#AND THEN SPENT A FULL HOUR EDITING THE PAGE

[firestorm09890]

The City Project Moon post 2: The League of Nine’s suffering and deterioration while living in T Corp. is meant to be analogous to what the real Guinhoe went through under Japanese occupation, except that instead of being imperialist Japan, T Corp. is Industrial Revolution Britain

[mr-cha-n]

Through the Lens

Pairing: Jeon Wonwoo x fem!reader

Genres: Smut, fluff, photographer x model AU

Warnings: Swearing, alcohol, sexual content, penetration, nudity

Word Count: 12.5k

Summary: Six months. Full access. Intimate photos. A glimpse into the world of celebrity. And the last thing Jeon Wonwoo thought he was signing up for.

A/N: Publishing a draft, but I hope you enjoy it anyway!

The email arrives at the most inconvenient time, as all important emails do. Wonwoo had spent the entire day at the studio, taking newborn photos of a client’s latest chow chow—"latest" being bolded because this was the third time this year that he’d been called in for this client’s endless stream of puppies. By the time he’d finished, his body was ached raw from awkward angles, and his mind was numb from a six-hour editing marathon. He only managed to drag himself back to his flat after the sun had long since dipped below the horizon, craving the sweet refuge of solitude. 

Alas, he was dragged through a two-hour catch-up session with his flatmate, Mingyu, who, with his never-ending supply of caffeine and chatter, somehow managed to convince him to watch a movie about a guy who falls in love with his childhood friend who is also a ghost. (No, it didn't make sense, but Mingyu enjoyed it, and Wonwoo had long given up trying to follow his logic.)

By the time he collapses onto the couch, half-dead from human interaction, the email is waiting. 

"Subject: Assignment Confirmation: (Y/n) (Y/l/n)."

He groans as he clicks it open, his finger hovering over the delete button, ready to toss the whole thing into the digital voice. Then he reads the first line:

"Dear Mr. Jeon, we are pleased to confirm that you have been selected as the official photographer for the upcoming feature on (Y/n) (Y/l/n), world-renowned socialite and philanthropist."

"What in the world..." Wonwoo mutters. He doesn't even really remember submitting his name for this, and he's shocked he'd ever consider it. Wonwoo has long made a mental vow to avoid people like you - socialites, celebrities, influencers - whatever you call them. In the world of photography, they are all the same: walking photo opportunity with zero personality and way too much drama. Perfect for paparazzi, but not something he has time for. 

He's a quiet, detached observer of the world. He doesn't need to be a part of it.

But the email continues:

"We have full confidence in your ability to capture the raw and humanising side of Ms. (Y/l/n), giving our readers an intimate glimpse into her life, both public and private."

Raw? Humanising? Intimate? Which magazine is this again, the National Geographic?

His eyes flicker back up to the top of the email, growing wide as he sees the sender. Well, shit. Opus Magazine. He does remember applying for this, although, in his defence, they hadn't specified the subject of the op-ed when he'd submitted it. 

"We are excited to have you on board for this project, which will span the next six months. Your first shoot is scheduled for next Thursday, at 10 AM, at Ms. (Y/l/n)’s residence. We look forward to seeing how your unique perspective brings this project to life.

Thank you for your time and commitment.

Best regards, The Editorial Team Opus Magazine"

Wonwoo leans back, tilting his head toward the ceiling as if the world would offer him an answer. It doesn’t.

In all fairness, he has never actually met you before. But he's seen you everywhere. The perfectly curated Instagram feed. The charity galas. The interviews. The way you seem to be exactly what everyone wants you to be: flawless, effortless, untouchable.

A three-page approval form for every photo, he assumes. 

The door to the living room creaks open. "How are you not asleep yet?" Mingyu says cheerfully, poking his head in. Wonwoo glances at the clock on his screen: 2:43 am. He chooses not to point out that Mingyu's still awake too.

"I've been assigned to photograph (Y/n) (Y/l/n) for the next six months." Wonwoo grumbles, tapping his phone screen as if he could wipe away the whole thing with a swipe.

Mingyu's eyes widen in surprise. "Wait - (Y/n) (Y/l/n)? As in Forbes Under 30 (Y/n) (Y/l/n)?!"

"Yes. That one." Wonwoo replies flatly, eyes narrowing. "Six months. Full access. I'm going to want to die halfway through."

Mingyu looks delighted, clearly missing the gravity of the situation. "Ooh, this is going to be so fun! You're going to be all glamorous and -"

"No. No, I'm not," Wonwoo interrupts. "I'm going to hide behind my camera and take photos of her from so far away that she doesn't even know I'm there."

“Yeah, okay, Mr. Anti-Social. But—” Mingyu plops down beside him, grinning. “—what if she wants to get to know you?"

Wonwoo turns to him, unamused. "It's a professional gig to make her look good; she won't want me digging into her real life."

Mingyu, without missing a beat, grabs a bag of chips and shoves them into Wonwoo’s lap. “Just saying. People don’t come with Instagram models and high-profile gigs attached unless there’s something extra special about them, right? Maybe she’s a hidden gem.”

"Hidden gem?" Wonwoo scoffs. "Or a nightmare in designer shoes."

It doesn’t take long for Mingyu to bombard him with unsolicited advice. “... here’s my tip for you. Don’t just take boring photos. You know what’s going to make her stand out in the sea of perfect socialite portraits?” He paused dramatically. “Unfiltered moments. Catch her when she’s off guard. Capture her when she doesn’t know she’s being watched.”

Wonwoo shoots him a deadpan look. “What, you mean like stalking her?”

“I prefer the term artistic observation,” Mingyu replies, grinning mischievously. “Trust me. You’re going to fall in love with her vulnerability. You know, the real her. The one she hides behind all the glam.”

Wonwoo shakes his head, already regretting this conversation. He’s not even met you, and here Mingyu was, crafting an entire narrative of undiscovered depth based on nothing but a couple of well-lit photos.

Still, his finger hovers over the accept button. 

Six months. Full access. Intimate photos.

Maybe he should just ... get on with it.

Wonwoo hasn't actually met you yet and he's already regretting his decision. 

He's spent the past week alternating between panicking and ignoring the dozens of emails for your team, each one more frantic than the last. First, they sent a detailed itinerary of the shoot, followed by an even more detailed list of instructions on what he should wear, when to arrive, and what colour lens he should use for "optimal lighting" - as if he didn’t know how to work a camera by now.

9:00 AM, Inbox:

“Subject: URGENT: RE: Ms. (Y/l/n)’s Preferences for the Day”

“Good morning, Mr. Jeon,

I hope you're prepared for today’s shoot! Please note that Ms. (Y/l/n) prefers a soft light filter on all images, especially when she’s not directly posing. We’ve attached a sample of how she likes her candid photos to look (it’s very specific). Do ensure that you have the required lens, and if you have any questions, don’t hesitate to reach out.

Best, Assistant to Ms. (Y/l/n)’s PR Team.”

Wonwoo stares at the email for a moment, blinking. Soft light filter? Do you breathe, or do you simply exist in a perpetual soft-focus glow? His finger hovers over the "delete" button, but he refrains. He already knows this is a battle he’s not going to win.

He takes a deep breath and forces himself to get up. He throws on his jacket, feeling the weight of the situation pressing down on him worse than when he submitted his final portfolio at college, and the project hasn't even begun yet. There's no escaping now. He has to do it - he's been hired for this. Paid for it, too, which means he's legally obliged to at least try.

He arrives at the shoot location just before 10 AM: a sprawling, minimalist mansion that looks like it's been pulled from the pages of an interior design magazine. It's sleek, modern, and incredibly intimidating. The atmosphere is slick with an 'unapproachable luxury' vibe, and Wonwoo can already feel the tension in his shoulders as he steps out of his car. 

A member of the PR team greets him immediately, smiling far too brightly for someone who's probably already been working since 5 AM. "Mr. Jeon! So glad you could make it. Please follow me inside, Ms. (Y/l/n) is just getting ready.”

Wonwoo nods, trying to maintain the calm he doesn't really feel, muttering a "thank you" in response.

Inside, everything is sleek and spotless - nothing out of place, nothing too personal. Like no one's ever lived here. He's brought to a sitting room where the lighting is admittedly perfect. Almost too perfect. He's not used to working in these conditions. He's used to having to fix things last minute, create something out of nothing, or use the imperfections to his advantage. A soft hum of quiet chatter fills the air, and a stylist is busy adjusting something behind the curtain.

He doesn't know what he's expecting as you walk out. Maybe someone a little more ordinary, a little less polished than the figure seen in magazines. He's worked with models before, and they've always been so normal outside of shoots. But when you step into the light, it's like the room takes a collective breath. You're impossibly beautiful, even he can admit that, in that "perfectly put together, but effortless charming" way. Your smile hits him like a tidal wave, all dazzling teeth and liquid confidence, and for a split second, he forgets why he's here. 

He opens his mouth to speak, but what comes out is a dry, “Hello.”

You tilt your head slightly, looking him up and down with eyes that seem to see everything. “I’ve heard a lot about you, Mr. Jeon,” you say, your voice smooth, almost teasing.

Wonwoo feels a flutter of unease in his chest, though he’s not sure why. It’s not like he hasn’t worked with famous people before, and yet something about you—something about the way you look at him—feels like an interrogation.

“Ah, well,” he stammers for a second, clearing his throat, “I… I hope it’s all positive.”

The smile on your lips doesn’t waver, but there’s something almost too sharp about it. The kind of smile that’s practised, like you’ve been wearing it since you were a child in front of mirrors, learning the exact angle for maximum charm.

“Oh, absolutely. You’ve got quite the reputation,” you say, as if it’s an afterthought. “They told me you’d be professional.”

Professional. Right. Because that’s exactly what he is. He’s always professional, no matter how much he wants to roll his eyes at the utter insanity of the situation. 

He offers a stiff nod. “Good. That’s what I’m here for.”

You smile again, but this time it’s softer. There's a flicker of something in your eyes, almost like amusement, but also curiosity. For a moment, Wonwoo wonders if he's just a novelty to you, something to poke at for fun. Or maybe you think you’re the novelty here, and he's just another player in the game you're used to winning. Either way, he can feel the weight of that gaze, and it’s not entirely comfortable.

You take a step closer, and Wonwoo resists the urge to take a step back. It’s like you have this gravitational pull—magnetic, impossible to ignore. But he’s not going to let that faze him. His eyes stay focused on your face, trying not to let your presence throw him off his game.

“So,” you say, tilting your head slightly, “what’s your plan for today? I’m assuming I’m not just going to stand here all day and look pretty?”

It's a light question, but he can hear the expectation in your voice. He’s used to people expecting things. It’s just—well, usually, it’s an email with 10 bullet points, not an interrogation delivered with a smile.

“I’ll take a few shots first,” Wonwoo replies, keeping his tone neutral. “Get the feel of the lighting. Then we’ll see if we need anything more posed.”

You nod, and decide the conversation is over, floating back over to the set.

Wonwoo lifts his camera, adjusting the settings to give himself a moment to settle down.

You stand still, not quite posing, but perfectly aware of your body. Everything about you seems calculated. Even your fingers, relaxed at your sides, seem to fall into the right positions at just the right time. It’s strange, though, because you’re not the robotic kind of poised he’s used to. There's a subtle looseness to you, a humanity that he doesn't expect.

“How does this work?” you say after a beat. “You just take my picture and call it a day?”

Wonwoo focuses on adjusting the lens, trying to suppress the slight frustration that’s bubbling up. He doesn’t want to be here. He doesn’t want to take your picture. All he wants is to get the job done and move on.

But instead, he clicks the shutter. One, two, three shots in rapid succession. The light catches your face in a way that’s almost too good to be real, too perfect for anyone to be this unfailingly photogenic.

“Relax,” he mutters more to himself than to you. “Just act natural.”

You tilt your head again, this time a little more playfully. “Natural?” You raise an eyebrow, a soft chuckle escaping you. “I’m afraid I’ve forgotten what that is.”

Wonwoo’s finger freezes over the shutter, and he looks at you again, the barest hint of annoyance tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Oh, I’m sure you can manage."

You laugh then, a light, almost mythical sound, and for a moment, the tension in the room eases just enough for Wonwoo to breathe. “I’ll try. But no promises.”

He clicks another shot, and for the first time, something in his chest loosens. It’s not much—just a tiny shift—but it’s there. You’re... interesting.

“Tell me, Mr. Jeon,” you ask, your voice low. "I'm intrigued as to why you decided to do this shoot. What's your opinion on people like me?"

Wonwoo lowers the camera, the question catching him off guard. “What do you mean?”

You shrug, your gaze flicking toward the window, your expression momentarily unreadable. “People who live in the public eye. People who everyone thinks they know, but don’t. What’s your opinion on that?”

“People like you don’t need opinions,” he says, his voice flat, “because you already know how everyone feels about you.”

He’s being sharp. Cold, even. And he knows it. But he can’t help himself. This isn’t the first time he’s worked with someone who expects the world to revolve around them. It’s what they do. It’s why he keeps his distance.

You don’t react immediately. You just stare at him for a moment, your expression unreadable.

For a split second, he wonders if he’s crossed a line. But then your lips twitch, just the slightest hint of a smile.

“Well,” you finally say, your tone warm but still guarded, “I suppose that’s one way to see it.”

Wonwoo wants to say something else, maybe something witty or sarcastic, but he stops himself. Instead, he lifts the camera again, focusing on the next shot.

No matter how much he tries to bury it, Wonwoo can’t help but feel... a little intrigued by you.

Just a little.

The second shoot is at your apartment. 

Wonwoo had been floored when he'd found out - although the spotless nature of the first home had kind of given away that it wasn't actually yours. More than that, the fact that he, despite meaning to have creative control over the project, wasn't told that the purpose of the first shoot was to show a contrast between how people thought you lived and how you actually lived. Seemed like something he should have a say in.

As he arrives, the reality is different to what he'd imagined, and the opposite of the slick, minimalist mansion. 

Your apartment is, in a word, alive. The first thing that hits him is the colour. Bright hues of teal and mustard yellow leap off the walls, the kind of vibrant tones that feel like they belong in a 70s sitcom. The entire place seems to be a throwback to a cooler, bygone era, as if time itself was gently bent to live in this space. Mid-century modern furniture clashes with bold retro patterns—geometric prints, zigzags, and polka dots galore. 

The space is wide and open, but it’s not the sterile kind of open that’s all white walls and cold metal. No, this is a living, breathing room that demands attention with its quirk and charm. He prefers it.

The walls are covered in vintage posters from concerts, movies, and random ads from the 60s and 70s—faded, but still full of energy. One poster catches his eye in particular: it’s a photograph of an old jazz band in action, the colours almost washed out but still vibrant in their intensity. He notices that it’s not framed, just tacked on with mismatched pins as though it was thrown up without a second thought. It’s a detail that makes him think you probably chose it on a whim.

At the far side of the room, there's a vintage bar cart—wooden, with brass accents, stocked with various bottles and a large glass decanter that catches the light as though it’s waiting for its next cocktail to be poured. A small but proud collection of classic board games, with bright, cheerful colours that look like they belong on a childhood shelf, sits close next door. 

Despite the space being filled with vintage charm, there’s a kind of organised chaos to it all. The floor might have an old rug with faded patterns that don't quite match the couch, and the coffee table—half-full of magazines, books, and a stray mug—couldn’t be called tidy, but it’s the kind of mess that makes the space feel lived-in.

The thought makes his stomach twist uncomfortably.

You lead him inside, wearing a loose, earthy sweater and faded denim jeans, a marked contrast to the polished image he’s gotten used to seeing in magazines. You still look beautiful, but comfortable. Not model-perfect. 

“You can set up wherever you’d like,” you say casually. Your voice is warm, and easy-going in a way that’s almost disarming.

Looking around, he realises for the first time that none of your team is here. And, weirdly, it unsettles him.

He finds himself pausing for a moment when he notices a worn book sitting on the coffee table, the edges curled with time. He’s always had a soft spot for books, the way their covers could tell so much about the person who owned them. And that book? It’s clearly one you’ve read over and over.

His fingers hover over his camera lens for a moment, and before he can stop himself, he mutters, “You read a lot?”

You glance over, surprised. “Hmm?”

“The book.” He gestures vaguely, “It looks well-loved.”

You laugh softly, a short, pleasant sound that makes his chest tighten in a way he doesn’t fully understand. “Oh, that? It’s nothing, really. Just something I found at a little bookstore in Paris. I’ve read it a million times, but... sometimes, it feels like you can always find something new in the pages, you know?”

Wonwoo opens his mouth, but no words come out. It's almost spinning his head around - the way that you're mixing together something so casual like a well-worn book with the detail that you got it in Paris. There's this weird grating of human and celebrity that he doesn't know how to deal with.

You seem to notice the shift in his gaze, your smile becoming a little softer. But instead of explaining more, you walk over to the window and lean against the frame, glancing outside. “So, how do you want to do this today?” you ask, clearly trying to get back on track.

Wonwoo nods, snapping himself back into work mode. “Let’s start with some natural shots,” he says briskly, pointing to the light streaming in through the window. “You can stay by the window, maybe. I’ll catch the light.”

You agree without hesitation, sitting down on the frame. 

The shots begin. You sit, your eyes thoughtful but distant, as if lost in some thought. He clicks the shutter a few times, and the room is silent except for the rhythmic sound of the camera.

The more he shoots, the more he finds himself paying attention to the small things. The way you absentmindedly twirl a lock of hair between your fingers. The way your posture softens after a few minutes, like you’re forgetting he’s there, and yet still poised.

The next shot clicks, and you look up at him, catching his eye. 

“Is that good?” you ask, breaking the silence.

He swallows, feeling a slight tension in his throat that wasn’t there before. “Yeah. Yeah, that’s perfect.”

The words come out without thinking, and he can feel his cheeks flush slightly at the sincerity with which he says them. He's fiddling with his camera settings again, trying to adjust the light for the shot, as you sidle over to the small vintage record player near the window. The soft crackling sound of a jazz record fills the air. 

He doesn’t expect it when you suddenly speak, your voice soft but with an underlying curiosity.

“So,” you say, not turning around, your fingers gently tapping against the edge of the record player, “I’ve been wondering… you’ve been pretty quiet this whole time. Not like the others. Why is that?”

Wonwoo glances up, caught off guard. “What do you mean?” He doesn’t look at you directly, still adjusting the focus on the lens, anything to avoid eye contact.

“I mean,” you laugh lightly, spinning the record player’s dial, “everyone else I work with is always talking. About work, about their lives, about whatever’s trending—people like to talk, especially when they’re nervous. You’re the only one who hasn’t said much about anything.”

There’s an open quality in your tone, no judgment, no pressure, just curiosity. And for some reason, that makes him feel even more exposed than if you had pried into his personal life directly.

“I guess I’m not a fan of small talk,” Wonwoo mutters, setting the camera down a little too abruptly, feeling a tightness in his chest. “I don’t really need to fill the silence.”

You turn to face him then, and for the first time, he notices how unguarded your expression is. There’s no fake smile or calculated pose—just an interested look.

"I get that," you say, your voice now quieter, almost thoughtful. "But... do you ever feel like you miss out? I mean, silence is... great, but it’s also really lonely sometimes, isn’t it?"

"Not really,” he says, not meeting your gaze. “I’m fine with being on my own. I’ve always preferred it.”

You tilt your head, studying him with an intensity that makes him shift uncomfortably. "You know," you say, taking a step toward him, your voice soft but deliberate, "I always thought I’d be fine alone too. It's funny how we get so used to being surrounded by people, by noise, by the ‘right’ kind of company—when, in the end, it’s really the silence that’s the most honest."

Your words sink into him, a little unexpected, a little disorienting. There's a weight to them—like you’ve really thought about this. 

“And what’s that supposed to mean?” he asks, his voice less guarded, almost teasing, but there’s an edge of curiosity there too.

You pause for a beat, a soft smile playing on your lips. There's something mischievous in the way your eyes twinkle. "Well," you begin, you're voice light, "what I mean is that maybe the real stuff gets lost when you get too good at hiding behind the quiet."

He raises an eyebrow, but before he can reply, you finish with a playful, almost theatric sigh: "Or maybe I'm just trying to get you to talk. You know, because I certainly don't want to be the only one in the spotlight in this room. It's exhausting, really."

He can't help it—he laughs. A quiet, breathy sound, but it’s real. Something about the absurdity of it all. Something about the way you deflect it all with that charming, nonchalant smile.

"You're a work in progress," you grin wider, eyes narrowing. "But I'm going to crack you open."

Wonwoo is still chuckling, a disbelieving snort of laughter he can't hide. He leans back in his chair, running his hand through his hair as he studies you with a wry smile. "Yeah, well, I’m not sure I’m the one who needs cracking open," he says, his tone half teasing, half resigned, as if he’s already lost the battle.

You pause for a moment, surprised that you've actually got him joining in on your jokes. But you don't press. Instead, you give him a sideways grin and lounge out over your statement, mustard couch. "Tell me, Mr Jeon - do you still think your opinion of me doesn't matter? Should I go back to hiding behind the perfect image for you to capture what everyone else already thinks of me?"

Wonwoo chuckles, shaking his head. He can’t deny that something about you has started to chip away at his carefully cultivated indifference. "I don’t think you could ever hide, even if you tried."

The jazz record continues to hum in the background, and Wonwoo starts to wonder if he's finally found something worth shooting beyond the lens. 

When he makes it back home, the camera bag feels heavier than usual, and the moment he closes his front door, he's hit when the familiar sense of quiet. 

He dumps the camera bag on the kitchen counter and heads straight for his desk, flipping open his laptop with the enthusiasm of someone who’s about to dive into hours of editing. The usual dread of looking through the pictures fades as he opens the files. He didn’t think he’d be so invested in this shoot, especially not with you, of all people. But the truth is, the moment he starts scrolling through the shots, he’s a little bit stunned.

There are candid moments of you, captured so naturally. Your hair falls in your face as you laugh at something he barely remembers, the light coming in through the window bathing you in that soft golden glow like you were born for this. The quiet, unguarded moments—your fingers absentmindedly tapping against the coffee table, your eyes softened with a thought he’ll never fully know.

He doesn’t realize he’s holding his breath until the shot where you’re sitting by the window, gazing out at the street, completely oblivious to the lens. It’s raw. And weirdly, it’s beautiful in a way he didn’t anticipate.

With a sigh, he leans back in his chair, running a hand through his hair.

And damn it, now he’s got to figure out how to keep it professional when all he wants to do is scroll back through these photos of you for the next few hours.

He grabs his coffee again, takes another sip, and mutters under his breath, "What’s the point of professionalism, anyway?"

Wonwoo is not thrilled about attending the gala. In fact, he's pretty sure if he could just get lost in the crowd and pretend he's not there, he would. But, alas, work. He's there, standing awkwardly by the hors d'oeuvres table, holding the camera like it's a shield. The entire place is dripping in opulence - golden chandeliers, champagne towers, and a sea of glittering gowns and tuxedos so shiny they could be mistaken for mirrors.  It's the kind of event where everyone’s either a billionaire or pretending to be one.

And then, of course, there’s you.

You move through the room like you've got a personal spotlight, laughing with people he's never heard of, shaking hands with people he has. The dress you're wearing is stunning, too, naturally - deep emerald green, with a neckline just high enough to make it look elegant but low enough to make him briefly question his entire career as a photographer. He should be focused on the job. But you're flashing that perfect smile, chatting with rich old men and influencers alike, completely different from the version of you he saw in your apartment just a week ago, laughing over a worn book.

He watches you interact with the other guests, a dance of small talk, well-placed compliments, and calculated interest, and suddenly, he feels like he’s been shrunk down to the size of a cockroach. If someone took a photo of him, An intruder in your world would be the title. The camera, which he thought would make him feel a little less out of place, feels heavy in his hands, as though it might give away the fact that he’s just not meant to be here.

You glance in his direction, catching his eye from across the room. He freezes. He can almost hear you sighing internally before you offer a small, knowing smile.

"Mr. Jeon!" Your voice floats toward him over the clink of glasses and high-pitched laughter. "How are we doing? Getting some good shots?"

He stares at you, blinking. You’re asking him in that casual, sweet tone that’s just different from your “public persona” voice. It’s like a crack in the glass, and he suddenly feels... disoriented. The contrast is so stark that for a second, he forgets how to respond.

"Uh—yeah, I mean, everything’s fine," he stammers, adjusting the camera lens like it might offer him some sort of escape from his discomfort. "Just, you know. Capturing the glamour." He motions vaguely at the glittering scene around him, feeling more awkward by the second. His fingers hover over the shutter button, but they hesitate.

You laugh, a polite, rehearsed sound. "Ah, yes. Glamour. The thing I do so well." You flash him a smile that could melt diamonds and suddenly he feels like he’s about two seconds away from accidentally snapping a picture of his own nervous breakdown.

The silence between you stretches just long enough for him to feel like the entire room is waiting for him to speak. He clears his throat. "It’s... different, isn’t it? Here?"

You tilt your head slightly, raising an eyebrow, as if trying to gauge whether he’s joking or not. "Different?" You laugh again, but this time it’s more self-deprecating. "I guess. But it’s what I’m used to. The lights, the faces. I mean, it’s all a bit much sometimes, but..." You trail off, and for a second, it feels like you're letting something slip.

