#I have a little collection of favourite fics that I always circle back to

[moonlitsnowfalls]

It's that time of year again

The time to re-read What You'd Thought Lost by @deliriumsdelight7 yet again, but this time it feels particularly festive bc it's the right time of year.

[wife-of-all-dilfs]

the five stages | f. odair

masterlist

summary: a journey back to a golden period of time of polaroid pictures, white knitted sweaters, and lively sea-green eyes. why? because in the present, those same pair of eyes are ruthlessly unrelenting and you have no other chance of their escape.

pairing: finnick odair x fem!reader

warnings: heavy angst, vomiting, implied smut, depression, maggots, hallucinations, relieving fluff, mild horror. I don’t want to spoil the story too much, so I won’t be adding any more warnings, sorry y’all. this could be very triggering so please read at your own discretion. some descriptions are quite graphic!

notes: I’m super proud of this one—it’s sorta based off “little talks” by of monsters and men and “on the nature of daylight” by max richer. this fic probably won’t get many views, so I’ll be incredibly grateful for any—if any at all—type of engagement! <33

word count: 8k

The bedroom was cold; dark; empty. Empty even though I still resided in it.

My alarm had gone off two hours ago, yet I hadn’t moved an inch. When I finally turned my head to the side, I found that the space beside me was vacant. Cold; dark; empty—I reached out my hand anyway.

Thirty minutes passed before I wrestled myself out of bed and started making breakfast downstairs. The otherwise warm and flavourful plate of fruit-filled yoghurt and scrambled eggs on toast left my mouth feeling dry and my throat lodged.

It used to be one of my favourite meals. At least, when he was around.

Dishes were piled in the sink, dirty and untouched. I sat on the couch, pondering whether today was the day I would finally get to cleaning them. It wasn’t. I couldn’t. We always did that together. I wondered—if I left them in the sink long enough, would he return? Even just for five minutes to help me put them away? One month and seventeen days had passed, and yet I still entertained this thought religiously.

I wasted an hour running circles round the same contemplations before deciding fresh air, as cliché as it was, might do me some good.

Grey clouds concealed the sun’s warm golden light when I stepped outside, but that was fine—I didn’t like anything golden anymore. But he would want me to leave the house at least once a day, so that’s what I would do. I would go down to the beach beside our—my house and feel the sand collect between my toes as I walked to the water’s edge.

But wasn’t that where he was when it happened? Wasn’t he in water? Didn’t those things pile on top of him? Didn’t they sink their fangs into his neck and tear at his flesh until he was blown to…

Bits of egg, yoghurt and stomach bile sat at my feet. My legs buckled, and I collapsed to the ground in a sandy, tear-stricken heap. Since my lower body had refused to cooperate any longer, it took me until midday to crawl back up the dune and to my front doorstep.

Fuck. I needed to rest.

“I need you to rest, sweetheart.”

“I told you, I’m fine,” I whined. “I’m not sick.”

Finnick placed a bucket on the ground beside the bed. The room smelled of lemon disinfectant—a joy I often found in being sick… That is, if I were sick, which I was not. I must have drunk spoiled milk or eaten something bad during breakfast. Nevertheless, Finnick was not having it.

“You’re throwing up everything you manage to get down, and you’re shivering like it’s the middle of winter,” he said adamantly, tucking the comforter up to my chest. “It’s summer, and you’re very much not fine.”

I sat up, ready to heatedly debate the subject, but the room began swirling, and my ears were hissing like a staticky television channel without a signal. A quiet whimper buzzed in my throat as I hunched forward. Damn him, I was sick.

The mattress dipped as Finnick sat beside me. His hand was on my back, rubbing it soothingly as he used his other hand to tuck away the curtain of hair concealing my face. I huffed, half in annoyance, half in an attempt to suppress the nausea rising in my throat, and then sunk back against the pillows.

“Not sick, she says,” he jested, smiling down at me. I rolled my eyes, though unable to hide the weak, betraying smile creeping across my lips. “Close your eyes, sweetheart,” he said, a gentle command. “I’ll see you when you fall asleep.”

The wooden flooring welcomed me with hard, cold arms as I hauled my sandy body through the front door. Images of fangs, bloody flesh, and panicked sea-green eyes flooded my mind.

More breakfast, more bile. No lemon disinfectant.

My knees were folded beneath my body; my body was hunched over my knees. I was sobbing now, so hard that I threw up again (was there even anything left in my stomach at this point?), creating a thick puddle of vomit and tears beneath me. Cries and gasps for air bounced around the house. To call me a mess would be an understatement. I was a disaster. A disaster wrapped up in an unmendable tragedy with a ragged, threadbare ribbon barely holding me together.

And in case I wasn’t aware of this fact, the floorboards were so shiny that they mirrored a reflection of myself. My hair was a being of its own, all wild and unkempt, and my face was another story entirely—a red, blotchy thing I wasn’t too interested in delving into.

But the most unsettling aspect had nothing to do with me, it was that there was someone else in the reflection. Two green balls of light were glowing above my head.

