, but i tried to emulate something more of a confession of sorts, but this isn’t me or anyone else. i’m just going off the top of my head.”

chaeyoung flips through the single page, shocked at how muchw as there on the front and back. “jesus y/n, you really put yourself in the blender for this.” she says, nodding at how much content was put into that one specific entry.

“are you gonna keep reading or are you done?”

“shut up, i’ll keep going.” chaeyoung bats an eye at you, pulling the journal closer to her like she’s the one protecting her secrets.

“i recently realized that i’m terrible at keeping my feelings covert. i’ve been trying to keep my interactions with you comfortable and friendly. then i realized i’ve been catching myself notice and point out the shirt that you look like you’d wear, and i’m up to my tenth movie out of the many favorites.”

you’re hoping chaeyoung realize that everything that’s she’s reading the feelings that you’ve been keeping from her after all this time, knowing that if she did find out, it would put everything between you two into a sinkhole of ‘i shouldn’t feel this way, and it would ruin our friendship’ kind of deal.

“when we became friends, i thought of you as a dreamer and a reserved romantic. i liked the way you took an unapologetic approach at the things you cared about in your life.”

chaeyoung stops to finish the last bits of her cigarette before tapping the ashes in the sink, clearing her throat before speaking. “are you sure this was to help you get your writing creativity up?”

“yes,” you say, typing away on the doc to most likely finish up the story. “there’s not much after that part so finish it.”

she pouts, inhaling before looking at the last couple of sentences.

“it’s been a while, probably more than a year. i forget. while a lot happened since then which altered my perception of you, i still think fondly of the romantic dreamer.”

“y/n, who is this about?” chaeyoung asks, and you’re trying to fight the wave of tears building up in your eyes.

“it’s not about me.” you say, jaw clenching because your heart will burst if the truth was let out. “that entry is never about me.”

chaeyoung looks down again and continues:

“i try not to sit around you and shit like that. it feels like there’s a spark when you crack a joke and they bounce off of it. i don’t say anything. because i know that you’ll chalk it up to just friendship, and i’ll say ‘i know, don’t remind me.’”

“i notice all the things about you in the time you’re in my life. the way you angle your shoulders when pressed. there’s a note on my phone where you rambleed all of the things you wanted to do when we have our trip to tokyo.”

you look down in disappointment.

“i walked you back to your place when you found out that mina didn’t feel the same way about you, how the keys to your house have this little star key ring attached to it. even though it was late, you said, ‘i have an extra ramen pack left, do you want to eat it with me?’”

chaeyoung looks up, noticing that there’s a scribble at the last sentence before flipping back to the front side of the journals’ page. “why’s the last line scribbled?”

you finish typing the last letter of the sentence, the whole story really, “that sentence when i wrote it in there didn’t have much of a significance of impact that i wanted it to be.”

“but what did it say?”

you sigh, rubbing your face to hide the sniffle that broke out from your nose before drinking the glass of water next to you, placing it down after and returning your gaze on chaeyoung. “the sentence said: ‘and with all of these things in my mind about you, i thought to myself. i hope i get to love you in this lifetime.’”

chaeyoung parts her lips, appalled and moved with the thourgful entry that may or may not have destroyed her emotionally. you always had a way with words that make people on your little blog come back for more works to read. “do you think these have got anything in them?” you ask, closing the journal before setting in your handbag next to you.

“they do, but not for a scene like that.” chaeyoung answers, voice stern, but helpful enough for you to accept her opinion. “maybe the love your anecdotes are about aren’t big for the big sweeping moment you’re trying to get.”

she’s right, maybe all of these hidden feelings should have a place to stay, like the numerous amounts of secrets inside that small book, they too should not be let out for anyone to hear or read.

“you’re writing about quiet love.”

you look at chaeyoung who has a heartfelt smile across her lips, caring for what you were trying to do, and you just have to accept the fact that your feelings will never reach out to her. chaeyoung’s phone rings on the table, looking at it before her face lights up. “yay! z just got off of work and he’s on his way here.”

“oh, so you were just dropping by?” you ask stupidly, forgetting that chaeyoung texted you about coming by to chill before having her date with zion prior to writing. even if you were gonna say anything, a honk is heard outside the house, “that’s him probably.” chaeyoung says, walking back to the front door with you behind her.

you see zion in his decked out sports car, something that fits his vibe (and yours too) while chaeyoung turns around to give you a needed hug which was always comforting. “guess i’ll see you later?”

“one more thing,” you ask, “do you think i should change the ending of the story?”

“maybe.” chaeyoung simply says, and your heart just sinks.

soon after she left, you open up your laptop to the same google doc that’s completed, but you’re thinking about the time where she read all of those things in that journal. it wouldn’t hurt to put one more sentence just for good measure before posting up on the blog without giving a care if people liked reading it or not.

so you type:

“if i can love the wrong person this much, imagine how much i can love the right person.”