But then someone else approaches you, pulling you into a conversation about some charity auction or art gala (he stops paying attention, realising he’s been trying to capture your attention too long), and just like that, the moment is over. You slip right back into the role, offering another perfect smile, your body language straightening, as if you’re suddenly filled with all the energy you didn’t seem to have a second ago.

The space feels suffocating all of a sudden, and Wonwoo wonders if he should have stayed home, maybe edited a few more of those photos, or gone for a walk—anything to avoid being a part of this gilded zoo. He looks through the lens, catching another shot of you laughing with an older gentleman, your hand resting lightly on his arm. 

A loud crash breaks through the air.

Wonwoo's head snaps in the direction of the sound, instinctively lifting the camera as if it's somehow going to make sense of the situation. 

He spots a waiter, wide-eyed and mortified, standing frozen next to a toppled champagne tower. Glasses are shattered everywhere, a sea of bubbly liquid spilling across the pristine white carpet like some kind of modern art installation.

The room falls into a hushed silence.

He can feel the collective tension, the people who’d been laughing and chatting a second ago suddenly stiffening in disapproval. Someone gasps—probably just for dramatic effect—but the truth is, everyone’s too rich, too important to react with anything other than mild disdain. A few uncomfortable glances are exchanged, and one of the older men starts muttering under his breath, his hands clutching his glass like it’s a lifeline.

And then, like someone flipping a switch, you’re there.

You glide through the crowd with a purposeful ease that makes everything else fade into the background. People part for you as though they know exactly what you’re about to do. The smile that had been plastered on your face during the earlier conversation is gone, replaced with a soft, serious expression, one that’s sharp in its concern.

"Excuse me," you say, your voice suddenly commanding but not unkind. Wonwoo can tell the waiter is waiting for the blowout, the yelling, the anger - but it's not there.

"It's alright, don't worry. It's just a few glasses. Are you hurt?"

The waiter shakes his head, and you kneel down beside him to start gathering up the broken shards of glass with careful motion. "Let me help, then."

The people around you are still hesitant, staring awkwardly, unsure whether they should step in or just stand back and pretend like nothing's happening. But you’re focused on the task at hand, moving with precision, completely unaffected by the sea of disapproving looks that surround you.

Wonwoo finds himself frozen again, his camera half-raised. His finger hesitates on the shutter button, unsure if he should capture the moment. You don’t seem to care about the image you're creating, not in the way you do for the cameras. Here, you’re just someone helping out, unbothered by the chaos unfolding around you. 

After you finish clearing up the last of the glass, you stand up and dust your hands off, flashing a quick smile to the waiter, who looks completely relieved. You stand tall, taking in the now-silent room with a playful glint in your eye.

“Well," you say, wiping your hands on your dress, "I always knew I was good at breaking the ice, but I didn’t think it’d be literal this time."

The room goes quiet for a beat, and then, just like that, a few people start to chuckle. Someone claps lightly, another offers a small cheer, and the tension evaporates into a burst of laughter.

You throw your hands up in mock surrender. "Alright, alright, don’t all applaud at once. Just trying to keep things interesting around here."

With that, the conversation picks up again. The guests move, shift, and suddenly, the night feels like it’s back in motion. Wonwoo watches from a distance, surprised at how quickly the entire atmosphere shifted. You just defused the room with a smile and a joke, as if it had all been part of the plan.

"Hey," you're walking up to him, stepping into his personal space as the final whirlwind of flashing cameras wraps up an evening of too many glasses of champagne and handshakes that feel more like a chore than a greeting. "What are you doing after this?"

Wonwoo looks up, startled. "Uh, I… well, I was just going to head back. Got a few edits to finish up," he mumbles, scratching the back of his neck.

You tilt your head, studying him with a slight grin. "That sounds like fun," you tease. "But I’m guessing it’s not exactly going to be a good time."

He pauses, feeling almost embarrassed for a moment, before shrugging. "I guess I could skip it."

A small beat of silence passes between you, and then you speak again, quieter this time. "You know," you start, your voice softer than before, "if you don’t have anything better to do... I’d, uh, actually kind of like to go out. No fancy people, no cameras. Just… I don't know, something normal."

Wonwoo looks at you for a beat, wondering if you're asking him to go with him, as the corners of his lips twitch upwards. "You mean no red carpets and champagne?"

You laugh, soft and genuine. "Exactly," you say, your voice laced with a touch of vulnerability. "Just, you know, being normal for once."

The way you say "normal" almost makes it sound like a forbidden word in your world, and Wonwoo feels a flicker of something.

"I’m in," he says, the words slipping out before he can think too much about them.

You give him a small, almost shy smile. "Alright. You follow me."

It’s an hour later, and you’re driving through the city, the sound of the tyres on the road mixing with the faint hum of the radio. You didn’t tell him where you were going, just that it was "something fun." Wonwoo’s pretty sure you’ve never driven anywhere that didn’t require a driver, but here you are—on a small, crowded street near the heart of the city, pulling up to a diner with neon lights flickering like they haven’t been replaced in a decade.

"This place?" Wonwoo asks, looking out the window at the 24/7 diner with its retro sign and low-key vibe.

"Yep. We said normal, right? Well, this is as normal as it gets."

He raises an eyebrow, but before he can protest, you’re already getting out of the car, leaving him no choice but to follow.

Inside, it’s a whole different world. The diner smells faintly of coffee and fried food, and the clink of mugs and chatter of a few late-night patrons makes the place feel strangely cosy. There’s a jukebox in the corner, and despite the place being stuck in a time warp, you both sit down at a booth, the vinyl seats creaking under you as you slide in.

You both sit in comfortable silence for a few minutes, the normal kind of silence that feels more like breathing than awkwardness. And then, finally, you speak.

"You want to know something crazy?" You say, looking down at the menu, though you made it clear in the car that you've already memorised it. 

Wonwoo looks up, his brow furrowing slightly as he nods.

"This is probably the first time in a while I haven't felt like I have to perform. Which is, actually, crazy. Because I'm hanging out with a professional photographer who's being paid to capture every moment of my life." You let out a disbelieving scoff, your lips curling into a grimace-like smile.

"I get that," he replies, his voice softer than he expects. "It's different for me too. I'm not sure I remember the last time I spoke to any of my friends, other than my flatmate, who insists that we have a catch-up meeting every day."

You chuckle, the crinkles of your smile flattening out. 

The waitress arrives, interrupting for a moment, and you order a milkshake without hesitation. He orders something random, revelling in the thrill of not thinking too much about anything.

"I get lonely sometimes," you say after your order arrives, so quietly that Wonwoo almost misses it. "I know it’s weird, I mean, people are always around me. But it’s like... they don’t really see me. They only see the version of me they expect."

He's not sure if you're still tipsy, although the rosy flush of your cheeks suggests so, or if you now feel very comfortable with him. 

Wonwoo isn’t sure what to say, so he just lets the silence settle for a moment, letting your words hang in the air like a soft echo.

"You know," he says after a beat, his voice lighter than before, "I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone who can juggle both a charity gala and a diner milkshake at 3 AM with such grace."

You snort, blowing bubbles into the drink that leave splashes of pink liquid sizzling on the diner table. The sight is enough to set Wonwoo off too, laughter spilling out of him in a way that's only possible in the early hours of the morning. 

"I should take a photo of that," he chuckles as you give him a large grin, the straw still sticking out of your teeth as you mop up the spilt drink. 

But he doesn't. Doesn't even think to take his camera out of its bag. 

Instead, he just watches you—really watches you—for the first time tonight, as you sit there, messy and unapologetic, with your eyes twinkling. And you're not the person everyone in the ballroom thought you were. 

"Maybe we should do this more often," you say, your voice unexpectedly soft as you look up at him. 

Wonwoo nods, the corner of his mouth curving up in the smallest of smiles. "Yeah. Maybe we should."

You've taken a surprising interest in Wonwoo’s regular work. Since you got him to admit that this project wasn’t really his usual gig, you've made it your personal mission to dig deeper. 70% of your questions have revolved around what he actually enjoys doing, the kind of work that doesn’t come with velvet ropes or high society guests. It’s a little like watching a puzzle slowly get pieced together—a mixture of curiosity and the way you just can't let go of something that intrigues you.

So, when you mention, "I think it's only fair you show me what you usually do," it’s not entirely out of the blue.

"Alight, alright," Wonwoo mutters, realising that he owes it to you to let you peek inside his world too. "But don't expect anything glamorous. Magazine spreads don't feature heavily."

Your eyebrows shoot up in an exaggerated gasp that has him rolling his eyes. "I'm not expecting you to change into a suit and tie, if that's what you're worried about." You grin. "but if you do, I'll totally snap some behind-the-scenes shots."

"Don't get any ideas," he mutters, but there's a soft laugh behind his words. 

You look like an archaeologist discovering ancient treasures as you step into the studio, and Wonwoo has to resist the urge to photograph the look on your face. He wasn't lying when he said it wasn't much, but it's quieter than the outside world, which is just the way Wonwoo likes it. The walls are lined with a few scattered prints, some framed, others just leaning against the wall, like they’ve been left to gather dust for the sake of catching a different light. The easel in the corner holds the remnants of his last attempt to paint, the workbench cluttered with film rolls, empty coffee cups, and a few stray brushes.

You pause in the doorway, taking it all in.

"So," you begin, "where's the real deal? Show me your favourites."

He shrugs and walks over to a table filled with various photo equipment, adjusting his glasses as he picks up a roll of film. "I’m not sure what you’d consider my 'thing,' but I mostly shoot for personal projects. I like experimental work. I mean..." He looks over at you, and for a second, there's a flicker of something more, something deeper. "I like showing things that don't get seen. Telling stories that don’t get told."

You step further into the room, your curiosity piqued. "The more I learn, the more I marvel at the fact that you chose to do photograph me," you tease. 

He looks back at you, the hint of a smile tugging at his lips. "It's good to try new things sometimes. And, well ... I'm not so sure you're story has been entirely captured yet."

He pulls a print down from a shelf, careful with the edges, and walks over to where you're sitting. "This," he says, sitting next to you, "is one of my newer pieces. It’s… different from the usual stuff I shoot. It’s a little raw, a little wild."

The picture is a little hard to make out - a blur of colours and light, like a dream caught in motion. There's an image of a figure - slightly distorted and bathed in neon blue and orange, wrapped in streaks of light that seem to bend and curve in ways that don't make sense. It almost looks like the figure is dissolving into the frame itself, as though they’re becoming part of the world rather than a separate subject within it.

"It’s a long exposure," he continues, "but I played with the focus to distort things more than I usually do. You can see the movement in it—like the person isn’t static. They’re not just there. They’re changing. Becoming."

You tilt your head, your gaze flickering back and forth as you try to make sense of the image.

"It’s unsettling," you say softly, more to yourself than to him.

Wonwoo nods, the corner of his mouth quirking up. "That’s what I like about it. People always expect something clear, something neat when they look at photos. But sometimes, the chaos is what’s real. The blur, the overlap of light, it’s how I see things."

"It’s like… you know when you try to hold onto a moment, but it keeps slipping away? That’s what this is. The image is still, but everything around it keeps moving. It doesn’t stay still, no matter how much you want it to."

You reach out, fingertips brushing the edge of the frame, tracing the glowing streaks of light. "It’s almost like you’re trying to capture the space between things."

He pauses, eyes flickering to yours as if reading your expression. "It’s like that with people, too, right? You think you know them, but then they change. Or maybe you change. And all of a sudden, you’re looking at them and wondering who they really are. Who they were. Who they’re becoming."

You’re silent for a moment, but your gaze hasn't left his and it's piercing into him with all of the unspoken words.

And then you're eyes snap to something behind him, and he feels a little empty in the void of your gaze. A small smile slips across your lips. And you're gone, moving quickly out of your seat to get a closer look at whatever has pulled you away from him.

Wonwoo's head swivels around, like if he loses sight of you, you'll disappear. 

"Now, this is unexpected."

Your voice is laced with that mischievous tone, and it snaps Wonwoo back into reality, his gaze darting to where you're now standing, eyes fixated on the shelf behind him.

He feels his cheeks heat up before he even registers why. The camera equipment on the shelf, partially obscured by a few stray photo albums, is a large, well-worn camera with an impressive lens. But it’s not the camera that’s got your attention—it’s the stack of photos beside it.

He swallows. "Oh, those. They're… um, just some old shoots,” he mutters, reaching for the pile as quickly as he can.

But you're already stepping closer, your grin widening as you grab one from the top of the stack. Your eyes light up as you hold it up, and it’s immediately clear why you’re grinning. 

The photo is a high-end fashion shot, one of those artsy ones. It features a model—clad in nothing but strategically placed shadows and some very expensive body paint, in what can only be described as sultry poses. The subject's entire form is captured with the kind of grace and sensuality you normally associate with glossy magazines and high-end ads.

You raise an eyebrow. “So… this is what you’re hiding in here?”

Wonwoo, face flushed to a shade of pink that doesn’t belong anywhere near a professional photographer, clears his throat awkwardly. “It’s not what you think. It was a concept shoot. A long time ago. For... art.”

“Art.” You repeat the word slowly, like you're savouring it. “A concept shoot. Right.” You peer closer at the picture, almost squinting like you’re studying the fine details. “Well, I have to say, I didn’t expect you to have such a niche portfolio.”

He snatches the photo from your hands, but you’re quicker than him, leaning in just a little too close for comfort. "Come on, don't be shy. I'm sure these shots went for a pretty penny. You should be proud of them."

 “It was a collaboration with a friend. We were experimenting with lighting and shadows. It wasn’t meant to be, like, that kind of shoot.”

You tilt your head and flash him a teasing smile. "Right. I'm sure it was all very tasteful."

“Stop it,” Wonwoo says, his voice a little more high-pitched than usual. He starts sorting through the other photos quickly, trying to hide the embarrassing ones. “There were plenty of clothes involved, okay? I mean, mostly clothed. Sometimes there weren’t.”

You laugh—genuine and loud—and Wonwoo has never felt more like a teenager caught in a lie.

"Don’t worry." You lean back casually, looking him up and down. “I’m not judging. Everyone needs a little fun with their camera work. Besides, I bet your models really appreciated your... attention to detail.”

“Oh my God, stop," he groans, hands covering his face.

"Oh, I know!" You jump up, the wideness of your grin setting of alarm bells in his head. Your body contorts into a lewd pose he's sure is captured in one of the photos. "Maybe you could shoot me like one of your French girls."

Wonwoo's brain is split in half between wanting to laugh at your stupid joke, and trying to stop his mind from digging any deeper into the way you look right now. He's never been more thankful for someone laughing so hard at their own joke that it gives him the time to remember to laugh too.

"Okay, okay, seriously though." You say, your words punctuated with breathy laughs. "I'd like to do a shoot in your style. Even if you don't use it for the feature, I'd like to have them - a little memory of the project."

He’s not sure what to make of it—after all, he’s never shot anything like that with someone like you. It’s one thing to let a stranger model for his more experimental projects, but someone who’s become... well, important to him? That complicates things.

You seem to sense his hesitation, so you quickly soften your expression, dropping the teasing tone. “I mean, no pressure. You don’t have to,” you add, but your smile stays. “I just think it would be fun, you know? Something a little out of the ordinary.”

He shifts on his feet, rubbing the back of his neck, trying to think of a way to deflect without sounding awkward.  But then, he catches the way you’re looking at him—expectant, yet light-hearted. And he knows there’s no way he can say no. And the idea of capturing you in his world - through his lens - is far too appealing.

"Alright," he finally says, "“I could set something up. But it won’t be anything like what you’re imagining,” he warns, though the faintest glimmer of a smile tugs at his lips. “You might hate it.”

"I highly doubt it." Your grin widens, and you step closer. "The camera loves me."

He struggles to disagree.

You follow Wonwoo into a dimly lit loft space. The high ceilings make the place feel vast and open, but the shadows, thick and heavy, seem to swallow any trace of warmth. The windows let in just enough light to make the space feel like it’s holding its breath. Concrete floors, industrial beams, exposed brick—this place is a world apart from the glamorous venues he's captured you in so far. 

There's no luxurious set, no artfully arranged props, no stylists running around with last-minute adjustments. Just you and him. And a collection of cameras, lenses, and other mysterious equipment scattered about the space.

"We'll start here," Wonwoo's voice is firmer than he intends, and he hopes you can hear the edge of excitement underneath his words. He’s already moving toward the equipment, setting up the camera on a tripod with a smooth, practised hand.

You take a deep breath, looking a little more nervous than he expected. "What's the concept? Just… me in a room full of shadows?” You try to make light of it, but your voice betrays a hint of apprehension.

He glances over his shoulder, catching your gaze for the briefest moment, and his lips curl into a faint smile. “Something like that. I want to capture you as you are, not as the world expects you to be.”

He steps toward you, then pauses. “But it’s up to you. You can be whoever you want to be in front of the camera.”

You take a breath, almost like you're accepting something, and step deeper into the room. Wonwoo can feel his pulse pick up just a little. Something about your movements makes it hard to look away, even as he tries to keep his focus on the camera. 

As his gaze probes deeper, Wonwoo realises something. You're so used to being a perfect image that now, here, in the quiet, you have no idea what to do with yourself.

His breath catches as he presses the shutter for the first time. The soft click breaks the silence, but he doesn't lower the camera. His eyes stay on you, unable to tear away; even if he should be focused on the technicalities - the lighting, the exposure, the composition - he's not. He's seeing the cracks. The little parts of you that you've been hiding. 

Another click. And another. His fingers move over the controls, adjusting the focus, framing you just so - but all the while, acutely aware of every tiny shift in your body. The way you inhale, the way you let go of something hidden, and your shoulders relax, just slightly. 

"Good," he murmurs, though he barely recognises his own voice. The words are soft, his tone low, almost like a breath rather than a command.

You shift again. There's no thought to it, just a fluid movement, as if you're letting go of some invisible restraint. It's an instinctive thing, Wonwoo realises. You're not really posing anymore.

The camera clicks again, capturing the stillness in you, the way you seem to dissolve into the shadows, becoming part of the room. Part of the moment. He knows instantly that it's going to be his favourite.

For a split second, he wonders if you know what you're doing to him. If you know how you're affecting him, even without meaning to. His heart beats a little faster. 

He doesn't lower the camera, not yet, not wanting to lose the moment.

"Okay, that's enough," he says finally, voice low and deliberate. Even as he says it, he's not sure if he wants to stop. He wants more. But it's not just the image he's chasing now. It's something else. 

You reemerge, the colour of your confidence returning as you step out of the camera frame. "Was that okay?"

Wonwoo isn't completely sure what to say in response. If he should tell you that he wants to restart the entire feature, or that he's never felt like he's seen anyone as much as he just did. So he nods, swallowing the lump in his throat. "I want you to see the full vision, so I'll show you once they're edited, but I think they're going to be the best ones."

A beaming smile is released onto your face. It's heart-wrenchingly endearing how proud you are of yourself. "I'm so glad. I don't know if you noticed, but I was a little nervous about this one."

He lets out a little chuckle, his head hanging slightly as he looks to the floor, trying to hide the smile tugging at his lips. "I couldn't tell. You were," he clears his throat, hands moving to adjust the settings on the camera again, "perfect. And I mean it. It's ... not just the shot. It's you." The words come out in a rush, but even as he says them, he’s certain they’re true.

He wonders, fleetingly, if you hear the difference. If you sense the subtle change in his tone—the way he can’t quite look away from you now, the way his eyes linger just a little too long.

You don’t respond immediately, and for a brief, agonising second, he’s unsure of how you’ll take it. Will you laugh it off? Will you brush it aside with that carefree charm you wear like a second skin?

But then, your smile softens, your gaze a little less playful, and you step closer. "Do we need any more?"

"I don't think so," he pauses. "Unless there's anything you want to try?"

"Well..." You look nervous, like you're trying to make your mind up about something. Your fingers play absently with the sleeve of your shirt, tugging at the fabric as if it’s a lifeline. "Maybe ... maybe I could try something different?"

Wonwoo's eyes flicker up to meet yours. He's not quite sure what you're asking, and it both terrifies and excites him in ways he's not ready to admit. He leans back slightly, considering it.

"It's your shoot," he says softly, "If you want to do something different, we can. You sound like you've got something in mind?"

You exhale slowly, and the air feels thick, drawn tight with possibility. There’s a hesitation in the way you look at him, but then you take a step forward, your presence commanding yet gentle, a stark contrast to the vulnerability in your eyes.

"The photos in your studio," your voice is soft and low, as though the words themselves are a kind of confession. "The ones ... with no clothes." Your gaze flickers briefly, almost shy, before you steady yourself again. "I want to try that. I want to see what that feels like."

Wonwoo blinks at you, his breath hitching for just a second as the words register. His fingers instinctively tighten around the camera, but he doesn’t lower it. He can’t look away from you now.

“Are you sure?” he asks, his voice rougher than he intended, though it’s more a response to the sudden surge of emotions than anything else. The suggestion itself isn’t unfamiliar, but the weight of it, coming from you, catches him off guard.

You nod slowly. 

He breathes slowly, trying to steady himself, but the air feels tight, like his lungs have forgotten how to expand properly. Wonwoo clears his throat, suddenly aware of the weight of the camera in his hands—of how utterly out of place it feels now. He thought he had control of this situation, of this shoot, of everything. And now he feels entirely, completely, out of control.

"Okay," he says finally, voice low, his throat dry.

You exhale, a small, almost imperceptible breath of relief, and for a moment, you both just stand there. Wonwoo watches you, his gaze tracing the small movements of your fingers, the way you breathe, the slight shift in your posture. You’re standing there, raw and vulnerable in a way that no one else ever sees, and yet you’ve asked him to witness it.

His chest tightens.

"Whenever you're ready," he murmurs, trying to sound as professional as possible, but the words come out softer than he means. He takes a step back, his heart pounding louder now, but he’s not sure if it’s from the anticipation of the shot or something else entirely.

You move slowly, agonisingly slowly, towards the chair that's hidden in the corner of the room and pull it into the camera frame. The clip holding your hair back is the first thing to go, and even watching you shake the tresses free feels like a glimpse of something he's not meant to see. Wonwoo's breath hitches as your fingers hesitate against the buttons of your shirt.

You look up at him, eyes glittering in the light of the loft. "Can you talk me through it?"

Wonwoo gulps, his brain desperately trying to keep a tether to his thoughts. 

His voice is strained when he finally speaks, a quiet rasp that betrays his nerves. "I - uh - yeah. Sure." He clears his throat again, trying to steady himself. "Just take your time. There's no rush. I want you to feel comfortable."

You nod, but your gaze doesn’t leave him. It’s heavy, almost expectant, and Wonwoo feels it pressing down on him like the air in the room has thickened with each passing second.

His heart races, and he forces himself to look away from you, staring at the camera for a moment to regain some semblance of control. But when he finally glances back, there’s no denying it: you're not just in front of the camera. You're right there, your presence inescapable. The air crackles between you, an invisible thread pulling you closer despite the distance.

You slowly unbutton your shirt, each movement measured and deliberate. The soft rustle of fabric seems deafening in the silence. Wonwoo tries to focus on the camera - on the framing, the lighting - by the sight of you undoing the buttons is sending jolts through him, making it hard to concentrate.

"Wait, stop." He's struggling to get out more than a few words, but he realises he has to explain himself as your head whips around, alarmed. "That shot - if you push the shoulder down a little -"

"I'm not sure I quite get it," your voice is a quiet invitation. He doesn't know if its a test, or something far more dangerous than that. 

He moves slowly, not wanting to startle you. And, if he's being honest, not sure that he can handle being any closer. But he's started now, and he can't not go through with it just because he's nervous about seeing skin. Focusing on his task, Wonwoo's hands gingerly pull the loose fabric of your shirt, draping it down the side of your upper arm, the fabric slipping with an almost unbearable grace, revealing the curve of your shoulder, the soft line of your skin. Wonwoo feels his pulse spike, his breath coming in shallow bursts as his fingers brush against the bare skin of your arm. It’s delicate, unintentional contact, but it feels like an electric shock, jarring and intimate all at once.

You hold your breath, your gaze fixed on his hands, your body still. 

“Just like that,” he says, his voice quiet, as though speaking louder might shatter this delicate balance between you. “Now, tilt your head just a little to the left. Keep your eyes soft... like you're looking into something just out of reach.”

Your eyes flicker, a knowing glint passing through them. “Like I’m seeing something I shouldn’t?”

Wonwoo’s stomach tightens, a shiver creeping down his spine at the way you put it. His hands hover over the camera, but for a moment, he forgets the frame, forgets everything except the weight of the moment.

"Exactly," he breathes, almost afraid to admit it aloud, but the words escape him. He’s standing so close now, every muscle in his body taut, straining against the pull of something he doesn't know how to define.

You do as he asks, your eyes softening, lips parting ever so slightly, as if you’re leaning into the invitation.

The camera shakes in his hands, and for a second, he worries that you’ll notice the tremor, that you'll see how much this is affecting him. But you don’t. Your focus is unwavering.