Dishevelled golden hair…

Dimpled cheeks…

My forehead was pressed to the floor as I screamed.

“I don’t want to make you sick as well,” I said, contrarily enjoying the feeling of Finnick’s skin warm against mine, hot blood flowing through his veins.

A day had passed since I first became unwell, and the sickness had continued to wreak havoc inside me.

We were both under the thick covers, our limbs tangled together as he held me atop his chest. (my body didn’t register the scorching summer temperatures. I actually felt as though my core temperature was a few degrees below freezing. Meanwhile, Finnick was characteristically toasty warm. It was perfect for me, but not so much for him, evident in the beads of sweat collecting on his forehead. Nevertheless, he made no complaints).

My body rose and fell with each breath he took. I was trying to inhale whenever he exhaled in a weak attempt to prevent the festering sickness in my body from entering his, and though it was a futile gesture, I did it anyway.

“In sickness and health, remember?” he said.

I smiled. “We’re not even married.”

“Yet, you mean,” he countered. “I plan on spending the rest of my life with you, sweetheart. You know that.”

My heart fluttered at the thought of spending an entire lifetime with him—waking up in each other’s embrace each morning, the warm sunlight peeking through the blinds of our bedroom; Finnick calling me “Mrs. Odair” or “My wife” at every opportunity because doing so made us both giggle like two moronic, love-struck teenagers; and being unable to prevent the deep smile lines on both our cheeks as we age, a constant display of our perpetual happiness.

“Sixty more years of having and holding you,” he continued with a gentle musing in his tone. “For better or for worse... For richer or for poorer.” He then stroked the side of my face and brushed away the sweaty strands of hair sticking to my forehead. “In sickness and in health…”

“…Until death do us part,” I finished, my voice slow with fatigue.

Two fingers sat beneath my chin and tilted my head upward. My eyes connected with Finnick’s. They were soft. Heartfelt.

“Not even then. I’ll love you beyond the grave,” he murmured. Then his lips were slowly curving into a pensive smile. “When we’re both ghosts and haunting the next owners of this house.”

I was now smiling, too. “I’d hoped you would say something like that.”

How could he lie like that? There was no we. There were no next owners. There was only me, alive and alone in a comatose house. And mind you, I was sane enough to know that it wasn’t actually his ghost haunting me, though I wish I weren’t because having that knowledge was even worse. It meant he was truly erased from existence.

“Go away,” I whispered to the reflection on the floor.

He didn’t. His vacant green eyes kept staring down at my crumpled figure.

I shot off the floor and spun around, hot tears streaming down my face. “Go away!” His face remained expressionless. He looked like himself, only colder. “You said sixty more years! You said we’d be together!” I mindlessly picked up and flung a small picture frame at him, only for it to pass through his body and shatter on the floor behind him. “Why did you lie to me?!” My voice was frayed with fury, though underlined with grief.

He said nothing, did nothing. All he did was watch.

My legs buckled, and I was on the floor again. I was whispering, half-sobbing, the same question over and over until the words slurred together. “Why’d you lie? Why’d y’lie?” The only time I stopped was when my tongue grew too heavy to move anymore.

To my surprise, he eventually came and sat beside me, remaining cold and silent—as I too had become.

Glass fragments from the picture frame were scattered across the floorboards. The photo within had fallen out and, ironically, drifted towards me. I didn’t bother acknowledging him as I moved onto my hands and knees and began crawling forward—my palms slicing open and blood seeping out—until the photo was in my hands. My shins had granules of glass pricking into them, but I couldn’t feel the pain; all I could do was stare at the memory in my hands.

The picture had been taken in District Thirteen, a day before he signed up for… the mission.

I was drifting in and out of sleep when a sudden bright flash lit up my eyelids.

“Oops.”

Heavy eyes fluttering open, I was met with a small camera pointing down at me, which was being held up by a lengthy muscular arm, which was connected to an even more muscular and broad shoulder, which was connected to—okay, sorry, I think you get it.

“Finnick!” I shrieked, pulling the covers over my naked figure.

He laughed, the vibrations rumbling deep within his chest, beneath my ear. A soft whirring sound accompanied the polaroid sliding out of the camera, its black film hiding the doubtless embarrassing picture beneath. He placed the film on the sheets beside him, letting the photo develop in darkness.

“I was supposed to cover the flash,” he said, still chuckling.

I rubbed my eyes, which were twinkling with little sparkles of light. “I think you blinded me.”

“Lucky you,” he jested. “You’re finally free from my repulsive exterior.”

I started to reach for the picture beside him—“You’re an idiot”—but then he was rolling us over until his arms were pillared on either side of my head and he was hovering above me.

His hair was a mess, a testament to the night before (and very early hours of the morning), and he was sporting a beautiful, lazy grin. “Yeah? Well, you’re engaged to an idiot,” he said, tilting his head in an arrogant manner. “So what does that make you?”