#hyunie #kpop x reader #twice x reader #chaeyoung x reader #twice chaeyoung #son chaeyoung #twice imagines #chaeyoung imagines #chaeyoung angst #twice angst #son chaeyoung x reader

110 notes · View notes

darkacua · 8 months

Text

The boys who I think prefer writing romantic letters over romantic text messages

Malleus

Not only is he the most obvious, but he is also one of the ones who puts the most effort into every letter he writes to you.

His letters are long and detailed, his day may have been extremely boring but that won't stop him from writing to you about how much he misses you.

He uses the finest paper and ink that can be found in the Briar Valley because you deserve only the best.

His handwriting is extremely beautiful and with a lot of garigole, is the type that if you don't know how to read and write cursive it will be impossible for you to make sense of it.

He writes to you at least once a day, although you usually find at least two letters on your desk every day. If you stop receiving your daily dose of letters at least once, you should check that he is not dead because according to him that is the only reason. valid for not writing to you.

Rook

Another guy who will let you know that he loves you through the forgotten art of letters.

He goes to great lengths praising your beauty in every letter he sends you, occasionally including other people's beauty in the process.

He likes to put small gifts or photos in the envelopes, especially if in the writing he is talking about an event for which he believes visual context is needed.

All of his letters are delivered through an arrow.

He has a bad habit of sending them at different times of the day, they have arrived in class, at lunch and in the early morning. You had to talk to Vil to get him to stop it at least a little.

Riddle

He firmly believes that it is the right way to express his love, respect and admiration for you.

He doesn't have a problem with text messages, he just feels that they aren't personal enough to be able to describe his feelings.

You won't find more scented letters in all of Twisted Wonderland.

The experience of romance is complete and he refuses to skip any steps that make you understand how much he loves you.

He will give you letters at least twice a week, he would like to write to you daily but his schedule does not allow it.

He has a notebook full of drafts, he will write there before transferring it to the official letter since he is afraid of writing something too insensitive.

Jade

Romance classes on the surface are not very up to date for this eel boy.

He doesn't do it for romance, that's more than clear.

He finds it interesting to see your reactions to his letters more than the idea of expressing his love for you in them.

More than love letters, they seem like improvised expedition diaries about his trips in search of mushrooms.

If he discovers that you keep the cards along with the little drawings he makes on them, he will put more effort into his explorations, this boy likes his effort to be appreciated.

Jamil

Started because his phone broke down and he couldn't find you anywhere, his first letter wasn't even romantic, it was more of a note with a little map drawn to tell you where his date was that afternoon.

He kept doing it even when hers got his phone back because he found out you saved that first note in an album.

His letters are more of a summary of his day than anything else, but he likes the sense of intimacy they give to their relationship when he writes them.

If it's a special date like an anniversary or birthday, he will write you a short poem in his native language and send it to you by letter.

His official messenger, as ironic as it may be, is Kalim.

His letters always arrive safely to you if Kalim is the one who delivers them, our white-haired boy takes that job very seriously.

Silver

Lilia told him that it was the only official way in Briar Valley for couples to communicate.

He forgot to mention the very small detail that it is the only form of communication because in his homeland THERE ARE NO CELL PHONES.

His letters are almost always short, simple and straight to the point, he is not very good at being poetic.

However, they always come accompanied by a small bouquet of wildflowers, picked especially for you by him and his little furry friends.

He writes to you daily but always at the end of the day, if for some reason he falls asleep and forgets to write to you one day he will send you an apology letter the next morning explaining what happened.

If you're the type of person who writes back to him, he'll have all your letters in a small, locked wooden box, away from the prying eyes CofLiliaCof of his other dormmates.

Deuce

He…had the bad idea to ask Professor Trein for advice on how to be romantic.

Trein was married, right? It's obvious that he has to know a thing or two about romance, especially if he talks about how much in love he and his wife were!

Well, let's just say that Deuce does what he can in the realm of romance demonstrated through writing…

His letters tend to be somewhat abrupt, both in letter and content, he does not know how to express his feelings correctly, and he is even less successful having 3 idiots as dormmates making fun of his failed attempts.

He doesn't give up anyway and he writes to you at least 2 times a week, his letters and handwriting improve a lot with time and practice.

Riddle is very proud of him for all the effort he puts into this whole letter thing, and ends up forcing all of his students to have a mandatory calligraphy class.

Español bajo el corte

Los chicos que yo creo que prefieren escribir cartas románticas por encima de mensajes de texto románticos:

Malleus

No solo es el más obvio, si no que también es uno de los que más empeño le pone a cada carta que te escribe.

Sus cartas son largas y detalladas, su día pudo haber sido extremadamente aburrido pero eso no lo detendrá a escribirte sobre lo mucho que te extraño.

Usa el papel y la tinta más fina que se pueda encontrar en el Valle de Briar porque te mereces solo lo mejor.

Su caligrafía es extremadamente hermosa y con mucho garigoleado, es del tipo que si no sabes leer y escribir cursiva te será imposible encontrarle sentido.