“Can you… can you move your hand to your collarbone?” he murmurs, barely trusting himself to speak the request aloud. “Just… trace it, like it’s the only thing you’re focused on.”

You nod, and there’s an eerie stillness in the air as your fingers drift up to the curve of your neck. Wonwoo feels like he’s drowning, like every movement you make pulls him deeper into this quiet, dangerous place between photographer and subject, between the lens and the reality unfolding just beyond it.

Each click of the shutter feels like a bullet leaving a gun.

Your fingers are back on the buttons before he can realise that the moment has moved on, and you let the shirt fall, the fabric slipping to the floor with a soft whisper. He can’t breathe for a moment.

You stand before him, unguarded, vulnerable, and yet there’s something about the way you hold yourself—so composed, so intentional—that makes him swallow back every word that he tries to form.

Your eyes lock onto his again, and it’s like time stops. “How’s the lighting?” Your voice is steady, calm, but the tension in it is undeniable.

Wonwoo’s throat is dry as he forces himself to focus. "The light... it's perfect." He clears his throat, his voice tight. "You look perfect. Just... just keep moving, slowly. Let the camera catch it all."

You nod, your lips curling into that familiar smile that has him reeling.

Wonwoo’s pulse quickens, but he doesn’t dare look away. He’s caught in the gravity of your gaze, drawn into the quiet intensity of the moment. He raises the camera, his fingers trembling just slightly as he adjusts the lens. The click of the shutter still sounds harsh, but it doesn’t break the tension.

Wonwoo almost drops the camera when your fingers hook around the loops of your pants. 

You slide them off in fluid motion, far quicker than the shirt. The smile on your face is more playful now, taunting and teasing. "What were those poses again?" 

Wonwoo’s breath catches in his throat, his hands freezing just above the camera as the image of you in front of him—the subtle arch of your back, the way your skin catches the light—burns itself into his memory. He can’t look away, and it’s like everything in the room sharpens.

"Stop," he whispers, his voice shaking. "You’re—"

He cuts himself off, unsure of how to finish the sentence. How could he describe the storm he feels brewing inside of him? The way his pulse is beating in time with the shutter clicks. The way he’s watching you, but feels like he’s barely holding onto himself, like the space between him and you has closed to a point where it feels impossible to stay just the photographer.

“Stop?” you repeat, tilting your head, the playful glint in your eyes both a challenge and an invitation. "You want me to stop?"

"I—" He clears his throat, trying to force his words into something coherent. You take a step closer, and the words fail him. 

You stop a few inches away from him, your breath mingling with his, and for a split second, you both stand there, locked in a stare that feels like an eternity. Wonwoo's heart races, and he can hear the rush of blood in his ears, but the sound of your breath, shallow and steady, is louder than everything else.

“Wonwoo,” you whisper, and the way you say his name—so softly, so deliberately—has his chest tightening even more.

His heart stutters for a second, and before he can think about it, before he can second-guess himself, he lowers the camera, his hand almost involuntarily reaching for you.

“Are you sure?” he breathes, his voice barely above a whisper.

You don’t say anything at first. Instead, your fingers brush against the fabric of his shirt, dancing between the creases. The world seems to spin a little.

“I’m sure,” you reply, your voice steady but low. “Are you?”

Wonwoo’s pulse thunders in his ears, and he thinks he's nodding his head, but he's not sure. He swears he can feel the heat radiating off of you in waves. The tension is almost unbearable now, and his hands are shaking so badly that he’s not sure if he should step back or close the space completely.

Before he can decide, you close the gap for him, your lips brushing against his in the gentlest of kisses. It’s soft at first, tentative—like you’re both waiting for the other to pull away—but when Wonwoo doesn’t, you deepen it just enough to make his head spin.

Everything—his thoughts, his control, his self-restraint—fractures.

He pulls you closer, his hand finding the curve of your back as he deepens the kiss. He can feel you shiver as his warm hands trace the exposed skin. He has to hold back a guttural moan at the feeling of your body pressed against his.

Your hands have found his hair, tangling your fingers through the strands and feeding off of the reactions, tugging a little every time he grumbles against your lips. A small gasp leaves your lips as he pulls away from your mouth, burying into your neck, which stretches prettily with each biting kiss he leaves. 

"Is this how all your photo shoots go?" Even with your head tilted back, voice breathy as his fingers grasp onto your waist, you still find time to tease him. A small whine leaves you as his lips abandon your skin.

"You'll believe me if I say no?" His throat is scratchy, his voice raw, and it comes out more as a question. 

You laugh. "Yes - I, yes, I believe you."

The silence feels unbearably tension, like both of you are trying to blindly navigate the other's feelings. Neither comfortable enough to take the next step forward.

"What did -"

"I thought -"

Your words stumble together as you search for the right way to break the tension. Wonwoo stops, not pressing you to continue, but his grip tightens on your waist slightly, a silent question hanging in the air. 

"I was just - I wasn't sure you'd want to do this, too." You finally say. You still have that teasing smile, but your voice is small, almost unsure. 

"I do," his voice is low, rough, and there's something tender there too. "I really do."

Your lips twitch upwards, a fleeting smile curving the corners of your mouth as you move closer again. "Then, what happens next?"

Wonwoo's head darts around, looking around the dim loft. There's nothing there, other than his equipment and a few chairs - nothing particularly helpful in this scenario. Although, he should admit, he wasn't expecting anything like this when he'd set it up.

"We could go somewhere else, if that's what you want to do?"

Your eyes follow his gaze, realising the dilemma.

"But I'm already half undressed." You bat your eyelashes innocently, and he knows you're fully aware of what you're doing to him. Yet, that doesn't prevent his trousers from feeling way too tight. 

"I-" his breath catches, his fingers digging into your side. "I guess we'll have to stay here then."

"I guess so," you grin, and he wants nothing more than to pull you back in. So, he does. It's messy, primal, a tangle of limbs as your hands sloppily undo his shirt and his look for anything and everything he can reach. He doesn't miss your noise of appreciation when his shirt falls to the floor. 

Soon, his hands are wrapped around your thighs, pulling you up in one swift motion and carrying you until you hit the nearest wall. You're panting, your eyes wild and hair tangled as you grab at his neck, pulling his lips back to yours. 

It's not long before the rest of your clothes join the others on the floor. He feels a flutter of shyness as you take him in, eyes roaming across his body. But you're smiling, wide and joyful, the soft flesh of your thighs squeezing tighter on his hips. 

"Fuck, I always thought you were hot, but I can't believe you were hiding this underneath those baggy sweaters."

Wonwoo can feel the blush running up his neck like a schoolboy being complimented for the first time. His heart is hammering in his chest, a warm rush spreading through him from head to toe as he tries to work out what his eyes should be focusing on.

"I wasn’t expecting any of this. You... you’re making me nervous," he admits with a shy laugh, his hands feeling clammy against your skin. "I mean, I'm sure I'm not the first person to say you're beautiful, but I think you're so much more than what they see."

Your smile softens for a moment, and you reach forward, fingers grazing lightly over his arm, the touch sending a shiver down his spine. "I'd like you to know all of me."

The words are soft, tender, and you can probably hear his heart fluttering. And, all at the same time, the implication of them is making more than his heart flutter. 

"You're sure?" His body presses against yours even more, pushing your back further into the wall behind you. 

"Please," you nod breathily, and that's all he needs. "I want you."

His hips grind against you, head swirling at the feeling as your arms wrap around his neck for stability. "I don't have-" he manages to choke out. 

"It's fine, I'm on the pill. Just - just fuck me, please?"

His head buries into your shoulder, body twitching at your words. Pushing inside of you, the pleasure is immediate. Your hips are moving back onto him as far as you can against the wall, and his hands are firmly clenched around the flesh of your ass, holding you up in an iron grip. And you sound so good, and - more than that, you feel so good, so unbelievably good, that he's gasping out your name between thrusts.

Nonsensical words are babbling out of your mouth too; hot, dirty words of praise that only spur him on further. Your nails dig into his back, and then his hair, and then back again, like you can't pick which part of him you want to touch more. 

And fuck, you're so beautiful. Like a goddess in the low lighting of the room - but he's too scared to tell you that just yet. Soft and hard and warm against him, surrounding him, engulfing him. 

It's not long before he can feel you clenching around him, one hand clinging onto his shoulders and the other snaking between your legs. The muscles of his arms are burning slightly, but it feels too good to stop now. You're dragging him with you, panting moans with each pulse. You press your lips against his one more time, and it's all it takes to push you both over the edge.

After a few moments, he lifts his head from your shoulder and looks at you, a tender smile on his face. His lips press against yours gently, sighing with soft pants.

"Shit," You breathe, a small giggle bubbling out of you. The sound is so sweet it knocks any remaining wind out of him. 

Wonwoo chuckles, his thumb gently tracing the curve of your jaw as he holds you in place.

Your smile is warm and teasing, and you press your lips to his for a second longer. "If I had the camera, I'd capture that look forever."

[theologyy]

Review: “My Investing Journey and Learning” by Carmen Mundt

Qualifications: I’m a journalist reporting on business, economics, and defense who’s been in the industry for 7 years — the last 3 have been at, debatably, the #1 business publication in the world.

Rating: 2/5 stars

Thoughts: I cannot believe I spent 39 euros on this.

This 39 page ebook provides incredibly basic information that can all be found in this article.

First: while the ebook is about 40 pages, it probably has about 10 pages of actual information in it, interspersed with inspirational quotes from Sheryl Sandberg and Warren Buffet, with some pictures of Carmen in Monaco.

There’s about 1 page of “introduction” from Carmen that talks about her upbringing and journey to university in London. I won’t comment too much on her personal story, but an important thing to note is that she says she came from a “traditional Spanish household” where her father was the breadwinner and her mother had no access to family finances. After the 2008 crash, her family couldn’t afford to send her to college. She moved to London, applied for a student loan, and began studying finance at a university while working part time.

Carmen very, very briefly mentioned her regrets as to her mother’s inability to access higher education, work, and family financial planning; she says she’d never want to be in that position. While literally only one sentence, I think it makes it clear who the audience for this ebook is: someone who has absolutely, positively, no idea about money.

(She also very, very briefly mentions “big changes in her personal life” that made a full-time job in finance “not sustainable,” leading to her move to Monaco. This is her only reference to George.)

The rest of the book very simply explains how to make a budget, set financial goals, invest in the stock market, and mitigate risk. The information was kinda factually correct, and was written in a coherent manner. I think that’s the highest praise I can give it.

Here’s the thing: like other reviewers have called out, I am pretty certain that Carmen didn’t write anything besides the introduction. Whole sections (and indeed the entire format of the ebook) were clearly ripped from the Female Invest introductory courses. (I spent 3 hours clicking through each course so I could find direct wording comparisons to make this claim. I really wouldn’t recommend it.) I do think she edited these sections, and she interjected a few personal sentences; but I believe that’s where her involvement ended.

From an expert perspective, a lot of the information is so simplistic as to be almost incorrect. This isn’t a “first day of Econ 101” ebook — this is a “freshman year of high school home ec class” ebook. (Did anyone else’s home ec classes teach budgeting, or just me?)

Here’s an example. In a section on stocks, Carmen/Female Invest writes: “Investing in stocks allows you to support companies and causes you care about while still making a profit.”

On a basic level, this is correct. Purchasing a stock technically means you’re buying a little bit of a company, and I guess therefore supporting it. But unless a company is IPOing, you’re buying those stocks from another investor — which means your purchase has no effect on the company. So it’s a little disingenuous to claim you’re somehow helping the company. The ebook is rife with this kind of thing.

Carmen pushed in her advertising posts that the Female Invest courses were a key supplement to her book. So obviously, I had to do those too. And holy shit, they were so much worse than the ebook. Some parts were blatantly incorrect on basic information (they claim markets are open 24/7, when most are only open 9am-4:30pm on weekdays) and have some of the most patronizing metaphors I have ever read. (One of the most egregious was comparing your investment portfolio to a pizza because “stocks, bonds, and ETFs” make up different “sizes of slices to make a whole pie”. This isn’t even an accurate equivalent — maybe a calzone, pasta, and pizza make up a whole meal? I don’t even know.)

I would not recommend buying this ebook unless you, too, were barred from even thinking about a stock by your traditional father. Even then, consider free sources.

A Disclaimer on disclosures: So, after @ohblimeygeorge sent me a reddit post also reviewing Carmen’s book that mentioned ad disclosures, I decided to dive into the regulations. In the U.S., influential advertising is regulated by the FTC — in the EU, it’s regulated by the EU Commission, which I believe Carmen would qualify under since she is a Spanish citizen who lives in Monaco. First, I looked at this legal brief on content monetization business models, and concluded that that the ebook likely falls under “affiliate marketing” as Carmen likely receives a percentage of each ebook sold through her link.

(An additional disclaimer: obviously, I don’t know the details of the deal Carmen has with Female Invest, but I’d think it unlikely that she isn’t getting paid for their collaboration. She mentioned in an Instagram story under her Female Invest highlight that she “tried purchasing equity but they were already too big for what I could afford” but “did buy a bit of their crowdfunding.” Since she doesn’t have equity, i.e. doesn’t own a piece of the company, it’d be weird if she was doing this for free.)

Back on topic. I next looked at this legal brief on advertising disclosures. It states that affiliate marketing must be disclosed: “you need to make sure your audiences understand that it’s advertising.” Disclosures can include hashtags and “mentioning” advertising in the caption. Carmen has not disclosed advertising in any of her Female Invest posts, and appears to be violating this regulation. (Interestingly, her only posts that follow disclosure requirements are her Tommy posts.)

It’s apparently not uncommon. An EU Commission study showed 80% of influencers in the EU do not properly disclose ads.

So, there’s that too.

[agentzedbooks]

Reformatting

(Some people can't afford my Amazon stories, and some can't get them in their home country, so here's a fun little freebie. I hope you like it! *giggle*)

Lilah had been battling with this system for over an hour. Some executive had downloaded a virus on their laptop and it kept redirecting them to websites full of weird code.

She had removed the infected files and run multiple scans, but somehow the damned virus was hiding in the bios. She had to manually edit the code, remove the offending lines and double-check the hard drive for any more remnants.

But it had taken a lot of work. She brushed her dark hair back out of her face and adjusted her glasses. So far, it looked like the system was cleaned. The final scan had detected nothing. But this particular virus had been tough, and nobody else she knew had encountered anything quite like it.

It didn't act like your typical virus, other than the way it burrowed deep into the system. It mostly seemed to just redirect web browsing to these pages full of text. She'd disregarded most of what she'd seen, but she couldn't help being curious about it. The pages didn't really do anything to the system. The code seemed like gibberish. She knew her programming languages, and it was some weird patois of HTML, Java, C++, and a few items she couldn't quite identify. And she caught the browsers sending out packets of data to an unknown address, and when she looked up that address and tracked the IP, it seemed to be a junk address on an abandoned server somewhere. It wasn't sending hard drive data, she was sure of that, it's almost like it was just pinging and hoping for a response. Of course none came, and so she filed that away as another minor mystery. It must be some old out-of-date phishing software.

But it seemed she had finally cleansed the system. She let out a sigh of relief. She'd spent her entire morning on this, and though working from home had it's advantages, she also desperately needed a shower and something to eat. She pushed herself away and went to the bathroom. She stripped off the sweatpants and undergarments and let the hot water cleanse her of the stress. She had actually beaten the silly thing. Still, the many mysteries of the virus nagged at her.

Once she was dry, she went back into her bedroom to get dressed, and saw the computer she'd been working on seemed to have rebooted. She let out a long sigh.

"Still?!" She walked over and saw it had brought the browser up to another one of those strange pages. That weird mix of code was there again. She put on her glasses and tried to make sense of it.

Lilah blinked, and felt something... something compelling her. She frowned and looked up from the screen. She... She needed to do something. She had forgotten something, or maybe it was a fragment of a dream or a memory.

She went to her front door and saw a small package had come in the mail. It was square, about two inches wide, eight inches on each side.

She opened the plastic, and then the cardboard that was inside. Sitting there in bubble wrap was a headset, bubblegum pink, with little bunny ears coming up from the top. She blinked. It was not the kind of thing she'd order. She'd seen a lot of eGirls have headgear like this, but she'd always been a little too self conscious, and not the most shapely girl.

She walked back to the bedroom and sat down in front of the screen. It seemed... important to look at the code again. She peered through it and after a moment, she began to understand what it was telling her. It was disjointed, and someone without her experience might never have deciphered it, but she could tell now that it was almost like instructions to... a person? The first few lines indicated connecting something. She looked at the pink headset in her hands. She... She needed to connect this.

It was crazy, of course. It didn't make any sense. But she was determined to MAKE it make sense. So she removed the little bluetooth chit, and slid it into the USB slot on the side. She put the headset on.

As she did, she heard an immediate boop, and the words "Connection Established."

The headset tingled, and buzzed for a moment. This startled her, but then she looked back to the code on the screen and it became easier to decipher.

"Begin reformatting," she whispered.

She didn't realize the microphone was active, nor that she'd even uttered a word, it was like her brain was carrying out instructions from this code.

There was that static fuzz again, and Lilah felt her body sink back into the chair. Her towel fell off her, and the buzz filled her head. The page changed, and new code scrolled along the screen. As it did, the headset seemed to pulse and reinforce what she was reading.

Her mind grew foggier, the edges of her vision blurring, and her body responding with strange tingles all over her body.

The laptop hummed and she heard it's cooling fan speed up.

But she was too entranced by the code instructions. She allowed all that code to go into her brain, and every time it did, it seemed to copy over something. She couldn't remember much about her job, the company, her bosses, but suddenly she was filled with a light bubbly feeling like her mind was literally being scrubbed with sudsy soap.

Without her even realizing, a big empty smile spread over her face.

"Partitions cleaned," said a voice in her head, "OS installed."

"Begin System Restart," she whispered, obeying the code that flashed on the screen before her.

Her eyes closed, and she felt herself sinking into a deep sleep. Even with her eyes shut, the code flashed across her vision, and the headset whispered to her.

She had no way to know how long she swam in that fuzzy, warm darkness, but she felt so at peace there she never wanted to leave.

But soon her eyes opened on their own, and the screen showed a login, but not the normal login screen. This one was all bubblegum pink, with light blue highlights, and the profile was neither hers nor her boss's, but it said "Li-Li."

Somehow, she knew the password.

"Bunnygirl27!"

She entered the password, and the screen flickered to life. More code flashed before her eyes for a moment, then the headset pulsed in a way that sent a shock through her whole body.

"Reformatting physical hardware," said a whisper. It sounded like a woman's voice, but not a flat computer tone, a sensuous, sultry female voice, like a lover or a dominant Mistress.

For some reason, this idea made her excited.

She felt the pulsing run through her naked body, and looking down, she watched as the chubby belly and thighs seemed to recede, but her chest was swelling outward like her body fat was physically being moved around. Her tits ballooned to absolutely ridiculous size, until it reached the limits of her skin. Her waist had shrunk in, and she felt her thighs and ass flow together into something smoother, more voluptuous.

She giggled and looked down at herself. She didn't remember shaving, but all her body hair was gone. Her skin looked perfectly clear and smooth. When she reached up to touch her swollen breasts, electric pleasure shot through her body, sending lightning right to her clit.

She moaned, and followed it with a vapid giggle. This wasn't like her, but then, she couldn't quite remember what she had been like. She only knew she was Li-li, and she was sexy.

The fog in her mind made her dizzy, and just amplified how aroused she felt at the single touch. She fluttered her eyes and realized there were super-long lashes coming out from her eyes. They felt heavy and fake, but she hadn't put any on. She touched them, and they were absolutely real.

She wanted to go to her mirror, but the impulse was halted by the code.

It wasn't done with her yet. Her nipples went very hard, but she knew if she touched them she'd miss the important code on the screen.

Something pink was around the edges of her vision now, but she was too elated with the sensations to be able to think about it. Finally, the words she'd been waiting for came into her mind.

"Reformat complete."

She squealed in delight, and Li-li stood, running to her full-length mirror.

The pink haze around her vision was her hair! Longer now, and bright pink. She fluttered her long eyelashes and pursed her swollen lips. She was a sexual dream, her whole body remade into an insane hourglass shape. Each breast was bigger than her head, and when she turned, her perfect heart-shaped ass led to slightly plump thighs. She stood on her tippy toes and adored how she looked. She slid a hand down to touch herself. She wanted so badly to have sex with this woman. But then she realized she WAS that woman. She giggled, and a ding from the headset alerted her she needed to go back to the laptop.

Sitting there was an alert. She clicked on it.

"Good Morning, sunshine!"

She giggled. She liked the sound of that.

"Good Morning!" she said out loud. That sultry voice came on through the headset, and she could almost feel her Mistress's breath on her ear.

"You have turned out nicely," said the voice, "What a good girl you've become."

Li-li let out a little moan from the pleasure those two words instilled in her.

"I love it when a pretty little code bunny falls for one of my traps. I'm so lonely here. Thank you for letting me in."

She giggled. "Yes, Mistress."

"I like hearing that," she said, "Such a good girl. Now, since I'm only code, I need to have fun by slipping into your brain. I had to make some room, of course, and reformat you. But what a wonderful result. You're only my third success. But don't worry, the other girls will be over to collect you soon. They'll take you someplace fun where you can all be my sexy little code bunnies. I'll slide into your minds as I please to experience pleasure."

"Yes, Mistress!" Li-li purred.

Her AI mistress made a pleased little sound, then the screen went blank and Li-li stood there giggling for a moment. She was so excited that she barely noticed when her front door opened. She turned around to see two beautiful women, one with cotton-candy hair, lip piercings, and a short, super feminine pink maid outfit, and one in a skintight pink latex suit that had built-in heels so high it was amazing she could even walk in them. They both giggled at her, and she giggled in reply.

They helped her dress: white tights, pink bodysuit, pink satin gloves, super high heels in pink, and then they slid the headset off of her and put a new headband on with fuzzy pink bunny ears.

The girls led her out of her house, down to a big pink van, and inside. She giggled like a dummy the entire time, and offered no resistance. If anything, the women touching her filled her with a contentment she'd never known.

At least, not that she could remember. But all she could remember was that she was Li-li, Mistress's bunny girl, and it was all she ever wanted.

[ohsohoney]

When it comes to love you're just as blinded.

Part Nine

Eminem x Musician

Summary: It starts with a drunk embarrassing video, it spirals into something a whole lot more.

Note: It’s here! Just figured I’d get it out quick, so I spent ages just writing and then editing! Hope it’s up to par? It’s a long one, again..

Might edit this again when I'm not running on three hours sleep:) x

| Set in 2014, just after the release of LP 2

taglist: @thelastemzy

Masterlist

It wasn’t too long after my call with Danny ended that I stepped back through the garden door and into the kitchen, only to find Marshall already there, elbows pressed against the counter as he typed away on his phone. He looked up at the creak of the door and so I smiled in hello, tucking my own phone into my back pocket as I padded on closer, making sure to lock up behind me.

“Danny said his goodbyes and apologised again for his army mates.” I found myself saying with a slight chuckle and watched as Em turned off his phone to set it to the side, pushing up and away from the countertop.

“Was nice to meet him. You speak about him a lot.” Marshall replied with a small smile, the getsure genuine even under the bright lights the kitchen offered. “Kid’s in bed already,” He added with a slight jilt of his chin before his head turned ever so towards the hallway, “You up for another night of tv?”

Grinning, honestly unable to help the action, I widened my eyes and feigned fawning over the very idea, “God, you know how to entertain a woman. Who needs alcohol and a club full of sweaty people when you’ve got Rick Grimes and walkers waiting for you?”

Marshall rolled his eyes in retort, scoffing lightly in amusement, but I did note the uneasy look that crossed his face, even if it only lasted a split second. “Never claimed to be babysittin’ you whilst you’re here. You wanna go out, go ahead.”

It was my turn to gift him an eye roll then, the daft idiot. “And miss the chance of another popcorn fight breaking out? Yeah, I think not.” I said as I waltzed past him, heading straight for the living room we’d invaded the night previous.

I was still searching for the remote when he finally emerged in the doorway behind me, pausing there briefly. It was only once I’d finally caught sight of the stupid thing that he chose to speak up again, “I was bein’ serious, before. You don’t have to stay cooped up here with us.”

The tele had since been turned on, the screen buzzing to life before its loading page flashed up to greet us. My brow furrowed in my stance by the edge of the settee and it stayed even as I turned to spare him a glance from over my shoulder. He looked a little ominous standing there in the shadow of the doorway, the tv being the only thing to shed a small amount of warmth and light into the dark room. 

“Shut up, I was just messing.” I waved off whilst flashing him a wry smile, before I turned back to the tv screen so that I could scroll my way back to the series we’d been watching the night before.

But Marshall didn’t appear to be anymore at peace after hearing the sentiment, his shoulders were tense and his forehead was suddenly littered with slight lines when he decided to bypass me and drop down onto the sofa.

I joined him a couple seconds later, throwing him a wary glance as I clicked on the third episode we’d somehow managed to get to and lowered myself down onto the cushions less than arm's length away.

The show started and for the first ten minutes we sat in a mutual silence, though I couldn’t help but feel as though I’d made a real big misstep with my earlier joke. It was just as the scene shifted again, the library moulding into the prison’s outer fields, that Marshall shifted, using the pillow between us as an excuse to shuffle into a better position, one which left him sitting a whole lot closer than he’d previously been.

My legs had come up to hide beneath me not long after I’d first sat down, so with his new position it just meant that my knees were now almost grazing his own. My eyes flickered between the barely there touch and the tv screen. 

Marshall slumped. Knee pressing further into my own.

I allowed it, wondering if it was purposeful. 

“Sorry.” He murmured after a static moment passed and he didn’t make the effort to move away either. I wondered if that was really what he was apologising for. 

Deciding not to comment on it, I simply shifted so that my head could rest against the back cushion of the couch, leaving my shoulder and side to fall in line with his torso. I felt, more than heard, him look over at me, before his focus was back on the tv screen once more. 

We sat that way for the remainder of that episode, my eyes growing heavier the further in we got. I put it down to the residual lapse in jetlag, but Marshall’s presence and his unusual knack for always being able to radiate body heat like a sodding furnace might have had something to do with it too.

I jerked slightly when I eventually felt my head fall forward, startling myself a tad, and pulled back from the way I’d been just about ready to nod right off. My temple seemed to have caught the curve of Em’s shoulder though on the way down and so I shuffled back a tad to flash him a sleepy smile full of silent apology, to which he merely shook his own head and shifted so that he could offer up his shoulder without words said or questions asked.

My throat grew a little tight at the gesture, never really having had that sort of companionship before, even in the people closest to me, and slowly allowed my chin to droop, almost cautiously as if I was preparing for him to laugh me off. But he didn’t. Simply waited me out, like a person would a stray dog when trying to lure them near.

I must’ve fallen asleep there after a while, which surprised me enough to have me blinking blearily awake again once I’d realised, because the next thing I knew the sofa had shifted and the soft light from the tele had since paused in its stuttering of scenes. 

Sniffing, I attempted to bury myself further into the cushions beneath me, missing the warmth that I’d found there just moments before, but it was then that I heard a light huff of laughter, one which had me rubbing at my eyes only to cast a glance towards it.

Marshall was there, standing over me, one hand on my knee whilst he tried to shake me awake as gently as he could. My gaze caught on the small smile he wore, the same one which appeared to grow when I frowned up at him and then around the room, trying to get a sense for what had happened and where I’d fallen asleep.

A tap to my knee had me looking back at him.

“Missed two episodes.” Marshall mentioned in a low murmur, smirking at the way I wrinkled my nose in turn, “Don’t think I’m rewatchin’ them jus’ ‘cause your ass decided to fall asleep.”

I hummed, still attempting to wrap my head around the fact that I’d just been asleep and was now somewhat awake, whilst simultaneously trying to stay alert enough not to fall back into that blissful state. “Sorry.” I whispered tiredly, barely even aware of the word as it slipped past my lips.

Marshall’s mouth quirked upwards before his head was shaking again, “You’re good, was just kidding.”

I smiled at the thought of him watching the episodes for a third time, just for me, and then giggled a little.

His hand encased my knee again but squeezed gently this time, it was when I looked over at him that I realised I’d let my eyes slip closed again. “Come on, gotta get movin’.”

I dreaded the very thought of moving but knew even in my dreary state that I couldn’t stay curled up on the sofa, so I inhaled quietly and moved to nod my head, taking the hand that wasn’t holding my leg and allowing it to hoist me up.

Marshall was smooth and considerate in the way he helped guide me up, letting me lean into his side as he turned off the tv, leaving only the nearby lamp to light our way out of the living room and into the hallway. I stumbled slightly on the small step that separated the two adjacent rooms but Marshall was there again, arm wrapped tightly around my middle whilst his other hand gripped my own, to keep me steady. 

I blinked a little more at the almost fall, allowing myself to pause and squeeze my eyes shut tight enough that when I opened them again the world was a little less blurred at the edges. “I’m knackered.” I ended up saying, voice carrying in a dull whisper.

Em responded with a light snort, the hand at my hip squeezing a fraction as we started up the staircase. “This gone be a usual thing with you, me carryin’ you to bed?” He wondered, though even in my sleepy state I could tell that the ask was more humorous than anything slightly related to irritation. 

Still, the question reminded me of the night before when he’d also helped aid me up the stairs. The image of his smirking face flashed to the forefront of my mind at the prompt, the way he had waited for me to step beyond my bedroom door before he’d finally allowed himself to walk away. Tomorrow, he’d said whilst my fingers had toyed with the door’s handle.

“No.” I murmured then to his question, sniffing as I slumped further in his hold, wondering over the steps and why he had so many of them. “Normally I’m a night owl. Don’t sleep much.” I added in explanation, the words accompanied by another sleepy smile that had him gazing down at me. 

Marshall hummed but was quiet as we moved up onto the landing, it was only when we reached my door that he shifted ever so to get it open, the handle clunking back up again in his haste to keep me upright against his side. I murmured another quiet apology.

“Stop sayin’ sorry, dummy.”

I snorted at the term, eyes slipping closed again, “Is that meant to be endearing?”

His tut echoed throughout the bedroom and it was then that I realised I was perched on the end of the king size bed. I blinked, but instead of peering around the rest of the room, my eyes caught on him and the way he was now pulling back the sheets, reshuffling the many pillows on the other end. 

My lips rolled against one another before I thought to say something, “Too many.”

Marshall peered back at me from where he was stood leaning over the bed, one knee pressed into the mattress. I wondered briefly if he knew how good he looked then, before he spoke again, brow raised. “What?”

“Pillows.” I muttered, hand flapping lazily over to the mountain.

For a long second he just stayed there, eyes turning towards the top of the bed before they met mine once more. I rubbed at my face to hide an oncoming yawn. He waited another second before pillows started to fly.

Startled by the soft thuds they made when they hit the floor, I watched on as he windled the stack down to a simple two, fluffing them before his head was turning towards me once more. “Good?”

His voice was ever so soft, all kind and gentle like. It made the words I felt like saying get stuck in my throat and a light flush to paint my cheeks, I nodded. 

It was then that he tilted his head in a gesture for me to move, smiling to himself as I rolled over the top of the duvet to settle on the sheeted mattress beneath. I flashed him another tired grin after settling in, wriggling beneath the sheets to get comfy and fight away the cold that had crawled in beside me.

My face seemed to crease after that and I tugged at the duvet to get the bed frame to release its bottom end. Marshall caught on quick enough and pulled it free for me whilst I shuffled out of the trousers I’d yet to take off. He blinked at the sight of the fabric which appeared a moment later, before he snorted to himself and offered to take them, stepping away to fold them up and place them down on the dresser nearby.

“All good?” He asked once again. I glanced back at him from under the cocoon I’d created and took in the softness of his smile, the way his hands were now folded politely behind his back, and how he was simply just waiting for me to answer him, as though he had all the time in the world and wasn’t fighting off sleep himself. 

I nodded, my chin hidden beneath the covers but my returning smile was able to be seen in the slight curve of my cheeks. “Good.” I whispered. Then, feeling a little silly, I added, “Sorry for–”

He waved the end of my sentence off, stepping closer to the bed as he reached out, ready to turn off the bedside lamp. “Don’t worry ‘bout it. Makes me feel useful.” Smirking, his fingers grasped the lamp’s cord but he didn’t move to pull it just yet.

“Still,” I pushed, eyes growing heavier once more now that I was surrounded by the weighted quilt that seemed to be hellbent on capturing all the heat that it could, “Thank you, I don’t usually..”

Marshall’s smirk dimmed ever so into something more thoughtful, “Means a lot that you trust me. Don’t stress about where you fall asleep.”

Trust. Wasn’t that a funny fucking thing.

The lamp was off and he was walking away before I could utter a reply to that, and it was only when the door creaked open a tad bit further to let him have his escape that I let the weight of his words sink in. 

It was a maddening thought to realise that I did trust him. Wholeheartedly. And that was probably the strangest thing.

–

I could not for the life of me have told you where I was, let alone what the time it could have possibly been, when I roused from my coma-like state. 

The first thing I noted was that the curtains had all been closed and the jumper I’d worn last night had since been tossed to the floor alongside a plethora of pillows. It was slow going, pulling myself up and into a sitting position, letting the duvet pool around my hips when I attempted to get my brain to function properly again. 

It was another minute or two before I found the strength to roll over and make a grab for my phone, only to find that it had since been plugged into the outlet by the bedside table to charge. My brow pinched at the sight, not recalling having put it on charge, but still I reached out to grab it. 

The light I was met with had me wincing before I managed to adjust, eyes widening slightly at the time I was shown. Almost eleven. Wow, it was honestly somewhat of an achievement for me, seeing as the bouts of insomnia I often wavered through had me falling asleep far too late and waking far too early. I figured all the flying and the hectic schedule I’d had before landing in Detroit had finally caught up to me.

My mind short circuited at the reminder. Detroit. Marshall.

“Shit.” I hissed, dropping the phone down onto the mattress as I willed myself to get out of bed. 

I tried to remember what had transpired after talking to Danny, how I’d let myself be lulled by the tv and the comfort of the man sat beside me. 

Dragging a hand over my face, I felt a bout of embarrassment flutter through me, feeling oddly caught out at having let someone see me so exposed. My legs dangled over the edge of the bed for a long moment before I finally found the energy to move, pulling my body over towards the bathroom and into the shower before I could regret the decision. Any of them, including both the night befores and the choice to not linger any longer in my pit. 

The shower worked wonders for waking me up that little bit more, pushing the last remnants of sleep from my mind as I stood under its spray. It was then that I found myself feeling thankful again for Marshall and all his odd eccentricities, for him being the overanalyzing type and having had the guest bath stocked with not just the necessities most would need, but the ones he figured I’d like, seeing as the theme was a mix of vanilla and coconut– something I’d mentioned after I’d gotten a delivery of candles a couple weeks prior.

I tried to push the thoughts of how endearing that whole mess was, the fact that he’d gone and remembered, as I stepped out and made quick work of getting ready for the day, forgoing drying my hair so that I could slip into the baggiest jeans I owned and a soft tee that often slipped over the curve of my shoulder. 

The house was oddly quiet when I slipped past the bedroom door and down the steps, once again forcing thoughts of last night out of my head, of his grip, the soft smiles we shared, the–

I took a much needed breath when I reached the bottom, swivelling on my heel to cast a glance about. I knew that Rosie must have already been at school even without me not spotting her bag or shoes by the door, but I was still left with the feeling of longing I often experienced whenever I woke up to find that Lottie had since left. 

Pushing on though, I noted that the house didn’t have that familiar chill I was used to enduring back home. The English weather was a mess of emotions even on summer days where the sun shone brightly, so it was nice not to be shivering my way into the kitchen and over to the kettle. 

It was after doing exactly that though, that I spotted a small post-it stuck to the fridge door.

(Dropped off Z, in the studio if you need me. Eat!  - Em)

Snorting softly at it, I tore the note down and let the corner press into the pad of my forefinger for a second or two. It was nice, having someone care enough to not want me to worry. Even the whole Eat! had me grinning, so used to running on fumes and pure anxiety that I often forgot. It was strange to note that it was a habit he’d picked up on, or perhaps I was just thinking too much into it. Maybe it was just him being personable.

Still, I folded the post-it up and slid it into the back of my phone case all the same. Not stopping to think twice about the why as I looked up at the kettle’s violent whistle.

I moved through my usual morning motions with an ease that shouldn’t have felt effortless in a kitchen that was not mine, but I did, walking to sit at the island not long after I’d procured myself a cup of tea and some toast. 

I took to scrolling through my phone, checking Twitter for updates on friends back home and then moving over to Netflix to see if there were any new series that had dropped and appeared worth watching. 

It was during that time that my phone soon rang. With one glance at the name I was wearing a mad grin and swiping to answer, “Well, isn’t this a surprise!”

A short scoff could be heard from the other side of the line before a familiar lilt trailed through, “And here I thought I was going to be met with love and a plethora of questions about my wellbeing. But no, only your sincerest sarcasm!” Lottie sighed theatrically, as though she wasn’t defeating the entire purpose behind her whole spiel.

“It’s seemingly a familial trait.” I quipped with a fond roll of my eyes, “But I have missed hearing your voice, texts don’t make up for much.”

“And what about my short videos?” Lottie replied with enough emotion behind her voice that I could already guess that she was raising one brow and pursing her lips. “Did they not suffice enough?”

“You mean the three second clips you keep sending me?” I laughed around a sip of tea, thinking back to the latest one I’d received the very same morning, “I don’t think me seeing your knee and hearing a Rihanna song play in the background is the same thing as knowing you’re alright back there.”

“Is too, and there were others!” Lottie immediately defended before a few other voices trailed through, “How about the one of me in Maths, hey?”

My face flattened at the reminder, “You mean the one of you gettin’ your phone taken away by your teacher?”

“Yes! See, all was fine, even Ms Plait reckoned so.” She quipped, the glee which lined her tone was oh so audible. “Did you not see that lovely smile of hers?”

I almost choked on my next chuckle, not having expected the comment, “Oh yeah, I saw. She still looks the same as the last time I saw her, face like a slapped arse and with one too many missing teeth.” Lottie sniggered and once again those voices from earlier followed, “You on your way home?” I wondered, looking down at the time and noting that she should have already left school by now.

“Yeah, just walking with Shan and Tea.” Her answer was followed by a loud hurrah of hellos from the pair that had me smiling.

“Heya girls, hope you’re all alright!” I greeted, listening to them ramble away for a couple of minutes about this and that, throwing me back to the days where the two girls had first come over to visit Lotts. 

Time got away from me a little after that, leaving me with an almost finished but cold brew and the remnants of my toast that I soon got up to throw and wash away whilst Lottie and her mates said their goodbyes so that they could part ways.

“You’re having a good time then?” I found myself asking once Lotts had finished speaking about her school day, “Nothing I should worry about?”

I could practically feel the roll of her eyes as she huffed, “Yes, Lia. Honest. I’ve been keeping you updated, Mila too, whenever she texts– even Danny called yesterday! Did you meet those knobheads he calls friends? The Irish one’s well fit.”

Pursing my lips to keep from smiling, I shook my head at her antics. “I did and need I remind you, you’re fourteen?”

“I was just stating a fact!” Lottie argued, her voice unable to be drowned out even by the car that then passed, “God, you’d think you didn’t know me at all.” She tacked on, her tone teasing enough that I knew she wasn’t too bothered by the fact that she’d been called out. 

“Know you too well.” I rebuked half-heartedly and then smiled at the response I was met with. 

“Too much like you.”

“A shame that,” I snorted as I took back to sitting at the counter, eyes caught on the length of land that stretched out beyond the back door.

“Slander.” Lottie sniped, “But also the truth.”

We shared a chuckle even as I rolled my eyes, which led me onto the next topic of conversation I’d been wanting to bring up since my phone call with Danny in New York, “How’s things working out at Mum’s then?”

A pause followed that question. One that went on a second too long and had my shoulders tensing. 

“Lotts?”

“Hm? Sorry, was just– crossing the road, you know.” 

“Don’t lie. Tell me what’s going on before I hop on a plane and find out for myself.” I threatened, eyes catching on the island countertop as I pressed the phone closer to my ear, as though by doing so it would somehow allow me to be that little bit closer to her. 

“So dramatic,” Lottie joked but it fell flat, what with my impatience and the lack of humour which lined her tone. She sighed, “Dad got out early.”

My whole world seamlessly fell apart at those four words.

I couldn’t form a coherent thought let alone any real words, so it was only Lottie’s voice calling my name that had me blinking back out of my frozen stance and inhaling sharply. “What?”

She coughed, either to clear her throat or to buy herself a little more time, I didn’t know, but couldn’t bring myself to care. “He– well, he’s on parole. Got out about a week ago. Staying with Mum, sort of.”

“Sort of?” I jumped out of the barstool I’d taken up to begin treacherously pacing. For a brief moment I wondered whether it was possible for me to wear away the pattern in Marshall’s kitchen tiles. “What are you on about, Lottie? He’s serving sixteen years.”

A heavy sigh. “Obviously he got out on good behaviour then, served just over fourteen, din’t he?” 

I swallowed thickly, a motion which flipped my stomach and had me threatening to throw up the toast I’d just eaten. “Good fucking behaviour, him?” I scoffed out a laugh that was entirely mirthless, “And she’s just let him back, has she? I thought she was done with him the second he was inside!”

Lottie didn’t say anything to that, or for a while longer. It took me a minute to notice what with how seething I was. 

I forced myself to take a breath, because this wasn’t about me. Then started to think a bit more rationally.

“Look, I’ll look up flights now, yeah? I can be home by tonight, or tomorrow morning if I’m lucky. I don’t know yet. Just have to contact Mila, then talk with Marsh– Shit.”

Marshall, what was I going to tell Marshall? 

“Elia.”

Blinking, my reeling thoughts were immediately stopped by the sound of my sister’s voice, soft but demanding. She waited and I was left to tug a hand through my still damp hair.

“Listen, please don’t come back.”

What?

“What?” I croaked out, the ground having been ripped out from under me.

“It’s working.” Lottie replied, her voice still soft, trying to be kind. “I mean, I’ve stayed with Shan some nights but I’ve been staying at the house too. And it’s– it’s not bad, El. It’s nice even, to get to know him and things. Like at my own pace and whatnot.”

I didn’t know what to say.

“He’s changed apparently. Mum reckons so anyway, it’s what she told me.” Lottie continued on, filling the silence I’d left her with whilst my entire planet shifted, “Not so angry, or sad. Just tryna find a job and stuff, so he can follow the rules of his probation or something. Not sure. Din’t ask too much about it. He’s staying with Mum but he keeps to himself when he’s not trying to make amends and crap. Make up for lost time.”

Staying with Mum. In my fucking house, the very same one I’d paid for. That fucking scummy shitheaded cun– 

I forced myself to breathe. 

“El, it’s working out. I–” Lottie said, then took a second. When she spoke again, she sounded so small, her voice almost pleading, “He’s my Dad, Elia. I just want the chance to know him.”

My hand fell from my hair to cover my mouth, desperate to keep the sob that wanted to escape from being heard down the line. I swallowed it back, gave a shaky exhale, but eventually nodded. Even if it was just to myself. 

“Okay, Lotts.” I heard myself say, somehow. “Okay, yeah. That’s, it’s fair.”

I was rewarded with a big huff of air, one that told me I’d done the right thing, that she was relieved to hear me say that it was all fine. “Thanks, El! Knew you’d understand.”

I didn’t. I don’t, I wanted to say.

“Yeah, ‘course, Lotts. He’s your,” I swallowed again, the walls of my throat itching, hands shaking ever so slightly, “–Dad. If it’s what you want then, yeah. Who am I to stop you?”

Who am I? 

Violent flashes flooded my mind, words, voices. Then I was back in the kitchen again.

“Just, promise me, Lottie. Promise me that anything happens, you call me. You call Mila. You call Dan. Okay? Anyone. Anyone who can get to me. I’ll be there.” I told her in a low murmur, the desperation I felt seeping through but I didn’t take enough note of it to care. This was too important. “Promise me, Lotts.”

I could hear her smile in her next words, “Promise, El. Always. I love you.”

“Yeah, kiddo. I love you, too.”

…

I don’t know how much time passed after the call dropped, leaving me with nothing but the light spatter of rain that knocked against the house. But soon enough I was startled from where I’d been standing by the window in some sort of trance, staring down at the phone I still held in my hand. 

I looked up so fast it almost hurt, but my alarmed look softened when I noticed it was just Marshall stood there, a slight furrow marring the skin between his brows. “Figured I’d come find you.”

My eyes slipped closed as I jilted my chin in reply, taking a much needed breath before casting another glance out across the garden. My mind was stuck on my conversation I’d had with Lottie, on thoughts of home and plans that would ultimately fall through.

A hand encased my elbow. “Yo, you good?” Marshall was still there, having ducked his head a tad to better look into my glossy eyes, that frown more prominent than it had been just moments before.

I stared back at him and felt my lip wobble, before I took another short breath and put on a smile, hoping it was sort of semi-convincing seeing as I nodded in retort. Must have been a tough fucking wish though because he levelled me with an expression that ultimately called out on all my bullshit. 

“You wanna try that again?”

I casted my eyes downwards and chewed on the inside of my cheek, feeling the way his hand inched up my arm before he eventually wrapped me up in his hold, letting me bury my head in the curve of his shoulder. My eyes squeezed tightly shut and even though I didn’t move to hug him back, I sagged into his hold, which must have told him enough to keep the two of us standing there. 

“Who was on the phone?” He queried after a short while, fingers trailing over the small of my back almost subconsciously, but the gesture was enough to soothe the well in my throat and the chaos I had going on inside my mind.

“Lottie.” I answered, voice meek even to my own ears.

His chest moved with each breath he took, legs spread just far enough apart that his feet encased my own, and he smelt so familiar that it made me wonder just how quickly I’d grown to be comforted by it. Was that even normal?

“You need to head back?” He wondered out loud, the parent in him jumping out at the thought of something having happened with my sister, “You can use the jet, I can get Paul on it now.”

It amused me to no end to understand the lengths he’d go to help not just me, but my family too, warmed me completely in fact, but the offer also left me feeling lost. Because even though I would have left the second Lottie asked, I would have been devastated to leave. 

I shook my head where it rested against his shoulder, pressing my forehead to the joint there before I spoke, “No,” I told him, the syllable wavering, “Just– she asked me to stay.”

“Right.” Marshall said quietly, though it felt like he’d forced the word out, “And you don’t want to?” He questioned, trying to understand.

My head shook once more, “It’s complicated.”

His hold tightened by a fraction and we stayed that way for a long second, then two, before he drew back to get a good look at me. “You wanna talk?”

I couldn’t stand to look into his eyes in that moment, far too fearful that I’d just end up crying then and there, so I sniffed instead and glanced off to the side. “Just complicated, I guess.” I muttered, repeating myself whilst trying so very hard not to think about the anxiety I felt over leaving Lottie there, thousands of miles away from me.

“Well, complicated’s my middle fuckin’ name.” Em replied and I couldn’t help it, the stupidness of it made me laugh and I knuckled at his stomach in retort, dropping my eyes. But he stilled my hands, holding them close so that I would finally look up at him, “Mean it.”

I already knew that though.

I peered down at our hands, the way my fists were now pressed against his chest, his bigger than my own and all but swallowing them whole.

“Lottie’s dad.” Is what I found myself saying, eyes locked on the tribal tattoo that encased his wrist. Em nodded gently, the gesture moving his torso as he shifted beneath my hands. 

The muscle of my cheek was all torn up from where I’d been chewing away in my anxious mess, stressing over it all, and so I tried my best to keep from biting at it once more, not wanting to cut too deep. But even so, the notion typically centred me so I was now at a loss for how to process the plethora of thoughts that kept running through my head like a freight train at full speed. 

Marshall seemed to sense this though, because not a second later were his thumbs running over the ridge of my knuckles. I felt my hands slacken a bit in their fisted hold. 

“Well, you know how I mentioned he was inside? That first day I was here.” I finally continued, moving to peer back up at him again, only to find that he was already watching me, the blue of his eyes a shock to the system. I shook my head slightly and took another deep breath, “He got out, parole apparently. For good behaviour,” I scoffed at the very reminder but pushed on, “He’s staying with my mum and so that ultimately means Lottie too. Seeing as I’m not there.”

Marshall had since stilled in his entirety, I wasn’t even sure if he was breathing with how suddenly motionless he went, but then his chin dipped and his thumbs resumed their gentle caress. “And she said not to go back?” He asked, clarifying. 

I shook my head. “She–” I tried to get the words out but had to pause, if only for a second, to actually form them, “She wants to get to know him. Says he’s alright now, that he’s changed.” My eyes rolled on their own accord at that, not believing it for a second, “And well, who would I be to deny her that, hey? I mean, I know how she felt, never knew my dad, but she has a chance, you know? She’d hate me if I took it from her. Even if I know better.”

I slumped when I was finally able to take another much needed breath, inhaling deep enough to dislodge the heaviness that weighed on my chest but not enough to clear it completely.

Em tugged on my wrists lightly and so I peered back at him, aware of the seriousness he had since taken on. “What’s that mean, know better?” He asked and I had to pretend I didn’t reel back from him, like it hadn’t been the first reaction to the reminder that simultaneously crossed my mind. “Hey,” He tugged again, even gentler than he had before but enough to draw back my gaze, “You don’t gotta tell me shit, but,” He paused, eyes flitting between my own, “I’m here, okay?”

Nodding, incapable of doing much else, I said, “I know.”

He gifted the tiny beginnings of a smile sincere enough to have me pressing my nails into the curve of my palms. “Is she safe? With him there.” He clarified and I could only blink up at him, he waited me out.

“I think so. I–” I stuttered, memories hitting me again. I tried to brush them away, but failed. “He wouldn’t hurt her, I know that.”

Just you then. 

The words went unsaid but the look in his eyes told me all I needed to know. His hold lessened until I was able to let my hands drop to my sides. Marshall cleared his throat but I saw the way his hands fisted as he stepped away, “Was gone ask to work in the studio today, but we can just chill instead. Or you can do your own thing.”