Te escribe mínimo una vez al día, aunque usualmente encuentras mínimo dos cartas en tu escritorio todos los días, si dejas de recibir tu dosis diaria de cartas al menos una vez, deberás de revisar que no esté muerto porque según él esa es la única razón válida para no escribirte.

Rook

Otro chico que te hará saber que te ama a través del arte olvidado de las cartas.

Se explaya demasiado alabando tu belleza en cada una de las cartas que te envía, incluyendo de vez en cuando la belleza de otras personas en el proceso.

Le gusta poner pequeños regalos o fotos en los sobres, sobre todo si en lo escrito está hablando sobre algún evento del cual él cree que se necesite contexto visual.

Todas sus cartas son entregadas a través de una flecha.

Tiene la mala costumbre de enviarlas a diferentes horas del día, te han llegado en clase, el almuerzo y en la madrugada. Tuviste que hablar con Vil para que lo detuviera al menos un poco.

Riddle

Cree firmemente que es la manera correcta de expresar su amor, respeto y admiración por ti.

No tiene ningún problema con los mensajes de texto, solo siente que no son lo suficientemente personales como para poder describir sus sentimientos.

No encontrarás cartas más perfumadas en todo Twisted Wonderland.

La experiencia del romance es completa y él se niega a saltarse algún paso que te dé a entender lo mucho que te ama.

Te dará cartas al menos dos veces por semana, le gustaría escribirte a diario pero su horario no se lo permite.

Tiene un cuaderno lleno de borradores, escribirá ahí antes de pasarlo a la carta oficial ya que tiene miedo de escribir algo demasiado insensible.

Jade

Las clases sobre el romance en la superficie no están muy actualizadas que digamos para este chico anguila.

No lo hace por el romanticismo, eso está más que claro.

Le parece interesante el ver tus reacciones a sus cartas más que la idea de expresar su amor por ti en ellas.

Más que cartas de amor parecen diarios de expedición improvisados sobre sus viajes en busca de hongos.

Si él descubre que tú guardas las cartas junto con los pequeños dibujos que hace en ellas le pondrá más empeño a sus exploraciones, a este chico le gusta que su esfuerzo sea apreciado.

Jamil

Inicio porque su teléfono se descompuso y no podía encontrarte en ningún lado, su primera carta ni siquiera fue romántica, fue más bien una nota con un pequeño mapa dibujado para decirte donde era su cita de esa tarde.

Siguió haciéndolo incluso cuando su recuperó su teléfono porque descubrió que guardaste esa primera nota en un álbum.

Sus cartas son más un resumen de su día que otra cosa, pero le gusta la sensación de intimidad que le dan a su relación cuando las escribe.

Si es una fecha especial como un aniversario o cumpleaños, él te escribirá un pequeño poema en su idioma natal y te lo enviará por carta.

Su mensajero oficial, por muy irónico que sea, es Kalim.

Sus cartas siempre llegan segura a ti si Kalim es el que las entrega, nuestro chico de cabello blanco se toma ese trabajo muy enserio.

Silver

Lilia le dijo que era la única forma oficial en el Valle de Briar para que las parejas se comunicaran.

Se le olvidó mencionar el pequeñísimo detalle de que es la única forma de comunicación porque en su tierra natal NO HAY CELULARES.

Sus cartas casi siempre son cortas, sencillas y directo al grano, no se le da muy bien eso de ser poético.

Sin embargo, siempre vienen acompañadas de un pequeño ramo de flores silvestres, recogido especialmente para ti por él y sus pequeños amigos peludos.

Te escribe a diario pero siempre al final del día, si por alguna razón se queda dormido y olvida escribirte un dia te enviará una carta de disculpa a la mañana siguiente explicando lo sucedido.

Si eres del tipo de persona que le escribe de vuelta, tendrá todas tus cartas en una pequeña caja de madera bajo llave, lejos de los ojos curiosos *CofLiliaCof* de sus demás compañeros de dormitorio.

Deuce

Él… tuvo la mala idea de preguntarle al profesor Trein por consejos de cómo ser romántico.

¿Trein estuvo casado, no? ¡Es obvio que tiene que saber una cosa o dos sobre el romance, sobre todo si habla de lo muy enamorados que estaban él y su esposa!

Bueno, solo digamos que Deuce hace lo que puede en el ámbito del romance demostrado a través de la escritura…

Sus cartas suelen ser algo bruscas, tanto en letra como en contenido, no sabe cómo expresar sus sentimientos de forma correcta, y lo logra menos teniendo a 3 idiotas como compañeros de dormitorio burlándose de sus intentos fallidos.

No se rinde de cualquier forma y te escribe al menos 2 veces por semana, sus cartas y caligrafía mejoran mucho con el tiempo y la práctica.

Riddle está muy orgulloso de él por todo el esfuerzo que pone en todo esto de las cartas, y termina obligando a todos sus estudiantes a tener una clase obligatoria de caligrafía.

228 notes · View notes