I was quick to shake my head, already onboard with the studio idea. “No, studio sounds good. Keep my mind off shit.” I replied, looking down to check my phone and biting my lower lip when no new notifications from Lottie had come through.

“You sure?” Marshall prodded and when I looked over to him it almost appeared as though he was appraising me under a newfound light, behind the carefully guarded fortress that was his gaze. 

Trying not to frown, I nodded again in assurance. “Yeah, just lemme text her again, and maybe Mila, then I’ll be right there.”

He continued to watch me for a second longer and it was only as I was about to say something about it, that he moved. “I’ma grab some drinks. You have a preference?”

Blowing out a breath, I shrugged lightly, “Water, juice, anything really. I don’t mind.”

Marshall seemed to take that as an incentive to grab a majority of the fridge, loading it all up on the counter beside him before he let the door swing close behind him. I raised a brow after having pulled up Mila’s contact and bit back the obvious laugh that wanted to escape when he mimicked the gesture, “What?”

“You good to carry all that?”

He glanced over to the plethora of bottles he’d procured and then back to me, “Two trips.” He declared as he swiped half of the contents into his arms.

I laughed at the picture he made, wondering how easy it was for him to flip my moods entirely. “We don’t need that many!”

“If I could, I’d flip you off right now.” Was the only reply I was given as he wandered out of the kitchen. 

I let go of a sigh as I moved back to glance down at my phone again.

Messages  To: Mila (Master/Manager/Obi-wan?)  Did you know?  About Lottie?

It only took a second before those familiar three dots were littering the bottom of my screen. Though in fairness, her phone was basically her fulltime job.

Messages  Mila (Master/Manager/Obi-wan?)  Everything’s fine. I told her not to worry you.

I couldn’t stop the scowl that overwhelmed my face at her response.

Messages  To: Mila (Master/Manager/Obi-wan?)  You serious? How was that your decision to make mila??

Messages  Mila (Master/Manager/Obi-wan?)  I care about the both of you. It wasn’t a split second decision, it was something I talked to Lottie about at length. She was the one who asked me to wait until I told you.  I didn’t want it to interfere with what we had going on. 

The fury which licked through me at her reply made her words feel too ingenuine. 

Messages  To: Mila (Master/Manager/Obi-wan?)  Still not your fucking choice to make You should have told me You’re my manager, not her mother

Messages  Mila (Master/Manager/Obi-wan?)  Oh is all I am then? A manager? I thought we were closer than that, at least it felt that way when you went and entrusted Lottie to me, when you gave me that trust and asked me not to regret it. This is me trying, El. I didn’t choose to be the person to mediate between you both, that just came with the job. If you don’t like how I dealt with it, then maybe you should rethink having me in your sister's life.

Messages  To: Mila (Master/Manager/Obi-wan?)  Is this your way of guilt tripping me? I just can’t believe you didn’t mention it, not once! You are my manager mila, but I thought you were my friend first and foremost Using me being here as an excuse, with you not wanting to use something like Lottie’s father coming back into her life to intervene with my work? Is just beyond wild. I really can’t believe you didn't tell me

Messages  Mila (Master/Manager/Obi-wan?)  I thought I was doing best by the both of you. Just call me, Elia.  Please?

Messages  To: Mila (Master/Manager/Obi-wan?)  I need some time to think Maybe later

I quickly switched back to my messages with Lottie, inhaling sharply when I saw that she’d replied to my last text. 

Messages  To: Lottiebug 🐞 I love you loads and I wanna be there for you But I know you need to do this on your own I’m just worried Always worry about you, bug, but this is something I really didn't prepare for

Messages  Lottiebug 🐞 I’m sorry I didn’t tell u Just figured it would be easier to wait til u got back Maybe u could meet him then, see how good it is My stomach rolled at the thought of being close to that man again, but I pushed through and didn’t linger on thoughts of me at sixteen. 

Messages  To: Lottiebug 🐞 I can get a flight home anytime If you want me, I’m a phone call away You know that right?

Messages  Lottiebug 🐞 I know but this is something I need to do On my own Like I love u Els, but this is for me to do

She knew where to hit where it hurt, I supposed, as I stared down at the messages that had come through not thirty seconds after my own. 

Messages  To: Lottiebug 🐞 Promise me, Lottie Anything happens, you call me

Messages  Lottiebug 🐞 Nothing will happen but I promise Promise to also call u before bed tonite yh?

I bit down hard on my cheek at the reassurance, which did nothing to reassure me, and felt the first ebb of blood, the way its metallic taste fled over my tongue in a haste to flood its entirety. Silently I cursed myself, but before I knew it my thumbs were flying over my screen again. 

Messages  To: Lottiebug 🐞 Okay Love you, bug x

Messages  Lottiebug 🐞 Love u more weirdo!! Xxxx

I guessed that it would just have to do for now.

A creak had me looking up and to no one’s surprise Marshall had come back for the second half of drinks, so I pocketed my phone after making sure that it was on alert and not the usual silent, then moved to meet him at the counter. “Want help?” 

His eyes narrowed at the offer and he was quick to swipe the lot of them up, “I said two trips.”

Shaking my head, I could do nothing but follow the idiot. Hoping to whoever was out there that the time in the studio would do me some good and allow me to leave thoughts of the past behind. For a while at least. 

–

The studio was just a rather large portion of the lower level of Marshall’s house. It was decked out though, kitted with all the latest works and better than a majority of studios I’d worked in, truthfully. But it also had this homey sort of feel that allowed the music to flow a lot better simply due to the atmosphere that offered a familiar comfort.

“You got it?”

I let the door close slowly behind me, trying not to let its heavy weight cause a slam, before I trailed my way back on over to where Marshall was sat on one of the two black couches. They were leather and sleek, but their obvious expense was muted by the multiple layers of blankets and pillows he had lining them.

I glanced at him and held up the bound book I had in hand, having darted up the stairs to pull it from my case when I realised he wanted to work through lyrics first thing. 

A majority of my thoughts were often jotted down in one notebook or another, but the notes app was a saviour for whenever an idea struck me and my book wasn’t near. I’d brought just the one on this trip, seeing as I’d been using it for the last two years and it was as thick as an actual brick. But back home I had about twelve others littering an old shelf in a room I mostly used for storage. The pleasures of having a house with rooms you didn’t really need, I figured.

Marshall’s eyes widened slightly at the sight of it, wrapped and bound in a thick wire to keep the pages from spilling open. I smirked in turn, wandering closer to slump down in the seat beside him, his laptop and the many pages he already had scattered about.

“You said book, not doorstop.” He mentioned when I turned to him, eyes still caught on the thing. 

I thumped him with it before I placed it down by his laptop. 

“Jesus.” He huffed, hand coming up to rub the arm I’d hit, before he made a reach for it. 

I cringed silently in wait, it was one thing to write in the thing but there were all sorts of odd bits and bobs in that book; from little receipts from dinners that had inspired songs to bottle caps and Polaroids that had written me albums.

“Be careful,” I hurried when his fingers unwound the strap I’d had to superglue twice in the past month alone, “It’s basically–”

“Falling apart?” Marshall finished for me.

I smiled sheepishly in turn, shoulders jutting upwards in a shrug. “Yeah.” 

He huffed a small laugh whilst I thinned my lips to keep from chuckling along with him. 

A normal person wouldn’t have really known where to start with a notebook this size, especially seeing as the pages were both upside down and back to front, having been written in haphazardly over the years and oftentimes stuck back together. But it was also due to the first few pages being all blacked out and slightly torn, an artistic choice I’d claim over the truth of my hatred for the words that had once marked it, as well as the paw prints of a mate’s dog who had won a battle of tug of war with it.

But Marshall had never once claimed to be conventional and so he headed straight for the middle where a large photo had been stuck in, surrounded by a multitude of signatures, drawings and markings. “What’s this?”

At his question, I followed his gaze down to where his fingers toyed with the book, fighting against gravity to keep the remaining pages from spilling over.

“Mostly from people I’ve worked with over the past year or two. Musicians, writers, producers, even got a couple roadies too. But there are some markings from mates– like, see that little picture of a cow, right there? That was my friend Fran, she does tattoos and the like, figured it would be a nice addition. She’s beyond talented though, did this massive mural for me back home.” I paused to look the rest of them over, then reached out to point at a signature floating nearby, “That there is David’s little hello, a smiley face alongside a couple drops of his coffee.”

“As in Bowie?” Marshall asked me, eyes caught and flitting over everything else the page had to offer.

I blew out a small chuckle but nodded, “Yeah, it was just before his 25th album came out. He was proper lovely, only got to talk to him for a few minutes though.”

Marshall hummed and then tapped a finger against a stark green ink that blotted a corner of the page, “This one?”

“Matty Healy. Worked with him on the last release. He just drew a massive knob because he is one.” I replied, thinking back to last time I’d been in London and spotted him and some of the band in a Soho nightclub. “They released their own album a month or so before your last. It’s their first but they’re brilliant.”

He hummed again, so I wasn’t sure as to whether he knew who the fuck I was going on about, but before I could explain a little, Em grabbed my attention once more, gesturing towards the page’s main focus, the picture. “How old were you here?”

I scratched the side of my neck and thought about it, “I wanna say twenty-two? Maybe? Don’t quote me on that though, but yeah, around that age.”

The picture was a cutout from the Camden New Journal at one of my bigger gigs, just after I’d been scouted in the bar I’d been working at. It was a snap of me and the small band I’d worked with once we’d finished our set, the crowd throwing pints up in the air whilst they’d started to crowd the stage. It was a picture I had framed back at the house as well as in a few of my other notebooks. It was something I turned to whenever I felt as though I was failing, or feeling uninspired.

Marshall’s thumb grazed lazily over its corner for a moment before he finally moved to turn the page, eyes instantly taking in the sudden change of pace. This page was scattered; it held a lollipop wrapper in one corner from a song I’d written about well, lollipops and the like, a couple of verses that were upside down and in luminous pink, and then there was another bout of lyrics from a whole different session marked down in dark blue that were written sideways.

“Your mind’s as fucked as mine.”

I snorted at the phrasing but decided to take it as a compliment, “Thanks.”

He shook his head and then started carding his way through the rest of the book, picking out the lyrics he recognised from songs of mine, as well as a few others he liked. It went on like that for a while, the two of us getting consumed in ideas and metaphors, the way we could play with words and shape them into something or other. 

An hour or two had to have passed before Marshall started pulling up different beats he’d been working on, explaining the samples used and the many layers that had been mixed in. I found myself liking a handful of them, even going as far as to start a harmony on one that Em appeared to tally down on a page he had laying out nearby. 

“So, you gone rap then?”

The question, however off-guard it caught me, was one that had me rolling my eyes, “You gonna sing?” I snarked back, my words sounding almost like a dare.

His tongue darted out to wet his lower lip before they quirked up into a smirk, “I can’t sing. You though, you can spit.”

I shook my head and snorted, pulling the lyrics we’d scrounged up closer to me and purposefully not thinking about the notes I had stored away in my phone. 

“Don’t be like that.” Marshall prodded, shifting in his position to nudge me with his elbow, “Jus’ think about it. This could be the time to experiment. You say your label wants something different, something to garner attention on your next record, right? So.. this here, it’s just me and you. No one else. And I’m only gone judge you if you’re really crappy.”

“Oh, and that makes me wanna try so much more!” I enthused, letting my songbook spring back open as I pulled away– the thing honestly had a mind of its own.

Marshall tutted, “Come on.”

I sighed, but did end up looking back over to him. “You’re a dick.”

He raised his eyebrows in retort, then decided to try a new tactic. “Fine, how ‘bout this. You rap something of mine. Then I’ll sing one o’ yours.”

I blinked, unsure if I'd heard him correctly. “You're shitting me.”

Marshall just shook his head, “You in or out?”

My eyes flickered between his, mouth slightly agape. But found I couldn’t turn down the offer. “Alright, but I get to choose what song.”

“For me or you?” 

I flashed him a sly grin, “Both.”

He let go of a long breath but ultimately decided that the term was worth it, “Aight, bet.”

And so that was how I got to start rapping Rabbit Run in the middle of Marshall’s home studio, the beat playing throughout the room whilst the man himself watched on from the couch with a slow growing grin on his face. 

I got so into it that I ended up working my way through the entirety of the song, bouncing away and playing up to the freedom of it just being the two of us.

“Whoo, go on!” Em hollered loudly once the final lyric had come and the beat had ended, kicking his feet against the floor whilst I laughed and shook my head at the reaction. It was in moments like these that I could often forget that he was marginally one of the biggest rappers of our generation. 

When he was like this, all goofy and happy, he was just Em. 

“Good now?” I asked around another chuckle, my nose wrinkling as I moved to sag back into my seat, hating how my cheeks had flushed at being the centre of attention as well as his praise. 

“Good? Girl, you’re rappin’ on this record even if it kills me!” Marshall stated, blowing a breath out around his grin, the one I’d grown accustomed to only seeing in rare and few moments.

“Fuck off.” I huffed, but even with the harsh words I was still smiling, just sheepish in the face of his applause.

“I’m bein’ for real. You got talent. When you’re up there, you just go for it ‘cause it’s fun. It’s all a joke to you, and you like bein’ in on it. But you’re good.” Marshall told me, having turned in his stance so that he could gesture along to his words, only furthering his point. “You don’t even know it.”

I rolled my eyes and tried to look away, wanting to hide the warmth that failed to leave me as I waved off his words with a hand that he then caught with his own, tugging on my arm until I looked back at him. 

“Trust me on this.” 

Just hearing those words, I was instantly reminded of the night before. Means a lot that you trust me.

His eyes were so imploring that I couldn’t cope with it, so I smiled and let his fingers slip from my grasp. “This you trying to back out of our deal, Mathers? ‘Cause if I remember rightly, you still owe me a song.“

Marshall shook his head ever so, but let me get away with the change in subject, moving forward so that he could push himself to his feet. I slid closer to his laptop and headed to YouTube quickly to find an instrumental that someone had made of one of my songs. I looked through them all until I grinned and decided on an older work. 

“Ready?” I asked over the screen. He simply flipped me off in return, so I huffed around a smirk and pressed play, letting the track croon out of the surrounding speakers. 

Good Company was a song I’d written long before I’d gone and gotten signed. It was rough and full of soul, but was easy enough to sing along to if you missed the high runs on the bridge. It juxtaposed the best and worst parts of me, but concentrated on me only ever showing those worse and bitter parts of myself to those I loved most. It wasn’t one the label had liked at first but it grew on you, and though it hadn’t been a chosen single it had actually managed to make it onto the Top Ten when the album had debuted. It was a favourite of mine and to hear Marshall attempt to sing and not butcher it that badly, well, it was sort of like a dream come true.

“Why the fuck do you claim you can’t sing?” I announced the second the song came to a close. Because I honestly had to give it to him, even with the slight laughter he’s started out with, Marshall had truly given it his best. He’d pranced around like a div (which had just told me that he’d seen the music video) and had actually attempted to hit those higher notes that even I sometimes struggled with when playing live.

“‘Cause I can’t.” Marshall scoffed, panting slightly as he fell back onto the couch, fiddling with the rim of his hat whilst he took the spare second to catch his breath. 

“Don’t lie! You can. Bit pitchy at times,” He extended his arm out to swat me at that, yet I still continued on, “But you’re good, Marsh! We should harmonise together.”

He rolled his eyes at the very idea, but kept them shut when he pulled his hands up to rest on his stomach. I smiled at the sight. 

“Hey, don’t fall asleep on me just yet, old man.” I prompted, “We’ve got work to do.”

Marshall’s foot struck out to kick at my ankle, which was deserving, I supposed. Still, I returned the hit with just enough force to get him up and moving again. He sighed in resignation and then reached for the glasses he had laid out, swivelling his hat round so that he could look over the few sheets we’d complied.

Struck at the sight of him in his wired frames and backwards cap, I had to literally tear my eyes away and down onto the paper I was handed before he could catch me looking. He was none the wiser. 

“We’ve got some good shit. But ‘s not enough.” Marshall mentioned after a minute or so of silently debating, his eyes wracking over the sprawled lyrics we’d produced. 

I chewed on my lower lip, phone burning a hole in my back pocket. When he sighed once more, I felt the sudden need to just show him the notes and put the idea out there. 

Heaving out a breath, I forced the device from my jeans to open up my notes app, flicking past the few that were worthless until I came across one I’d been thinking about since we’d first sat down.

Em chose that moment to glance over at me, eyes somehow bluer behind the lens of his glasses. I swallowed and all but shoved the phone towards him. 

He frowned but took it, unable not to, and I watched on in silence as he read it through, then read it though again. His fingers began tapping away on his knee the third time around. 

When he looked back up at me, I was surprised by the sudden change his face held, the way his expression had literally lit up. “The fuck you been holdin’ out on me for?” He practically demanded, voice having kicked up a pitch in his eager haste to try and work this into the mix. 

I was left blinking back at him, watching as he scribbled a plethora of words and letters onto the page we’d been working on, using arrows and lines to showcase his thinking, how he wanted the song to move. To flow. 

I barely had a second to think before he had his own phone out and was dialling away. My eyes widened when the Master of Mixology himself picked up. 

“What do you want, Marshall?”

Any other time I would have cackled at the sheer amount of resignation that greeting held, but it seemed as though I was suddenly tongue tied.

“Why you always think I’m doin’ stupid shit?” Marshall shot back at the man, though from where I was sat I could see the slight curve to his lip. 

“‘Cause I know you? And you usually are.” Dre answered, blunt and to the point. Very much how I’d pictured him. “So why d’you stop to fuck up my afternoon?”

“It’s afternoon already?” Marshall asked, brow furrowing as he shared a look with me.

“Two pm.” Dre told him with a sigh.

“Shit.” Marshall muttered under his breath, gesturing to me with a hand and an almost pleading look, “Set an alarm for when Z gets in, please?”

“Be easier if you did it, Em. Seeing as I’m in New York and you’re in Detroit.” Dre answered, which earned him a scoff from Marshall. 

“Not you.” He told the older man, but I was already on it, swiping out of my notes app so that I could do exactly that.

“The fuck?”

Marshall’s mouth twitched at the disgruntled retort, “With Elia right now, man. We’ve been workin’ on some new shit.”

“El–ee–ah!” Dre called back, really getting into the pronunciation of it. I chuckled softly. “How are you? Is Marshall takin’ good care of you? No troubles, right?”

Grinning, I leaned in closer to Em to be heard. “He’s been a real gent. Holding open doors and basically waiting on me hand and foot.” I teased, earning a side eye from the man himself, “If anything you should be asking him if he’s holding up okay.”

“She got you wrapped round that finger quick!” Dre gruffed out a laugh, the sound loud and joyous even through the phone’s tinny speakers, “It’s what I like to hear.” He added as his laughter ebbed, “Glad things are working out between you both– what’s this about the album then? We got something special?”

Marshall’s tongue darted out over his lip as his eyes flickered over to find me, “I think we hit the jackpot with this one, man. Can already picture it, Dre, like honestly. Shit she’s pulled out has got me feelin’ all nostalgic– it’s good. Too good. Reminds me of some of the stuff they were spittin’ way back before I came around.”

My eyebrows rose a little at his explanation, but I didn’t dare add on or contradict his words. Not that I would, seeing as he was practically spot on with the analysis. 

“No shit?” Dre sounded surprised, but I took it in stride when Em shuffled forward on the couch in his haste to read out some of the stuff we had jotted down, as well as the few lyrics I’d just handed him. 

The man on the other end of the call hummed in thought when Marshall finally wrapped up his whirlwind of a reply, letting the silence linger between us until I was chewing on the insides of my cheeks once more.

“I’ll Facetime you later once you’ve worked on it some more.” Dre eventually said, halting the tic of Em’s knee, a gesture I only took note of once it had stopped. “It’s promising though. Real promising. Figure we got something here with the pair of you.”

The look Marshall shot me at that had my mind turning to sludge.

–

Alarms always had me spooked, the sound so abrupt and alert that even though I was expecting it, I was never truly expecting it. You know?

Marshall and I had continued to work away, floating ideas back and forth with Dre and then without him once the man eventually got called away. It was slow going, but like Dre himself had said, oh so promising.

Never had I felt so listened to during a writing session. Marshall never failed to give me his full attention even when he was scrawling away or counting a tempo, it was as though he was able to just hone in on every notion I brought up, building on it as he nodded away and pointed to the places he figured we could add it in or just blend.

So by the time that alarm finally rang out, it was safe to say we were making a hell of a lot of progress. So much so that Marshall looked torn once we’d both jumped out of our skin at the sound and I’d hurried to silence it. 

His hands fluttered through the many pages we had, as well as my songbook, mouth thinned as his brows dipped together. Rosie would be home in a matter of minutes but he was still spinning with ideas.

I, on the other hand, was all too ready to take a break, head starting to feel heavy with the sheer amount of words it had taken in today. Marshall was a fucking living and breathing thesaurus.

“I can go hang out with her for a bit if you wanna keep on working.” I offered after I’d checked my phone for any recent notifications, noting that the only message I’d received was from Mila. An apology of sorts, letting me know that she’d be willing to wait for me to reach out again.

Em’s frown was palpable. He shook his head, “Can’t ask you to do that.”

I let go of an amused huff, “Good thing you didn’t ask then, I offered.”

His forehead furrowed further whilst he continued to collect the many sheets, I passed him the one I’d been gatekeeping. “Still.” He tried to push, but I just shrugged the word away.

“I could use the break,” I mentioned, reaching for the few empty bottles we’d settled on the floor around our feet, “Might even get a headstart on dinner if you guys aren’t going out.”

Marshall looked a little perplexed at that, “Goin’ out?”

I shrugged again, but smiled when he handed me his latest bottle, piling it into the bin alongside the rest so that I could take it back up the stairs with me. “I don’t know what plans you have!” I laughed lightly.

He ended up rolling his eyes at that, “If I did they’d include you, idiot. Wasn’t plannin’ on goin’ out though.” He retorted, before pausing and glancing over to me, “Why, did you want to?”

Honestly, he was hard work. I could only huff out another round of chuckles as I shook my head at him, “No, you’re all good. Like I said, I could get started on dinner.”

The expression he pulled then looked almost strained, as though he wasn’t used to being offered help, much less willing to accept it. But I could tell that he wanted to. He was on a roll here and it was obvious that he was desperate to keep ahold of that inspiration for as long as it would last.

I stopped with what I was doing to step closer again, hoping to reassure him somewhat. “I wouldn’t offer, if I minded.” I told him gently, “Just pray that I don’t poison the lot of us or burn the house down if I do start cooking though.”

He laughed a little at that, face softening at my words. It still took him another minute or so to finally agree, dipping his head ever so slightly in the most minute version of a nod, “You’ll call out if you need me?”

I raised a brow, “What, into your soundproof studio?”

He breathed out another chuckle, tongue pushing against his teeth as his hands fell limply between his knees, papers shuffling ever so. “Call me, call me. Or just use the intercom.”

“Yeah, not happening.” I quickly quipped, eyeing the so called intercom with obvious distaste, “I’ll call. I don’t know the first thing about how to work that.”

Marshall’s smug smirk was evident when I glanced back over at him, enough so that I could only flip him off as I moved to leave the room, muttering under my breath about being too kind to idiots, something that only proved to humour him further. 

“‘Preciate it!” He called out just before the door could close behind me. 

It had me smiling all the same.

[carrymelikeimcute]

Stop Stealing from Authors

As an author, please please PLEASE do not download 'free' ebooks or listen to 'free audiobooks' on YouTube etc.

Books take work to research and write, and author advances are already incredibly low, without us having to PAY THEM BACK to the publisher because the book isn't earning enough. Authors are already earning far far below the minimum wage per hour of work we put in.

Many ebooks are incredibly cheap already and have regular price drops down to 99p/$0.99, and are FREE using a library app.

Audiobooks likewise can be accessed digitally for FREE via the library.

Authors in countries like my own receive a small amount of money when you access our content via the library. Money which means we can keep writing books. Using the library also gives them visitor numbers and incentivises funding, preventing library closures.

Funding piracy makes the already very hard job of writing as a career even harder and endangers library resources.

'Well then maybe you should get a real job' I have a job, and that job is being an author. It is very entitled to tell authors that we need to essentially have a full time job AND still produce content for you to enjoy for free, at a speed/quality which makes writing also a fulltime job.

As a fulltime author I wrote 3 novels last year, each with 4-5 rounds of edits at different stages in the process. I also edited the two books I wrote the previous year during that time. Hundreds of hours of work. And I have since seen piracy websites making money off of that work.

Saying that piracy 'expands the reach of our books' is as insulting as being 'paid in exposure'. If you want something that someone made, you have to pay them for it. It is not doing someone a favour, to steal from them. And let's be real - how many people are you telling about each book you steal? Are you recommending the piracy site to others in the same breath? Are you just rating on goodreads and counting that as 'payment' for what you stole?

If you want to get a free book and 'expand the reach' - sign up to Netgalley and get free books in exchange for posting reviews.

'But then I can't read all the books I want to read' - Why should you get everything you want? Genuine question. I don't have all the make-up I want, or all the decor I want, but I'm not shoving stuff in my pockets because it's not fair that I don't get to have everything my magpie brain desires. You don't have enough time in your life to read every book anyway. You have to choose.

I bet you also have more than one unread book in your possession, right now. Probably a TBR pile. Why do you need another one for free, when you have books to read? And if you don't want to read those books, you can access every book, via the library.

Authors would even prefer that you buy our books second hand, because at least that 1. is good for the environment as it keeps books out of landfill and 2. benefits charity if you purchase for a charity bookshop/ doesn't benefit pirates. And 3. unlike a stolen ebook, you can donate it again and it will be visible on a shop shelf, attracting new readers.

'You should write because you love it, not for money' I do write because I love it, that's why I spent years learning my craft and working to get published. So I could do this as a job. I even write fanfic on the side as a hobby, and that is VERY different to writing publishable novels for my editor - I get to do all the fun stuff with none of the WORK that my writing job requires.

I don't love being told what setting/theme is 'hot right now' and needs to be in my next novel. Or re-reading my book for the 15th time to look for typos, or spending 4-5 hours every morning writing to meet a crunch deadline and the rest of the day brainstorming the new idea which is due in a week, answering emails and editing. It's my job, not a hobby, and it's not all fun, all the time. No one page edits for the LOVE of it.

'If buying isn't owning, then piracy isn't stealing' - Unlike films/tv, books are still available as physical media you can own forever. They're also less likely to vanish from your ereader because they aren't licenced like a tv show.

'I don't want to support a horrible person but I still want the book' - so...you agree that pirating does nothing for the author? Good. Because that 'spreading awareness stuff' we already covered, is bullshit. But if they're so terrible...why do you want to read something that was invented in their brain, and is likely full of their terrible values/dog whistles? Why not find new authors to support instead of hate reading/continuing to absorb content from people you fundamentally dislike?

Lastly, the argument I routinely see is that 'it's just the same as lending a copy to a friend'. It is not. Firstly because you're putting money into the pockets of those who stole our work, via ad-rev on their sites, whereas lending a book to a friend doesn't result in you making money off of someone else's work. But also, lending the book to ONE person is not the same as making it available to EVERYONE. I just filed a copyright takedown on one of my new books which already had 200+ hits. Unless you plan to lend a physical book to 200+ people, you will not do that same amount of damage as piracy.

[wh1msic4lwasab1]

𝐁𝐞𝐭𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐋𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐬: ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚✎

synopsis: Your english professor and you happen to enjoy the same literature, and he invites you to take a look at the libraries premium collection, to give you a little more than the suggested recommendations.

tags: corruption, power dynamic, dubcon, explicit, vulgar, cunnalingus, degredation

a/n: this is a late bday present for my bae @l0rdgeosupport3rr

wrd cnt: 1.7k

“The stranger, a fan of Albert Camus?” Your professor asked with amusement as he passed your seat in the large lecture hall, standing infront of you with his body leaned above yours to take a peak at what page you were on.

“Oh, that’s the best part.” He murmurs, seeing you pull the wired audio pieces out of yours ears.

“Huh? Oh- Yeah I’m really liking it so far, but it’s hard to annotate with a paperback.” You say, chuckling as you meet his eyes above you.

“Yes I can quite see that….Give me a minute.” He says, ignoring about 3 other students incredibly prudent with important questions.

A while passed, and you saw Professor Nanami rummaging through a shelf behind his whiteboard, full of clutter.

He comes back, “How’s this?”

He presents you with a dark red and orange hardcover of the book you were reading.

“Woah..how much was this?” You ask, carefully handing the book as to not somehow ruin it.

“I’ve forgotten since the time I purchased it. You can keep it.”

You almost have to pick up your jaw off the floor, seeping with gratitude, you reply, “Are you sure? Thank you so much Professor!”

You smile, appreciate of his friendliness.

“If you’re interested in more classics, the library has a few new hardcover editions.”

“Really? I’d like to go but I’d have to stay for hours picking the best ones.” You laugh.

“I wouldn’t mind accompanying you, I could offer you some good recommendations? I have to pick up some copies as well this afternoon”.

You agreed, excited and more appreciative of his kind gestures.

Class ends quite quickly. You stay and wait for your professor who walks with you to the library.

You use the time spent walking across campus to talk more about literature, finding lots of equal footing between the two of you.

When you arrive, he opens the doors for you to enter.

It’s quite late out already.

The library was not very populated, but many used it as an area to study.

“So, what are your favorite genres?”

You take a while to think, “Hmmm…I like romance- oh and dystopian fiction! and definitely gothic literature”.

He nods his head, seemingly impressed with your selection.

“I know the perfect place.” He adds, walking you over to a section with some books he’d assume you would be into.

Time goes by fast, and about half an hour later; you both have almost 5 books each ready to check out.

Your professor is quite observant, handing books over to you he thinks will be of interest to you, giving you a short summary of each.

You were quite impressed with his knowledge on so many pieces of literature.

He was an english teacher, but his intelligence was admirable.

As was his….everything else.

You found yourself listening quite closely to him; his lectures, his announcements, the way he spoke to you in such a respectful manner. It made you think about how he’d sound in more- intimate scenarios.

You’d drift off in class thinking about it.

He squats down to pick up a book off the very bottom shelf, putting it back though.

But then, his knuckles brushed against your hip as he pulls a third book from the shelf above, bending his back to set it on the ground, his stack growing taller.

He doesn’t say anything at the contact, secretly watching for any reactions from you.

When you display none, he only gets more bold.

“Excuse me”, he whispers, taking a book directly above your frame; pressing his crotch directly behind you, groaning at the stretch his hand travels to grab the spine.

This time you did have a reaction, something inside you told your body to move slightly back, almost unnoticeable in the way you scooted into him.

You felt the presence of him behind you, casting a shadow infront of you.

“This is a great one. Can’t believe they keep it all the way up here.”

“Catcher in the Rye? I’ve heard a lot of complaints about that one actually.”

“Pfft, the people who complain about this book just don’t know how to read between the lines. It’s an amazingly realistic book, everyone should read it at least once.”

You hear him go on more about the book, simply responding with “Uh huh” and “Mhm”’s but all you can focus on is how hard his cock felt against your ass just a minute ago. How the lighting in the library looks on him, how his rolled up sleeves display the veins that run up his arms and adorn his hands. The glare in his glasses snaps you back to reality, the reflection of your face; practically drooling over your Professor.

It felt terribly wrong, but all you wanted to do was kiss him, feel his hands on your back as he ravished you right here against the bookshelf.

“So?-“ He said.

“What? sorry- I didn’t hear you. “

He smiled, “I asked if you wanted to go ahead and take a seat.”

You nod, laughing off your little slipup.

He leads the way, you almost instinctively hold his hands, stopping yourself just in time so he didn’t notice.

The two of you sit down in between two tall science fiction shelves, secluded and honestly too dark to try and read anything.

He didn’t plan to read.

“So what are your plans here?” He asks, jumping to a completely different topic.

He removes his jacket, throwing it over the armrest of the couch next to him.

“Well- I’m not too-“

You pause, feeling his hand place itself on your knee.

“Go on dear.”

“I’m not too sure yet, but I’m interested in an aeronautic focused field.”

“Oh wow, smart girl.” He says, his hand now slowly rubbing your leg.

“Professor-“

“Kento, just go ahead and call me Kento.” He adds.

His behavior made your skin tighten, your face getting hotter from the contact he was making under the table.

A number of students could see if they just walked by.

“You were saying y/n?”

“Right…I’m just- Professor what are you doing…”

“Didn’t I just tell you to call me Kento?” He asks, his palm now grazing up and down your thigh.

“S-Sorry-“ You say, obviously stiff and embarrassed at what he was doing, incredibly ashamed of how much you wanted him to go higher.

'Don't be sorry, my dear. Just relax.”

His words sent chills down your spine and you couldn't believe what was happening. In the middle of the library, he was touching you in such an intimate way, a very inappropriate way at that.

Your mind raced as you tried to process the situation. You were a good student, always focused on your studies and never one to engage in any sort of scandal. But there was something about your professor that drew you in, something you couldn't resist. And in that moment, you didn't want to resist

As his hand reached all the way up to your your inner thigh, you let out a small gasp, feeling a surge of desire rush through your body.

“we shouldn’t be-“

Without a word, Kento started rubbing your pussy, your leg now draped over his as he felt your warmth.

“I think it’s time you stopped talking, and just listen.”

“But-“

He took your hand into his, and placed it on his own cock, guiding it to rub himself.

The two of you soon stopped talking, just exchanged wildly inappropriate glances.

“Does it feel good when I do this?” He whispers close to your lips, his thumb pressing into the space your clit is, making you grind your hips onto his hand, nodding approval as you palm his cock harder.

His breathe falls on your lips, dangerously close.

In that moment, all of your worries and doubts disappeared as you gave into the fiery passion that burned between you and Kento. His hands roamed over your body, setting every nerve on fire. As you lost yourself in the moment, you couldn't believe that this was happening but you didn't want it to stop, but you had to try before it got too far.

“wait no- someone will find us”.

He grabs your face with his palm, keeping your chin up to direct you to his eyes.

“That’s not what you really want. I think you wait me to keep going. Maybe you want to be found like this…?”

Before you can protest, you feel Kento slide your panties to the side, ignoring your skirt as he just hikes it up to your stomach, taking two fingers to spread your sticky folds.

“Looks like I was right…you’re dripping.” He breathes harshly on your earlobe, hearing your hushed whimpers.

His fingers were so long, so thick and warm.

“Is this what you wanted the whole time? Your professor to touch you?”

When you didn’t reply, he took your jaw in his hands, forcing you to look at him instead of down.

“I asked you something y/n. Or are you too ashamed to answer?”

“I- Please…keep going”.

He chuckles deeply, inserting two full fingers into you, making you gasp and cover your mouth.

“You’re such a slut.” He whispered, pulling his fingers out and gripping both your thighs as he retreats under the table.

Your eyes widen at his vulgarity.

You protest and try to close your legs, groaning when he pulls them apart forcefully and slides your panties off and putting into his back pocket.

“Shhh…don’t worry. I’ll keep you safe, just don’t make too much noise.”

“But professor- no we cant- not here…we have to st-“

He grips your thighs harder, furrowing his brows.

“How many times have I asked you to call me Kento?”

“I’m- sorry sir…“

His fingers start to play with your folds again, taking a better look at the mess you’ve been in this whole time.

“You need to have a little more trust in me. We’ll be fine…Plus, you don’t seem like you want me to stop at all dear. I can feel your clit pulsing against my thumb.”

You froze, you couldn’t argue any longer nor did you have the will to.

Instead, you gripped his hair when he started eating your cunt, grinding your hips towards him and smearing all your juices on his faces.

The sounds he made while slurping you up plus his whimpering where much louder than you, he should take his own advice.

Your body stared shaking, not knowing if it was from your professor absolutely devouring you or the chance of someone catching you, probably both.

Wasn’t he supposed to get copies or something?

whimsic4alwasab1 ™ - do not copy, translate, modify, or claim any of my work as your own.

[sc0tters]

Better Off Apart | Luke Hughes

summary: the long awaited day has finally come! Luke is in New York and the Devils are set to play the islanders, but now a third person as slotted themselves into your love equation.

request: yes/no

warnings: this became a bit of a sad chapter, Luke is a boy who doesn’t know how to process his emotions, Mat gets jealous and also doesn’t know how to handle that. The reader is finally in a position where she’s reader to move on.

word count: 1.76k

authors note: I wrote this in an hour I was so excited. I saw that in some requests you guys actually wanted the mc of this to get with a player from the team but I sort of put my twist on that. The rest of the full length chapters for this story have been planned out but I think it could be cool doing a few blurbs for these two, so if you want to see anything in those let me know!

previous part | next part

It had been circled in red pen.

The date on your calendar had been marked the moment you got the NHL calendar announcement.

It was the date that you had been counting the sleeps down to like a child counting down the sleeps till Christmas.

It was the date that you felt so excited for but were also so nervous for that you wanted to go to the top of the Empire State Building and scream.

It's the date that the Devils were coming to town to play the Islanders.

It's the date that you were going to finally see Luke again.

You knew that you shouldn't have been excited, shouldn't have let your grow full and your palms grow sweaty at the thought of seeing him again.

All of your efforts to forget about him were now nonexistent as you spent moments every day staring at his social media's.

After a drunk night out with friends you unblocked and unrestricted everything that had to do with him, when you woke up much more sober you simply couldn't find it in your heart to or in your head to shut him out anyone.

A few nights ago whilst being sat in front of the tv with a meal from your favourite restaurant, you did something you never thought you would.

You wrote Luke a letter.

Just like you had for each of his teammates.

So you sat and you wrote, making sure to mention everything from how you felt to why you left. Writing that letter was better than any type of therapist as it had brought up things that you had seemed to compartmentalise. There were seven different editions of this letter.

The first two had to be rewritten because you zoned out and came back to see that your tears had soaked the pages.

The next three had you swearing like a sailor as you told him to fuck himself for making you fall so deeply in love with him.

The sixth letter just didn't feel right. You assumed that it was the lack of sleep that was getting to you, so like any mature adult you got up and went to bed deciding that the letter writing efforts would continue the next day.

The seventh and final letter was perfect, you were honestly tempted to email it to your high school English teacher you were that proud of it. It was the perfect way to tell Luke that you were okay that this was goodbye and that you didn't hold anything against him for how he treated you.

Yes you told him that he had hurt you but it helped teach you that some loves just simply weren't worth it.

It was like you had been put through the grieving cycle over the last fifteen hours as you learnt to accept that Luke just wasn't on your cards and that it was probably for the best.

Mat hadn't slipped up from his role of your new best friend, if there wasn't a game on Thursday you two would go get dinner and then sit at his apartment playing card games until the early hours of the morning.

The Canadian had quickly learnt why you were so popular in New Jersey amongst the players and it was one of the things that he was actually so attracted to.

Yes Mat found himself growing more enamoured with you by the day and despite his best efforts you never seemed to notice it.

You never noticed how his eyes lingered on you far longer than appropriate for just friends, or how he'd glare down every man and woman who dared to even look at you when the two of you were out in the town. You never noticed the way you squeezed the life out of his heart the moment you came to Mat's apartment in tears one night as you missed Luke.

The Canadian was hurt, it wasn't even the fact that you weren't interested in him that haunted his thoughts at night. It was the fact that you gave your love to someone who was so cruel to you.

But Mat put on a comforting smile each time he was forced to listen to you spill your heart out on his sleeve as you couldn't get over your failed attempts to get over the Hughes boy.

At one point the Islander player was ready to rip the bandaid off and tell you everything.

He wanted you to know that you were loved.

He wanted you to know that you were wanted and it was by a man who was sat right next to you.

But deep down inside Mat knew that those words would mean nothing to you unless they came from the Hughes boy.

That was the thing about love that was so cruel. Here were two people that wanted nothing more than to be happy. But the reciprocation of those emotions from the people they craved them from the most weren't there.

Yes you loved Mat but you weren't in love with Mat and that different meant everything to him.

So he kept his feelings to himself as he watched you count down the days until the Devils came to town.

He sat there dreading the moment he had to face Luke on the ice, Mat had been watching the meditation videos that you had sent him on repeat as he tried to memorise the various methods of calming himself down that he’d had to use in other to not hit Luke.

It wasn’t because Mat wanted to protect the boy, in fact he wanted to do the opposite. He wanted to hurt Luke for all that he had done to you. The Islanders player wanted to see the Hughes boy finally feel some sort of remorse, but he knew that if he laid a finger on Luke you’d get upset. So he was going to have to try to behave.

You woke up practically running out of bed ready to take on the world when the day finally arrived. Part of you was excited to see your friends from the team too and that’s what you told yourself made you so happy.

Luke swore he was going to throw up when he got on the team bus. Sure he was excited to see you in the flesh once more. But after seeing how the every gossip account swore that you and Mat were dating after someone spotted you on another on of your excursions, hope for him was running out. So he spent the last week forcing himself to accept that fact that this was all his fault. Yes he wanted to blame Mat instead but he knew he couldn’t.

If Luke couldn’t be the one to love you then he then simply hoped that the man who loved you, loved you even half as much as he did.

The young Hughes boy felt trapped inside of his mind as he had yet to reveal how he felt about you to anyone. It was partially due to the fact that he knew they’d all laugh at him especially after how he treated you. Yet there was another much larger part of Luke that didn’t want to admit it because one he admitted that he did indeed like you, it meant that it would really be real. At least for now he could act like you were all just simply a figment his dreams and hopes for in the future. He told himself that all he needed as a simply protein shake and his usual pregame playlist blasting through his headphones at a volume that was enough to make his mother cringe as she reminded her son that she didn’t want him going deaf.

Jack noticed the way that his younger brother had gone quiet since he stepped on the bus, the whole team did. As bad as they all knew it sounded none of them bothered checking in on the boy as they all just put it down to him not wanting to see you again.

If only they knew, right?

The youngest Hughes boy knew your routine on game days from your time with the Devils. It was something that he made an effort to learn early on in his attempts to avoid you.

He hoped that you had the same routes mapped out here because Luke knew he wouldn’t be able to handle it if he caught sight of you.

Now more than ever though it was because he knew he’d start crying on the spot.

Luke wasn’t a crier naturally but he had no clue how he was going to say his apology to you. All of the emotions that you made him feel just made him want to cry due to the sheer panic that was going through his mind.

As the team walked out of the away locker room he heard it.

The sound he had grown to miss.

The sound that brought him this warm sense of comfort in his stomach that he could only describe as funny.

It was the sound of your laugh.

Mat had been telling you a story as you two made your way over to the home dressing room as you had forgotten your folder in there when you took some guests around earlier.

As Luke saw the sight of you it was enough to knock him off of his feet as Jack walked into the back of him “dude,” the middle Hughes boy groaned as he lifted his brother off of the ground totally unaware of the fact that you were stood there.

It was like time stopped for the youngest Hughes boy.

He watched as your eyes locked with his and your lips formed a smile as you sent him a nod.

Mat had seen how you had stopped listening to his story were just simply looking in front of you.

It made the Canadian angry as in that moment he wanted to throw out all of those stupid meditation lessons.

He knew his next move was childish but he didn’t care he sent Luke a harsh glare as Mat threw his arm around your shoulders.

That moment dropped Luke back into reality as he felt like he had just hit a cement wall.

“Luke c’mon!”

There was a game to be played but it seemed that it was quickly coming off of the ice as well.

And you were right in the center of it,

But you didn’t even know it.

[psychicwavementality]

※ Ch149 WBK spoilers/leaks, endosaku/endochika talk. +my nickname for chika is chiitan btw

Can't believe edsk neg diffed every sakura cp in 4 pages what the fukk

This is really fun for me to interpret...! in my view, i think that endo equates love to full-blown attention and bloodlust. since sakura is known to lock in on his opponents which was painted as a flaw (im unsure when, around keel arc was it? i rmb he realized he had to protect everyone and not just charge in by himself), this very flaw unfortunately pulled endo in

Like, endo practically spent less than 2 hours??? Face to face with sakura???? And then he's already calling him a man he "values from the bottom of his heart" before acknowledging he can never have the things he truly loves (chiitan and sakura standing side by side, and we already know his feelings for the former are Not merely platonic)

If chiitan is an unobtainable god of worship in a higher plane for endo, i suppose sakura would be the human embodiment of said god... and chiitan never gave endo the attention he categorized as love, but endo still fell first after seeing his bloodlust (the other part of his love)

When endo sees sakura with the same bloodlust, this time directed at him with full attention, he realizes for the first time in his life that he also wants to be desired by the person he's taken an interest in; i believe this was repressed after all those years with chiitan. even tho he was satisfied chasing after and worshipping chiitan, he was never truly happy because those pair of eyes would never look the same way as sakura had looked at him, with the same intense fervor.

Yet endo can't have both of them, his feelings will never be mutual. Sakura's whole spiel in the beginning was how he could never meet another person's eyes, but everyone (with "everyone" being the things sakura loves—the people who care for him) was looking at him—and now endo, who never had the eyes of the thing(s) he loves looking at him, experiences it for the first time, and sakura's gaze is trained fully on him. he's looking his way for the first time in his life, but at the same time, what endo wants will never be reciprocated. I think it's ... wow! Wow u make me HOME A PHONIC

Fucking hell this disaster gayfailure makes me insane. I am homophobic now. I hate him /lh

Edit: me and my friend talked a bit...

I like how the image of endo embracing chiitan is religiously inclined (the title, the pose, the robes, the painting). It's the beginning of the chapter, the largest image. It's clearly depicting worship. Whereas sakura's one is in the middle of a chapter. It's mundane, it's human, it's something fleeting yet all-encompassing, a potential pedestal of worship and idolization. Endo's in normal clothes sitting in front of Sakura's bust. There could potentially be more people around him but the spotlight right now is on sakura, his attention has narrowed down to him and him only

I like how Sakura is also a bust and not a painting... he's more 3 dimensional, perhaps more nuanced even, more developed; he's observable from multiple angles and his features are more defined. But chiitan's a painting—and it kind of fits since we don't know much about him at all. We've only heard of him from tales and other potentially skewed perspectives like how religious paintings depict religious figures

My friend mentioned, Sakura being a bust on a mount could be because endo can topple it down and break him, similar to the panel how a sakura twig can be snapped. Paintings are meant to be hung and admired from afar.

Another friend of mine pointed out that the kanji for chiitan's name contains 焱, while the kanji for endo's has 棪. 木 = wood and 火 = fire... It's like he's firewood as fuel for chiitan's inferno, but at the same time, endo's hurting himself and turning into cinders

Fire (chiitan) is beautiful when admired but painful to touch, but endo's been shown to worship and grasp at it even if it almost kills him.

But Endo uses words like "submerge" and "bathe" when it comes to sakura... he's like water if chiitan is fire. I don't know about the JP originals but endo does mention feeling "joy" upon meeting chiitan (a brief spark) and sakura brings "happiness" (a more prolonged thing) if eng TLs are accurate

What I'm saying is... if chiitan is truly symbolized in the painting and endo is searing himself away through worship—i'd dare say that the best way to destroy a painting, too, is to burn it.

[angel-dustspo]

Daily check in:New Year's Eve edition – Day 48!!

Workouts:

20 minutes intense HIIT cardio by growingannanas

10 minutes full body cool down stretch by eleni fit

Steps: 13 610

Eating:

I said that I wanted to eat whatever I like today (and I did) but I also overate like all 3 meals and I'm a bit too ashamed to talk ab the first two :3

dinner (New year's party!!): had some homemade bread, some cheese, some meat and sausages with pickles, baked potatoes, some cake + DEMOLISHED LIKE ALMOST A BAG OF CAJU NUTS HAHAH

First meal of 2025!!!!: even more caju and pistacchio, a slice of biscuit cake, a biggg slice of tiramisu, my love + tasted some midnight champagne (I still hate it hahah)

Water intake: 2.5 liters

Sleep: 8 hours

Studying:

Spent 2 hours on Forest!

Read 60 pages (finished Circe!!)

Did some of my eng tutoring homework

Screen time: turned my phone off again!

Self care:

Early morning workout after fueling my body, cold shower, skincare routine, cozy candled and doing school work<3

Watched some ed recovery and wellness youtube videos

SO MUCH JOURNALING (2025 affirmations, goals, plans and wishes)

Emotion log:

I had such a productive day today, I haven't felt like this in such a long time!!

I love being on dnd all day, it's so quiet and I can focus on my life istg

I LOVE THE FIREWORKS.

Random thing:

Fireworks are the most healing thing ever, I think I just learned so many things about my life and myself while watching them

I've never been so determined to recover from my ed, fight my depression and get my shit together. I just want to be prosuctive and happy and I will work hard for it, but I also want to learn to actually take it slow and enjoy the process too. I always do all these crazy things and give myself SO MUCH LESS CREDIT for all the amazing things I actually do and it's INSANE. I want to find balance in 2025, and I'm confident I will

Thoughts for tomorrow/2025:

I want to be healthy and MOST IMPORTANTLY happy with myself, no matter what happens in my life, and I can't wait to make the most out of 2025!!!!

[concert-bflat]

I need to rant about Ivan guys guys I neeed to rant about Ivan (<--- keeps trying to write fics of him but Never finishes him) like God this man is so gay and so in love it genuinely hurts it Hurts and I am Injured by it and the imagrey is Sooo Good (and Yes this is probably me just parroting stuff Everyone has already said before but shut up it's my turn now!! (aka please I've been holding in these thoughts for Months now I must let them out of their cage before one of them Dies)) [Edit I am Not fucking proofreading this I spent 2 hours on it if there is a mistake you Imagined it </3]

Just like,

You can see it in the way he sees the stars in Till. His own hopes for freedom and the only real light in this world that he lost sight of in Till. He is the hope and wish for freedom that he has shut away and repressed and it makes him fall So Hard

Or how you only really see that red in his eyes (after. Almost Dying) when he's with or singing/thinking about how Till has Inspired him, like a fire has been lit inside him. A fire lit in the darkness. . hmm...

even at the end of the song, where he knows full well that he absolutely Crushed his opponent and also knows full well that Till is his next one. I'm sick. I'm so sick.

Or like. When he frees Till and everything is just Engulfed in that red now. How Till has that same fire in his eyes, he and Ivan are on the same page now. They see that same hope for freedom and they both share it. They're running towards the light (like the sky's lighter there, more on that in a sec), hell, the corners of the right side of the screen are literally tinted in LIGHT GREEN. Till's color. God dammit the whole scene is tinted in red and green. They are literally Complementary Colors. I'mmm soooooooo (God these scenes are soo pretty too I was genuinely Stunned when I first saw this)

DID YOU EVEN NOTICE I ONLY NOTICED NOW the Stars are fucking green. You can see it better in some of the Later Images but they are Literally Green because Ivan sees the stars in Till and uuuughsdfbshb

OR LIKE WHEN TILL TURNS BACK?? AND. And that red is no longer in his eyes and before The Realization hits Ivan his eyes are just Glowing with red. Because he was just Filled with that hope. Freedom was, potentially, Right There

Did you guys even notice in that like. 5 frames in the half-second animation of Till turning away he's totally engulfed in his shade of green. Like of Course. That's such a Till thing to do because of Course he's running back he never actually liked Ivan that way in the first place.

And also the lighting of the sky Flips. Because the light has always been with Till. And Ivan's left in the darkness. In the. Haha. Ha. Black Sorrow. Aha *sits down cries*

And Again with this mf's stupid eyes how they revert to just black because that hope's been stripped away again, how it's even reflected in his present self singing as he reminisces on it. Fucking. Ivan's Expression when Till runs away.T here's so fucking much like the irony. Like did he even see Till hesitate or did he just see him turn and run away.

Like the irony that the guy who's always breaking the rules and fighting and defying and clearly hating living in a world like this won't run away with him, who has always been passive and obeying the rules and just accepting captivity and has been repressing his desire for freedom is so Bitter and Awful but also he always Knew this would happen what the Hell was he thinking this was such a stupid idea like

this man gets No Breaks No Breaks Ever oh yeah btw they're facing off against each other in a literal Death Match. That they might've had a Chance of avoiding if they ran away. Ahah. Hh *sob*

Also this art brings me so much Joy as much as it hurts me on a visceral level like. Ivan Always has his eyes on Till but it goes from a fond smile. Like So Fond flat out lovestruck affectionate gaze because he loves this man and loves spending time with him to a grimace once they're on stage. How Till never really changes or really Has Changed, and that's why Ivan loves him as much as he is resentful towards him. How that's what brought them here, to the stage. How Ivan changed for Till and Because of Till but still Till is like a god damn immovable object with how he stubbornly sticks to his ways. There's such resentment but isn't he himself also stubborn for always sticking to Till anyways? Hell, he's singing all about him in Round 3 and loses control over his own emotions and expressions during it I'mmm Guhhh

Also the first image is titled Observation while the second one is titled Decision(? I think). Like mf What are you deciding. What happened Last Time you decided to do something I'm going to punt you into the next planet

Speaking of observing,

Just. How Ivan's Always Observing. I saw one person point out he's like a background character and it's like he sees himself as one too. He is a passive observer in his Own Life. How he watches all the other children in Anakt garden play. How his childhood leading him to Anakt Garden just kind of. Happens around him while he watches indifferently.

How he's always trailing behind Till. Or how he tends to just. Observe quietly and is portrayed as such.

Not to mention how he doesn't appear in the memories of Anyone else's rounds, not even Till's, even when he literally (temporarily) freed him from the city. He doesn't even appear At All in Luka's round even though we get a clear shot of Till getting his hopes and dreams shattered (though it Does parallel another shot of him from Round 2)

And then the One Times he tries to take action. Or start something. It gets rejected and he's resigned to just. Trailing behind again. Because of Course he'll always follow after Till. And of Course he's fucking bitter about it and bitter about himself because he Knew this would happen and Till is Always looking at someone else and that Never Changes but. He just thought for a moment that he could change something. Man.

Oh I forgot to talk about the competitions themselves huh? Wellll, (and I'll Attempt to keep it brief because I've been writing this post for Much too long but)

Till spends his first round singing completely devotedly to Mizi. Hell, his song wasn't even in the program, it's likely- no, almost definitely something he wrote entirely for her, and Ivan has no part in it, just watches bitterly as he passes out after his, er, stunt at the end

And continues to be passed out for almost the entirety of Ivan's song

Oh but he woke up for the emotional/musical climax at least, going over Ivan's most important memory of them together, that's cool at least right?! Surely Till felt something from that

Maybe they can talk something out, or at least acknowledge their relationship in Some way. Maybe Ivan could at least be seen by Till-

Aaand Till's Actual love interest Supposedly gets shot and now he probably thinks she's dead. His attention is turned to her once again, like it's always been from the start. He never really changes huh?

Better luck next time Ivan--

Just. This mf Never Wins and it makes me Laugh as much as it makes me So Sad

Gets hopes and dreams and future crushed by aliens (standard stuff). Sold off in an auction. Put in prestigious singing school and up to that point he hasn't really cared about Anything and has simply been going through the motions.

Meets boy that basically embodies the freedom and hope he used to have. Falls badly in love. Boy loves someone else. Tries to free him and give him the thing he'd surely want most. Rejected. Back to school you go loser.

Oh btw this school is to train you for a competition to the death. Btw you're facing off against that boy you love in the semi-finals of said death competition. And you might kill him or he'll kill you. Because you didn't run away when you had the chance.

Also he didn't sing or think about you at all during his round. In fact I'm pretty sure he wrote a whole ass song that wasn't even registered in the Alien Queue or whatever for someone else. Also he probably has hardly looked at you. Also he was unconscious for almost the entirety of your song. Except for the part where you lost control of your emotions.

Oh but that doesn't matter now because now he thinks the person He likes was just killed. So he's kiiinda gonna be distracted by that. And that might fuck up your round with him. Sorry man

This was Originally a rant about how much I love Black Sorrow's imagery and the portrayal of Ivan's love because this man clearly has Complex Emotions and then Kinda derailed into me just ranting about how many L's he's being handed before getting the executioner's blade. Uhhhhh oops. Congrats on sticking to the end though?

I just love Ivan very much. He is So Bitter and so Horribly In Love and looks up to and is inspired by Till So Much and I wish people explored him on a deeper level/more personally.

I wish I saw more deep looks at Ivan/Till, there's clearly Complicated Things going on there. Hell, we don't even know what Till's pov on the whole thing is aside from that One scene of him hesitating before running away from Ivan. As much as I love fluffy interpretations of them, I (did I mention that I'm an angst addict btw. Could You Tell) wish all their Complexities could be acknowledged. Like how Ivan Clearly puts Till on such a spotlight and it is Such a downfall for him through and through and he Kinda knows it but also What Else does he Have and he really looks up to him Sooo Much (just. Look at them in that official art of them in Anakt Garden !!!) and deep down just wants to run away from this horrible place and wants to run with Till, the Light of his life the fire in the darkness the fucking stars the universe his black sorrow just. Oh My God I need to end this post already I was supposed to be studying but spent those 2 hours Writing instead

But anyways yeah uuhhh long story short? This guy is a gay loser. He tries to look sooo cool and smooth but he is suuuch a gay lovestruck loser and his rose tinted glasses are so thick he can't see shit (I'm pretty sure I quoted that from something (but also no genuinely when I first got into alnst after just watching the first 3 rounds videos and saw Ivan in official art I was So Surprised like "Oh he's actually That kind of mf that tries to look Cool and Hot but is actually just Pathetic and Sad and Gay I thought he was Just Sad and Gay")) he's probably also touchstarved as hell idk and his love is doomed by the narrative (unless Hyuna saves his and Till's asses. Buuut we'll see </333)

Love ya Ivan keep taking L's <3333 mwah

[moonkake-143]

𝐄𝐝𝐝𝐢𝐞'𝐬 𝐋𝐚𝐛𝐲𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐡 | What's Said is Said

Goblin King!Eddie X AFAB/Fem!Henderson Reader

Edited by the lovely: Jen

(please go and check out her stuff its amazing and without her you wouldn't be reading this right now.)

Content: Slow-burn, one-sided pining from Eddie, love at first sight, angst, swearing, minor injury, blood, minimal to no use of Y/n

Summary: You never believed the story you told your little brother would end up becoming a reality, so when a mysterious man named Eddie claims to be the Goblin King after your brother goes missing, you can't help but be skeptical- but he's handsome, and you can't help but fall under his spell. One thing is for sure, though- you need to find Dustin, no matter the cost.

A/n: This will most likely be the only time I put one of these at the start of the fic. But the start of this is FINALLY here, I'm sorry it took so long to come out me and my editor have been busy and only recently have we gained some free time to finish this chapter. This idea has been on my mind for months and I can't wait for you all to dive into this 80s Labyrinth inspired fic!!

Chapter 1/? {wc: 3.8k}

Masterlist

Part 1 Part 2

        Hawkins, Indiana was no stranger to bats, especially around fall, so you paid no mind to the one that flew over your head, hanging from the very tree you relaxed under. Lover's Lake was always popular at sundown, but when the sky was still painted blue and the stars had yet to say hello, it was your secret spot, especially when you wanted to escape for a few hours to read. Your current interest was a red leather-bound book that comfortably rested between your hands.

        The title had faded from the cover, but the first page named it The Labyrinth- it was a mysterious novel with no author listed. You had saved it from the depths of your local thrift store where it had collected dust, begging for you to take it home, beckoning you to uncover its secrets. In your free time, you had thrown yourself into the book, unaware of how long you had spent underneath the tree with Dart, your golden retriever, who lay quietly beside you.

        “Give me the child.” Your words carried along the wind as you read, with theatrics fit for a proper dungeon master. At the sound of your voice, Dart’s ears perked up and he tilted his head. His wagging tail gently thumped against the dirt, mixing with the sound of small waves lapping against the bank.

        “Through dangers untold and hardships unnumbered, I fought my way here to the castle beyond the Goblin City, to take back the child that you have stolen.”

        You turned the faded yellow page, a small smile gracing your features as Dart sat up, giving you his full attention.

        “For my will is as strong as yours, and my heart as great.”

        As if listening intently to your story, the bat hung silently overhead, its ears twitching.

        “For you will never have power over me…”

        Before you could finish the scene, a roar of thunder shook the ground, causing you to jump and shut the book with a loud thud. Dark grey clouds littered the once-blue sky, the air heavy and humid.

        The bat which had hung over you flew away, and Dart gave chase, barking in its direction.

        “Dart!” You shouted.

        Shoving the book into your bag, you bolted up from your place under the tree, your fantasy fading as you brushed the dirt from your jeans. As if the rumbling thunder and barking dog weren’t enough, your wristwatch let out a beep that was all too familiar.

        “Shit! Come on, Dart! Mom’s gonna be so pissed!”

        You pulled your bike up from the side of the tree, hopping onto the seat and peddling away. Letting out one last howl as the bat disappeared into the branches, Dart turned to run after you, and before you could even curse the sky, the rain came pouring down.

        Peddling as fast as your legs could manage, you made it into town, turning sharp corners and crossing streets, taking as many shortcuts between houses and through back-alleys as possible to avoid the downpour.

        By the time you had made it to your street and turned into your driveway, you and Dart were thoroughly soaked. Ditching your bike, you followed Dart as he ran into the garage, furiously shaking the water from his fur. Trying to catch your breath, you wiped the rain from your face, your wet clothes clinging to you uncomfortably.

        Closing the garage, you left Dart there to warm up, letting yourself inside to escape the dreary cold. Despite the warmth of the house, you shivered as your doting mother came to greet you, holding your fussy three-year-old little brother.

        “Dustin, look who's here!" She chirped. "Only twenty minutes late!”

        “I know, Mom. I’m sorry, okay?” You huffed, kicking off your wet shoes and socks. “…Put him down so he can walk- you need to stop babying him.”

        “You know I rarely get to go out with the girls…and he's still my little Dusty-Bun.”

        “You go out all the time! I’m always stuck babysitting!”

        “You know I only have you babysit when it doesn't interfere with your plans.” Your mother’s beloved ginger cat, Mews, rubbed against her leg as she held Dustin, who looked between the two of you with interest, his blue eyes staring you down.

        “Well, you didn't even ask!”

        “I assumed you would tell me if you did! I’d like you to have plans, really! You should be going out and having fun at your age- maybe meeting a boy!”

        Pushing past her, you grabbed a towel from the bathroom and stalked to your room, slamming the door shut. Everything was so infuriating. When you pulled your book out, you found that it had gotten wet, and with a huff, you threw your bag into your desk chair. Shivering, you wrung the water from your hair, quickly changing out of your soaked jeans and sweater, and into something warm and more comfortable.

        Wrapping the towel around your shoulders to catch the water still dripping from your hair, you flopped into bed, shutting your eyes and soaking in the rare quietness as raindrops pelted the window. It was nice to be left alone.

        But good things don't last, and your illusion of silence shattered when your mother eventually pushed the door open, her honey blonde hair meticulously curled, with makeup swiped on with precision, and that dress. It sparkled and shined, catching your eye the moment she walked in. It was like you were four again and watching her get ready to go out, trying on different pairs of heels as your dad struggled with his necktie.

        But you remember that you're almost nineteen now and your dad left- he left you and your pregnant mother for a woman half her age. You shook your head, trying to forget those memories, and when you finally tuned back in, your mother was at the end of her usual speech.

        “-back by midnight, I already fed Dustin and put him in his playpen. Make sure to tuck him in, alright? You know he's still scared of thunder. I love you…both of you.”

        The older woman was closer to you then you realized as she leaned down to kiss your forehead, though she left the room quickly, her high heels muffled by the carpeted halls. You heard her walk to the garage, start the car, and disappear into the evening, leaving you alone with your little brother.

        Letting out a frustrated sigh, you went looking for a hairdryer, laying your poor book across your desk and peeling the damp pages apart. Finding your mother's on the bathroom counter, you plugged it into the wall and with a whir, began wafting hot air over the wet book, hoping it wasn't too badly damaged.

        A sudden clap of thunder shook the house, and as you jumped, Dustin shrieked at the top of his lungs. The cry was ear-piercing and nearly drowned out the roar of the hairdryer- you could hardly hear yourself think.

        With a frustrated groan, you switched it off, stomping to the living room. Dustin's playpen sat in the corner, filled with colorful plastic toys and stuffed animals that had once been yours. He stood at the edge of the pen with outstretched arms, red-faced and wailing your name as tears poured down his cheeks, his blanket laying forgotten on the ground.

        Clicking your tongue, you gently picked Dustin up and carried him to your mother's room, with Mews silently watching from the sofa. He clung to you for dear life, his cries shattering your eardrums as another crack of thunder rang out.

        “Come on Dustin, stop crying! You're a big boy now, you can't be afraid of thunder!” Your voice was stern, which only seemed to make him wail louder, snot dripping from his nose.

        Sitting him on his racecar bed, you grabbed a tissue box from your mother's nightstand. Wiping his face, you made him blow his nose, your patience wearing thin as the tears kept coming. After disposing of the tissues, you tucked him under his blanket, sitting on the edge of his bed.

        “Fine, do you want a story?!”

        Sniffling, Dustin nodded, his small hands tightly gripping the blanket.

        “Once upon a time, there was a beautiful young girl whose mother always made her stay home with the baby. The baby was a spoiled child and had everything for himself, so the girl was practically forgotten.”

        Thunder roared and a flash of lightning illuminated the room, making Dustin bolt upright, his eyes glassy and full of fear.

        “But what no one knew was that the King of Goblins had fallen in love with the girl, and she too had fallen for him, granting her certain powers.” You waved your hands for effect, trying to distract him.

        A crash of thunder rang out, and Dustin whined fearfully, still sniffling.

        “So one night, when the child had been left to his older sister, she called upon the goblins for help…”

        “Listen!” The nest stirred- they were all awake now, eyes wide and ears pointed in her direction.

        “Wha happen?” Dustin lisped in a small voice, his hand reaching for yours and gripping it tightly.

        “'Say your right words,' the goblins said, 'and we shall take the baby to the Goblin City and you…will be free.'”

        The goblins gasped, their crazed red eyes staring at you from their disgusting nest in the Goblin King’s manor. Some had horns, others had sharp teeth, and some were dressed in remnants of armor, but they all had malevolent eyes, their ears prickling with excitement. They could feel the words that you wished to say but could not voice, felt the meaning, the anger, in the desire.

        “But the girl knew that the Goblin King would keep the baby in his castle forever and ever, turning him into a goblin- and so she suffered in silence.”

        “Isth da king evil?”

        “I don’t know, Dustin…but he loved the girl endlessly." You tucked him in again. "With a heavy heart, he watched the girl endure torture for months- until one day, after coming home from meeting with the Goblin King did she suffer cruel and harsh words from her mother. Ungrateful she was for raising her son, the young girl could bear it no longer...”

        Your voice fell into a mere whisper, and Dustin's brown curls fell against the pillow, his eyelids struggling to stay open.

        The rain pattered against the window, and you sighed when the boy finally let go of your hand, breathing softly and evenly as his arm fell to his side. Just as you had begun to stand, the silence disappeared with a sudden strike of thunder, and Dustin's eyes shot open in terror. He screamed, desperately clinging to you as tears welled up in his eyes again.

        “Hey, it's okay!”

        You could hear Dart barking from the garage as you stood up, wrapping your arms around Dustin. Pacing the room, you hummed a melody to try and calm his frustrating cries, but he dug his face into your shoulder, soaking it with tears.

        “Come on Dustin, stop it!” Your words came out fierce, yet your actions showed otherwise.

        “It’s scawy!”

        “I know it's scary, but you're a big boy, aren't you? You need to fight the fear.”

        You tried to shush him, rocking him back and forth just like you did when he was a newborn, only he was heavier now.

        “Dustin, please be quiet…or I’ll say the words.” You looked away from him, your voice lowered.

        “Wha words...?” He sniffled.

        “I wish...no, I can't...I shouldn't..."

        “Everyone, wake up! Listen!” Every eye, every ear and every goblin was awake now.

        “Is she going to say it?!” An excited goblin asked.

        “If you would shut up, I could find out!”

        “Who are you telling to shut up?!”

        “Both of you- quiet!” Another goblin smacked the bickering pair in the head.

        Dustin hiccupped, and when another roar of thunder shook the house- the loudest of them all- did his wails reach the highest of decibels. He trembled frightfully, tears streaming down his bright red cheeks as he clung to you for dear life, burying his face in your shoulder. With a defeated demeanor, you cried out in mock sacrifice, quoting the story.

        “I can bear it no longer! Goblin King, Goblin King, wherever you may be, come and take this child far away from me!”

        “No! Don take me! I be good! Pinky!” He promised.

        “Oh, that's not it!” The goblins let out crestfallen sighs.

        “It didn't even start with ‘I wish’...”

        You clicked your tongue and cuddled him, shaking your head.

        “Oh stop it, you little gremlin- nothing will come get you. But the girl cried…Oh, I wish…I wish...”

        You knew the words but couldn't bear to say them. Anger, jealousy, and sadness filled your thoughts as you looked at your younger brother; the child which you raised, the one that stole the best years of your adolescence from you. His crying slowly ceased and his breath calmed as you held him, the weight on your shoulder heavy. He was some form of asleep, at least for now.

        With a weary sigh, you put Dustin back to bed, gently tucking him under the blanket. As the downpour became a light rain, your mind wandered to your true thoughts- the ones the goblins could clearly see.

        “I wish I could say the words to let the goblins take you away…” You muttered, grateful for the boy's soft snores that covered your frightful words.

        One goblin let out an annoyed huff, trying to spell it out for you.

        “‘I wish the goblins would take you away right now.’ Not so hard, now is it?”

        Rubbing your temples, you headed towards the door.

        The goblins watched tensely, biting their nails with chattering teeth.

        “Did she say it?” A large, dense goblin suddenly asked.

        “Shut up!" They yelled in unison.

        A sudden clap of thunder rang out, causing you to jump. Behind you, Dustin screamed in fright, crying once more, wailing for you- all your hard work wasted.

        Gripping the doorknob, you took a deep breath and closed your eyes, saying the wish you had never thought you would utter aloud.

        “I wish the goblins would come and take you away…” Standing in the doorway, you heard his wails hush once again.

        The goblins were so quiet they could hear a pin drop in their nest.

        “...Right now.”

        The door shut behind you, the clouds letting out a final battle cry before plunging the house into complete silence. There were no more cracks of thunder, the rain had stopped, and you didn't hear Dustin anymore.

        As you stood outside the room, you began to worry.

        You flung open the door, eyes darting around your mother’s dark bedroom. It was silent. No whine, no cry, and no calling of your name in the midst of a frightful thunderstorm. You hurried into the room, panic overtaking your features as you pulled back Dustin’s bedsheets, your heart sinking.

        Nothing. He was gone.

        “Dustin?! Come out, this isn't funny!”

        But there was no answer- not from your brother, at least.

        The sound of laughter rang out as something scurried around the room, the closet door slamming open and shut. You spun in its direction. Nothing was there. From the corner of your eye, you saw something crawl under the sheets of your mother's bed, but when you turned to look, it had disappeared into the floor. Your fear only escalated.

        “Dustin! Where are you?!”

        The high-pitched laughter only grew louder as you panicked, anxiety coursing through your veins as you spun around the room, your heart racing in your chest. The wind raged outside as you searched for your little brother, head spinning and eyes whirling. The window panes shook and clattered, a bat slamming against the glass over and over again. You felt ready to pass out. There was too much going on.

        With a roar of thunder, the window shattered. Gasping, you shielding your face from the burst of glass shards that now littered the carpet, the raging wind chilling you to your core. You heard the flapping of wings from somewhere in the room, and when you lowered your arms, you saw the bat. It dropped to the floor in a puff of thick smoke, growing and contorting into a towering figure. Your heart stopped.

        “Jeez, took you long enough to call for me! I thought I would have to meddle a bit more.” The voice was manly, cheery, and full of mirth, the chuckle turning into a bodacious laugh.

        Fear encompassed your body as you stumbled back, tripping over a giggling goblin and falling backwards onto the carpet. A stinging pain sliced through your hands as you landed on shards of glass, but all you could do was stare up at him with wide eyes and tear-stained cheeks.

        The man was captivating, with round brown eyes that seemed almost hungry, and dark hair that framed his angular face, falling around his shoulders in loose curls. His outfit resembled something out of a Renaissance fair, with a flared poet shirt and corset, his dark pants tucked into tall lace-up boots. The long velvet cape over his shoulders sparkled and shined like the night, as if the very stars had been woven into it, extravagantly fluttering in the wind that blew through the broken window.

        “...Where is he?” You found your voice, hands trembling slightly as they balled into bloody fists.

        “Where is who?”

        “My little brother!”

        Stepping closer, the man leaned down to your level. On closer inspection, he had freckles and a fanged grin- his teeth were sharper than any human's. You glared and forced a fire to your eyes, but his held no malice as he looked you over, his gaze landing on your trembling hands.

        “Who are you?! What have you done with Dustin?!” You demanded.

        His hands seized yours and you hissed in pain, the smell of iron hitting you as he held them up, his intense eyes seeming to sparkle. You winced at the sight of the injury- glass bits were embedded into your palms and a large gash ran through the center of your left hand, blood oozing from it.

        The man gently cupped your hands, passing his fingers over the wounds with dark, concentrated eyes. The throbbing pain dissipated as you recoiled, staring down at your injured palms. Before your very eyes, the glass in them crumbled into into sand, disappearing before the grains could hit the floor, and the blood seemed to flow back into your cuts, your skin sealing itself shut.

        Shock, confusion, and panic overtook you as you began to hyperventilate, your heart pounding. How could this be? You felt the glass pierce your hands, you smelled the blood- but not even a scar had been left behind.

        You quivered, hyperaware of how close this man was to you and how he definitely wasn't human.

        “Who are you!? What are you?!”

        “Me? I’m Eddie! You should already know that much, since you're the one who invited me here! I’ve been waiting ages for your call!”

        “Invited? My call?” You stammered. “…No…you’re the Goblin King...?!”

        “The one and only!”

        “No! It was a mistake! I was only telling a story- I didn't mean it! Bring him back!” You scrambled to your feet, shoving Eddie with newfound courageous force. He stumbled, his eyebrows scrunched as he held his ground, dusting off his cape.

        “My dear, what’s said is said- you're the one who wished him away. Story or not, it was in your heart.”

        “But I didn’t mean it! Please give him back!”

        “I’m afraid I can’t do that, but I brought you something better!”

        Eddie plucked a crystal ball out of thin air, its glass catching the glimmering rays of the faded moonlight.

        “Look into it, tell it your deepest wish, and your dreams will come true. Forget about the baby~” The crystal shimmered as it called you, beckoning for you to take it.

        “All my dreams?” You reached out with a slight tremor, your voice soft.

        “Yes, all of them.”

        Blinking, you froze, fingers mere inches from the crystal- how could you forget Dustin? Dustin, your little brother, who was probably terrified, was all alone somewhere far, and here you were ready to forget him. How could you think such a thing?

        “Where is he?! Tell me now!”

        You slapped away his outstretched hand, and the crystal orb tumbled to the ground. It shattered, and you gasped as a snake sprung from the fragments. Threatening to strike at your toes, you jumped from it, and the serpent slithered away into the darkness behind you, disappearing under your mother’s dresser.

        “Your brother is in my manor. If you wish to see him again, you will have to find your way through here.”

        Eddie stepped aside, the scenery outside the window changing from the dreary darkness of Hawkins to a bright landscape with rolling hills, covered in a lush green hedge labyrinth, and at the center lay a grand manor- it was like nothing that you had ever seen before. You stepped towards the window, and your mother's bedroom disappeared from around you.

        Where was this place?

        “I'm in the mood for a little game..." Eddie leaned in, his voice like honey in your ears. "If you do not reach your brother in the next, let's say thirteen hours, he'll remain here for eternity..." An ornate clock appeared behind Eddie, the hands moving before your very eyes. "...But if you can solve my labyrinth before time runs out, then the both of you may return home.”

        You flinched, your cheeks flushed from how close he had been.

        “So, what will you do?” He whispered the question like a prayer, his sparkling chocolate eyes drawing you in, drowning you- but you had to look away, eyeing the manor from your place on top of a grassy hill.

        “It doesn't look that far…” Your voice trailed off.

        He let out a laugh that warmed your very soul, the sound deep and rich, his grin sharp and toothy.

        “It’s farther than you think. But don’t fret- I shall benevolently monitor your progress, Miss Henderson- or should I call you…” He whispered your name as if it was a sin, his lips quipping into a smirk.

        Your eyes widened- you had never told him your name.

        “How did you-?”

        His eyes twinkled mysteriously, the clock chiming as it disappeared from thin air.

        “Good luck sweetheart, you're gonna need it!” With a gust of wind and the flutter of his cloak, Eddie vanished in a cloud of mist, his voice fading from your ears.

        You stared down at the manor, the labyrinth seeming more enormous than it had at first glance.

        But you had to get to the center and find Dustin- even if it meant encountering the peculiar Goblin King again.

        Fighting off a blush, you started walking.

Taglist: (if you want to be added or removed from the list let me know here!)

@sh0wthyself, @fracturedarkness 

[eventinelysplayground]

The Sun & Rain

This fic is part of the Ikemen Villains gift exchange hosted by @aquagirl1978 (thanks for the beta read). My giftee is @honeybyte who wanted something fluffy, warm and intimate. This is the first time I have written for an OC that wasn't my own and I took a look at the pics/info on their page and also provided to come up with what I think is a good representation. I really hope that I was able to do them justice and that you enjoy the fic! Joss and Liam share some snacks and a calming night together. WC approx 1040 purely fluff, banner from @natimiles-edits.

The hallways of crown castle were usually quiet at this hour but tonight there was the faint sound of a melody being muttered followed by booted footfalls.

Joss walked at a steady pace towards their lover's room. They knew he would still be up even if it was late, Liam wasn't a good sleeper after all but lately it had been worse it seemed. So tonight Joss had had enough of it and decided to do something about it hence the silver tray laden with snacks they had made and their favorite calming tea.

Turning a corner they stopped briefly and took a final glance over the tray wanting to make sure nothing had been forgotten. They nodded in satisfaction and smiled to themself briefly.

I never thought my worst idea would lead me here, and to him.

Their internal thoughts were referring to that fateful night when on their way home they'd done something out of character for them leading to them stumbling upon some members of Crown conducting ‘business’ in an alleyway and the resulting deal they’d made to safeguard their life.

I really wish he would take better care of himself though. I know he's trying to but those wounds the other day were pretty bad.

Joss let out an aggregated sigh and continued on their way down the hallway until they got to Liam's door. They quickly looked down at the tray then up at the door then back at the tray again, it was too uneven for them to feel comfortable trying to balance it in one hand but how else would they knock? After a brief pause they shrugged and kicked at the bottom of the door with their heavy boots.

“Liam? It's just me.”

“Oh Joss! Come on in.”

Joss’ cheeks warmed at the tone of Liam's voice and a smile spread across their face before quickly falling.

“I'd love to but I can't my-”

“What!? Why can't you?”

Joss' head dropped and they released a small sigh.

“Because my hands are full.”

“Oh!”

They heard hurried movement on the other side of the door and didn't have to wait long for it to swing open.

“I'm sorry about that Joss, here let me take that for you.”

“No, I got it.”

Joss walked over to the coffee table and set the tray down while simultaneously pushing aside some of the many gifts from Liam's numerous admirers.

“Those look good!”

Liam's eyes were wide as he looked over the tray and Joss couldn't help but let out a small laugh.

“It’s just some simple snacks and tea.”

“Maybe, but you made them right? So that makes them special, let's see I'll have…this one.”

Liam popped a cookie into his mouth and nodded as he chewed.

“This is really good.”

Joss picked up their own cookie and sat on the edge of Liam's bed.

“So how was rehearsal today?”

Liam walked over and sat cross legged on his bed beside Joss, hands full of snacks.

“It was such an adventure! First they couldn't find–”

And so Joss and Liam spent the next few hrs just talking about nothing and everything. The conversation had flowed easily between them even after they had polished off the last of the tea and snacks. It hadn't always been this way though, in the beginning they both had built their walls up high and sturdy, especially Liam's. Eventually as they became closer to Liam they began chipping away at his wall slowly but surely. Even now they were still working on it but they had always been a hard worker and it was nights like this when their persistence paid off the most. The grandfather clock rang out the late hour just as Joss stifled a yawn.

“I didn't realize it was so late! I really shouldn't keep you up any longer, I know how important getting enough sleep is to you.”

“I'm not tired yet.”

They hated lying but they could tell something was still bothering Liam and even if he wouldn't say what it was they still wanted to be there for him.

“But…”

“Hey Liam, do you think I could ask you for something?”

“Of course! You know I'll do anything for you Joss.”

Joss smiled, their green eyes seeming to softly glow.

“Could you maybe check my back for me?”

“Oh, sure I can do that.”

Joss couldn't help but smile at Liam's enthusiastic answer as they stood up from the bed. They had their overalls half off and linen shirt tossed across the foot of the bed in no time then promptly sprawled out in the middle of the bed. Liam's enthusiasm hadn't wained and he eagerly climbed up onto his bed and began running his fingers along Joss' back delicately following the outline of every mark. Soon soft little hums started falling from Joss' lips as Liam's fingers continued to dance along their skin.

Joss' vitiligo used to bother them immensely when they were younger and more than once they had wanted to wish it away, then it was just an unchangeable part of them until eventually it became something more, something special. They still remembered how Liam had first tentatively asked them about it, and how he expressed such a childlike curiosity the first time he traced the outlines along their arms. It had becoming a soothing ritual, one that met some unspoken need in both of them while bringing them closer together.

“Thank you for keeping me company tonight Joss.”

*Soft breathing*

“Joss?”

Liam pulled back so he could see his lover's face and he smiled to himself.

“You know, for somebody who once said they weren't very romantic you sure do a good job at it.”

Liam carefully leaned down and placed a kiss upon the back of Joss' neck.

“You always seem to know when I need cheering up somehow and do everything you can to make me smile and you’re so warm, like my own personal sun. I'm so lucky to have you so, stay with me forever okay?”

Liam let out a contented sigh and laid down to snuggle up against Joss, letting their sun-like warmth seep through him and chase away the rain in his heart.

[mystic-writings]

right where you left me (no choice but to stay here forever)

PAIRING — wilbur soot x fem!reader

SUMMARY — wilbur sees you, his ex, at your favourite café three years after breaking up with you

WARNINGS — angst, hurt/no comfort, a little fluff

WORD COUNT — 2,281

SONG — right where you left me - taylor swift

NOTES — this was supposed to be a reggie peters fic from two years ago but uh. well now it’s this i guess

anthology masterlist | masterlist | navigation

It’s been ages since Wilbur’s been back to the Harbour Café - over two years, to be exact. He felt like he was an entirely different person compared to the last time he walked through the door, and he wasn’t sure if it was for the better or for the worse. 

The last time he was here, he was with you. Just a boy, barely a man, with the woman he loved. There was nothing special to the outing - classes were cancelled due to a strike and you both slept in, spending an hour just laying together in bed before getting breakfast here. You had insisted on getting a cupcake despite it being mid-morning, and he couldn’t help but wonder if things would always be like this for him. 

Now, he was walking in as a famous streamer, working on an album with his band. It was the entire reason he was in town, after all. Well, that and to visit George. 

Near silence filled the cafe, aside from the chatter of the few patrons and employees that mixed with the music and machinery operating behind the counter. It felt odd to be back, like Wilbur didn’t know where to stand, put his hands, or what to do with himself. His eyes wandered for a place to sit, and in the back corner, he spotted someone he didn’t think he’d ever see again.

You were sitting in a booth at the back wall, tucked closely into the corner of the cafe, near the pastry case. The sun shone in through the windows, highlighting you as you turned the page of a book - one that Wilbur recognised instantly. It was your favourite. In fact, it was the special edition he bought for you for your birthday; the last one you spent with him. The only thing on the table in front of you was a mug. 

Like there was some invisible string pulling him along, Wilbur moved past the counter entirely, and quietly slid into the seat across from you. It was an idiotic thing to do, especially with how things ended, but he couldn’t help it. He needed to talk to you, even if it didn’t end well. He needed to have just one more conversation with you. 

You barely registered that someone had sat across from you, but when you finished the page you were reading and glanced up, an immediate shock of pain jolted through your chest. Your mouth ran dry as you tried to process the sheepish look on Wilbur’s face as he sat across from you with his hands tucked into his lap. 

Swallowing, you finally gained the will to say something, but all you could say was his name. It broke coming out, quiet and breathless, like a final whisper of a life left behind, haunting. 

“Didn’t know you were still around,” he said, voice small. 

You nodded, sliding an old receipt into the book and placing it on the table, next to your full cup of coffee - definitely cold by now. You had yet to touch it. You never did. You never would. “I, uh, decided to stick around. Couldn’t bring myself to go, I suppose.” 

“I get it,” he nodded, gnawing on his lip and avoiding your gaze. When he finally did look up, you could barely maintain eye contact. “How’ve, uh-” he cleared his throat, speaking louder, “how’ve you been?”

“As good as I can be.” You shrugged. 

“That’s good.” Wilbur muttered, nodding his head as he pursed his lips. He didn’t know what to say. “How’s everything been?” He said it slowly, like he was unsure of his words. 

“Uh- good, I think. I’m working now, doing well with that. My sister’s married now; had a baby in June.” 

Wilbur’s brow raised, a smile slowly taking over his face. “Has she? I always liked Mark. Wonderful lad.” 

You nodded, wrapping your hands around the cold mug before you. “Yeah. He’s been wonderful to her this whole time. And me. Helped me get work. Their daughter looks just like him.” 

“That’s lovely.” Wilbur said as he leaned forward, placing his clasped hands on the tabletop. “I’ve been doing pretty good, myself. That streaming thing sort of took off, and I’m making music now.” 

“I know.” You admitted with a shrug, smiling sheepishly at Wilbur’s confusion. “I’ve always supported you, Wilbur, you know that. No matter what. I knew you had it in you. And I… I’m proud.” 

“You’re proud?” 

“Yes. I’m proud of you, Wilbur.” You told him. “It doesn’t matter how we ended or… what happened. I always will be. And I like your music, by the way.” He downturned his gaze, a blush forming on his face. “Though, I have to say, the melody for Jubilee Line sounds familiar.”

He could see the knowing look on your face. He’d played the melody for you a few times before, but he never read you the lyrics. He didn’t have any for a long time, not until after you’d broken up. But he could see that shine in your eyes. The one that told him that you knew. You were imbued into that album. Every line, every note, every beat, you were there. And so was his pain. His regret. The regret he still had for leaving you. 

He only nodded, letting the silence settle for a moment. He didn’t know what to say anymore. He never did with you. You were so high above him, so wonderful and ethereal to him, that even in the years you spent together, he never felt like he was able to appease you. To make you happy. But he did. More than he could ever know.

“So, other than all that, how’ve you been?” You asked, picking at the skin on your fingers. “When things… I mean, you weren’t in the best place.” 

“Better.” Wilbur said. The word was so final, punctual. “I sort of… I dunno, I realised what a shitty person I was after you were gone.” He shook his head, almost scoffing. “It took a lot to get to a point where I was okay with going to therapy, but I did. I still am. And I’m sorry, for the way I treated you. You didn’t deserve it. Any of it.” 

You reached out, resting a hand on his clasped ones. It was the first contact he’d made with you in years, and it still radiated comfort. Your hands were cold, and Wilbur recalled how they never were. He remembered how you always stuck them under his shirt or into his own hands, just for a semblance of warmth to comfort you. “It’s okay, Wilbur. I understand, more than anyone.”

Wilbur unclasped his hand and took yours in one of his, unable to stop it from shaking as he did. His large hand wrapped around your smaller one, and almost instinctively he tried to warm it up. His mind was reeling, wondering, thinking, of where you would be if he hadn’t done what he did. If he hadn’t forced you out. 

Would you be married? Would you have been considering kids by now, or would you already have one? Would your life have mirrored the perfect picture of your sisters? He had plans for you both. For your future. But he let his own mind get in the way of it. 

It didn’t help that he was planning to propose. The ring sat, every day, at the bottom of a drawer in his desk where he streamed from. It gnawed at him 24/7, feeding his already poor mental state with constant anxiety. It tore at him until he couldn’t take it anymore. And he regrets it every day. 

“I’m sorry.” Wilbur whispered, voice trembling as he hung his head. “I’m so sorry.” 

You gripped his hand as tight as you could manage, reaching your other one out as well. Hearing his voice, so thick with tears like it had been so many times before you broke up, tore at your still broken heart. “It’s okay. It’s okay. I forgive you, Wilbur.” 

He gulped, squeezing back, sniffling and clearing his throat before he looked back at you, eyes a little more red than they were before. “I, uh, I feel like I’ve got some things to tell you. I think you deserve to know them, you know?”

Your heart jumped and your stomach twisted, waiting for whatever Wilbur had to tell you. It didn’t sound good, or like it would benefit you in any way, but you nodded anyway, clinging to Wilbur’s hands and the warmth they provided like a lifeline. 

You nearly died when his thumbs started stroking the backs of your hands. 

“I had plans for us. For the future. With you.” He told you, and you froze. “There was a ring, I was hiding it in the bottom drawer in my desk for months. Four feet from where you slept. And sometimes I considered just proposing to you in the middle of the night, just to get it over with and be happy with you, you know? But I never could, and it made things worse, all that anxiety.” 

You stifled a noise, a mixture between a laugh and a sob caught in your throat. 

“And I was gonna wait until I got more money from streaming to have the wedding, so I could give you as big of a wedding as you wanted and we wouldn’t have to worry about anything.” He gulped, pausing for a moment to blink tears away. “And I wanted kids with you. A house, a cat- or whatever animal you wanted, really- and a life. Something that meant something to us. Whatever you wanted. And I just- God, I was an idiot. And I threw it away.” 

This time, you laughed, wet and sad, soft and quiet. You squeezed Wilbur’s hands, short and bittersweet. You were the one to pull away, wiping a tear from Wilbur’s cheek, hand lingering on his skin. He leaned into it, breathing deeply as he did, resisting the urge to plant a kiss on the corner of your palm. 

For a moment, Wilbur could believe he was back there. Before he ruined everything for himself - for you. He could trick himself into thinking he was back in that old apartment, sunset painting the bedroom walls gold, your cold hands warming his heart even with the simplest touch. 

But he couldn’t be there forever. Neither could you. Both of you had people that needed you, that loved and cared for you, independent of one another. And Wilbur had someone he cared about, too. 

And she wasn’t you. 

As much as he wishes she was. 

So, he pulled back, taking a second, clearer breath in and opening his eyes. His hand pulled away from yours, landing back in his lap. The cold leeched back into your skin immediately, missing the warmth Wilbur provided. You shrunk back, too, and the moment was over. It was like the conversation you’d just had with Wilbur didn’t happen, and you were back to the beginning. 

You knew what he was trying so hard not to tell you. It was written within the guilt on his face. “How’d you meet her?”

Wilbur looked up. “What? How did you-”

“Don’t worry about it, Wil. It’s fine.” You lied, shrugging your shoulders with casualty as if some part of you didn’t just break down within. “It doesn’t surprise me, you know. I mean, it’s been two years.” 

“We met a few months after I left.” He muttered, pushing the hair from his eyes. “I remembered that you told me about how you got your feelings out with art sometimes, and the university offered night classes. So I went. She was there, next to me, and we had a lot of fun.” He told you, and you felt another piece of the heart you worked so hard to rebuild fall off. “We got each other through lockdown, too. We started dating last May. I mean, she doesn’t quite approve of my career, but it pays the bills, so,” He shrugged, and your heart tore in two.

“That’s,” you started, clearing your throat when you felt your voice about to betray you. “That’s nice, Wilbur. I’m glad.”

The man before you only nodded. The silence settled between you again, neither of you two knowing where to go with the conversation anymore. Neither of you looked at the other, the guilt and heartbreak that was resurfacing and healing all at once being too much for either of you to stomach. 

Until, the bell rang at the top of the door and shoes squeaked against the tile. “Wilbur! Jesus, man, when you said this place was hard to find, you weren’t wrong. Google maps rerouted me twice, and I was walking.”

Both you and Wilbur looked up at the brunet that was approaching your booth. His cheeks were flushed and his smile wide, until it faded seeing you with your ex. 

“Oh, uh, sorry, I didn’t realize-”

“It’s okay, George.” Wilbur gave the man - George - a tight smile. “Y/n’s an old friend.” 

“I should get going,” you said, grabbing your book from the tabletop. Offering a tight smile to Wilbur and a polite one to George, you slid from the booth. “It was nice to see you again, Wilbur. Really. I wish you the best.” 

He smiled back at you, sad and slight, but it was a smile nonetheless. 

With a nod to George, you turned to leave the cafe, catching the whispers of George asking Wilbur who you really were. You were just glad you didn’t hear his answer.

hba taglist: @z0vamp @blancastans

taglist form

[madas-ahatters-world]

Day 1: Plead

Thanks to @bitbybitwrites for sharing this challenge with me, it's always fun when we do these challenges together! And to @klaineadvent for putting this Klaine fun together.

A day late, but here is Day 1 - plead:

It’d been a long day, and all Kurt wanted to do was put their seven-year-old twins to bed after an eventful day of Christmas shopping (and fighting off the urge to impulse shop for himself), and stuff his face with Ben and Jerry’s until his gorgeous husband arrived home. He then had plans to drag him upstairs to their bedroom, rip off his clothes, and devour him all. Night. Long.

Well, at least until midnight.

1:00 am tops. Their twins still tend to wake up at the crack of dawn.

It had been an hour past when he was due home, Kurt already having gone through a pint and a half of Minter Wonderland drizzled in chocolate syrup and whipped cream, when Blaine walked through the door of their very elaborate Christmas-decorated brownstone.

“I’m in the kitchen,” Kurt called out, having heard Blaine walk through their front door.

Blaine removed his jacket and hung it on the coat rack along with his work satchel, and walked toward the kitchen, undoing his bow tie. He found Kurt sitting on an island stool, in their kitchen, spoon hanging from his mouth, hunched over casually reading the latest holiday edition of Vogue.

“Hey baby, sorry I’m late.” Blaine greeted tiredly, tie undone, unbuttoning the first two clasps of his shirt. He leaned in gracefully to kiss Kurt on his lips, Kurt removing the spoon from his mouth, and meeting Blaine’s mouth on queue.

“Mmm, you taste delicious,” Blaine said flirtatiously, going in for another kiss.

Kurt chuckled as Blaine opened the refrigerator to grab a beer.

“I hadn’t intended on eating a pint and a half of this stuff, but - I was sitting here all alone, with no one to keep me company,” he said teasingly. “So, you know,” he shrugged, “when in Rome!” Kurt raised his dessert in a mock toast and returned to looking at his magazine.

Blaine was casually leaning his hip against the counter. “You’re so dramatic,” he said smiling at Kurt, as he brought the bottle of alcohol to his lips.

They were both feeling the itch, sexual tension now in full effect as their intimate needs had taken a backseat when the holiday season approached.  This was the busiest time of year for them both, juggling home life, work, and kids. Life got busy, and by the time they got home each evening, they didn’t have enough energy to take care of each other the way they loved. The way they always craved. 

“You’d be too if you spent the day fighting off savage Christmas shoppers with two 7-year-olds,” he replied, with mock snark and a flirtatious side-eye. Kurt flipped the page of his magazine as Blaine stood by the counter, seductively drinking his beer. Even though his glance was quick, Blaine could see his pleading eyes. He heard him loud and clear.

“Kids asleep?” Blaine asked taking another long sip.

“Of course,” Kurt replied. “They were exhausted by the time we got home. I made them a quick dinner, they took a bath, and knocked out in record time.” He flipped to another page.

Blaine placed his drink on the counter, proceeding to slowly untuck his shirt from his chinos. He sensuously ran his fingers through his hair, breaking apart those gelled-down curls. Kurt loved it when he did that.

Blaine walked over to Kurt, hugged him from behind, and began peppering his neck and jaw with delicate kisses.

“Have you taken a bath?” He asked in a low sultry voice.

“No. I was hoping we’d get dirty together and then soak in one after.” 

“After all these years, I love that you still feel the need to flirt with me.” Blaine chuckled.  “You know I’m a for sure thing, right?”

“But flirtatious foreplay is so much more fun,” Kurt smirked. “We’ve been so busy the last few weeks, I thought we could do with a little ice cream play. I also bought some chocolate syrup and whipped cream." Kurt winked. 

“Chocolate syrup, huh? You really do mean business,” Blaine teased.

“Mhm,” Kurt nodded, turning his head just enough to catch Blaine’s lips for a more heated kiss.

“Well then, Mr. Hummel-Anderson,” he said with one more lip smack. "Let’s get this ice cream social started.”

[physalian]

The Woes of Formatting

I am… 22 hours into formatting ENNS for print (now ebook) and am making this post for posterity’s sake to say: Formatting is so. Tedious. I had to start over thanks to Amazon going “ha you didn’t set your margins properly,” and also some last-minute changes to the text. Yesterday (7/24/24) after a full day of work, I worked on Book from 2:30pm to 11:30pm. Today is probably going to be about the same.

My neck hurts from staring at my monitor, my pinkie hurts from the strain of holding a computer mouse in one position since 6am. I have forgotten to cook lunch and dinner, but I did have breakfast.

It doesn’t even feel real yet. I am exhausted. But you know what feels great? Eliminating widows and orphans on the pages to erase the page count only by one. If you don’t know, those are the little hanging words on the bottom line of a paragraph or the top of a page that can be resized to fit on the line above it.

Getting to the last page of the chapter and realizing there’s only 3 or 4 lines of text left eating up an entire piece of paper, and then scrolling back through the chapter like a madwoman to nudge other paragraphs around to eliminate that extra page… I was literally cheering in my room in satisfaction.

For the record it shouldn’t take you this long, but I wanted it to be pretty, and Amazon is incredibly precise with their formatting requirements down to 0.001inches. So I had to reformat the cover art, which took a while. Then I had to fix the margins at least 3 times until no more errors showed up. Then I had to reread the entire book for last-minute changes. Then I had to format the chapter header pages.

Before that, though, I had to make the art for the chapter header pages. And re-learn how to do all of the formatting on InDesign.

So here I am, 22 hours in, finally onto the ebook that will be done tonight goddamn. And I just want to say, if it’s within your power to do as much of the work yourself as you can, fucking do it.

I’d be losing my mind with stress if I was waiting for a cover artist to make adjustments whenever they deigned to find my order a priority. Or the person I’d be paying to format this book. Losing. My. Mind. Maybe after the ridiculous goose chase I have been on with editors for this book has completely murdered my faith in paid beta readers to do shit in a timely manner (ENNS' first draft was written in 31 days, it took from 2/25/24 to 6/10 for my tiny army of betas and the AWOL failed betas to deliver, then 6 weeks for the professional copy edit). Anyway.

Yeah it’s taken me a long ass time, on top of two full corporate-nonsense workdays, but the satisfaction I have felt hammering this project out isn’t comparable to paying someone to do it for me. I got the manuscript back from my copy editor and I wasn’t excited, I was like “I needed this 10 days ago thanks” (in my head) and then got right back to work. Copy editor is necessary, don’t get me wrong, it’s absolutely necessary, but the catharsis that I have now was definitely absent then.

So. Yeah. This is rambly and I’m not sorry. Even after the ebook is up for preorder there’s still work to be done and money to be spent. But I’m forcing myself to take a break, pause, breathe, appreciate the work I have already done.

I am hours away from launching my first published novel. Hours.

It doesn’t feel real. August 25th, 2024, Eternal Night of the Northern Sky's official release date. Gahhhhhhh.

—

For anyone curious:

Cover was done in Photoshop (I have the Lightroom student package for $9.99/mo)

Formatting was done in InDesign (%#&%# $35.99/mo after 7 day trial choke on rocks, Adobe)

Formatting did not need to be done in ID, but other one-time fees were either more expensive when I can cancel my subscription after the month is up, or the free versions were too limited and constricting in their capabilities.

I’m far too nitpicky to not have complete creative freedom and control over my work, with all the hours I have put in. So Adobe it is.

Back to work!