The sea-glass ring hugging my finger gleamed in the lamp’s dull light as I reached out to touch his face, my fingertips brushing along the edges of his pronounced jawline. Tangled strands of hair and a beaming smile were reflecting back at me in his eyes. No one had ever loved anyone as much as I loved Finnick—disregarding the one exception that was staring down at me.

“Blinded by love,” I whispered.

Brief yet poignant emotion trickled through his features, his eyes. Then, like a flick of a switch, he covered it up and lowered his face into my neck, groaning the words, “So corny.”

My fingers were tangled in his hair, holding him close to me. “Liar,” I laughed. “You loved it.”

“I love you, which is why I put up with your corniness,” he murmured into my skin.

Even after all this time, my heart still leapt whenever he said those three words, even when he was being a jerk about it. I kissed the top of his head. “I love you, too.”

We laid like this for a short while longer—Finnick keeping his face buried in the warmth of my neck, his arms curled beneath my body; me playing with the golden waves of his hair that were somehow softer than my own. He was so heavy on top of me that it was starting to become difficult to breathe, but in no universe would I ever tell him to get off. It was a blissful sort of suffocation.

A sort anyone would snap a picture of just to keep as a reminder of how beautiful it feels to be smothered with love. With that being said, the picture that lay awaiting beside me was brought back to mind.

“Oh no,” I moaned, picking it up and taking a short glance at the developed photo. I covered my face with my hands, repeating the words, “Oh no.”

The photo was plucked from my fingers, and Finnick began humming contentedly to himself.

In the photo, my face had been nuzzled into his bare, muscular chest, eyes closed in sleep-drunken serenity, hair thrown over my shoulder and spilling across the pillow. My hand rested on his contoured stomach with just enough of my upper arm and low light to conceal my breasts. Finnick had a delicate hand draped over my waist. He was gazing down at me with a smile that was just… full of pure love.

I had to admit—it was a beautiful picture. Despite my initial disapproval.

“Beautiful,” I heard him echo my thoughts, his eyes still scanning the photo. Then his brows furrowed, and his head slightly inched forward as though he had just noticed something peculiar in the picture. “Oh, and you are too, I guess.”

My head tilted back against the pillow with an abrupt laugh. I shook my head, looking back at him. “I hate you.”

“Liar,” he said, leaning in closer.

His lips were on mine for what must have been the millionth time in the past few hours. The bedside clock announced that breakfast was soon approaching, though it was clear neither of us would make an appearance within the next hour (or two).

“You love me,” he whispered as he slid inside me.

And I did.

I really did.

The muscles in my cheeks were straining due to how hard I was smiling.

It wasn’t my idea to keep a picture of us half-naked in the entryway of our home. He always was a bit unusual like that. Completely unashamed of who he was and how he acted. Sometimes a little too boisterously, but that’s what I loved so much about him—how confident he was in his love for me, so much so that nothing else mattered, no one else’s opinion.

God, I love him so much.

Love…?

Wait.

That’s not right.

Shouldn’t it be “loved”?

And why was I smiling? I didn’t have anything to smile about anymore. He was gone. Our wedding never occurred. Our faces never wrinkled with smile lines. Our clasped hands never weathered with age. He was gone.

The polaroid slipped from between my fingers. My hands were covered in glass and blood, blood that had painted a dark red splotch in the middle of the shiny film. Figures.

After a short while of staring blankly at the scattered debris decorating the floor, I finally found it in myself to start climbing back onto my feet. My straightened legs wobbled and ached beneath me with the little energy I had. That’s what happens when you can barely stomach food anymore: no energy, always sleeping, always swamped by nightmares or bittersweet memories—at this point, they were one and the same.

Not a strand of gold or a fleck of green was in sight when I glanced over my shoulder. For now, at least. He liked making an appearance once or twice a day.

Pieces of glass crunched beneath my bare, stinging feet as I made for the stairwell. A mess for another day, I reasoned. Just like the dishes. Sticky red footprints stamped each wooden step I ascended, growing less prominent as I reached the second floor.

After taking a right down a short hallway, the encompassing walls littered with magnificent seashells and dried ocean flora, I turned the knob to the furthest room and entered. The floor was landscaped with mountains of clothes which drenched the room in a familiar, all-consuming smell. The scent kind of reminded me of receiving a warm hug, albeit from someone you know you should let go of in more ways than one.

His hair, golden and tousled, caught my eye as I passed the wall of string-hung polaroids in our… sorry, my bedroom. His smile was all dimpled and brilliant, and he had his tanned arms wrapped around my middle. Just moments after the picture was taken, he had tackled me into the water and rightfully earned a smack on the back of the head. In turn, he did it again.

But before that, we were both looking into the camera with the most joyful expressions—huge grins, bright eyes. Frozen in time.

I never let myself look too long at that picture anymore. And I never, ever looked into his eyes. Green used to be my favourite colour. I didn’t have a favourite colour anymore. It was safe to say I didn’t have a favourite anything anymore; everything favourable was a reminder of him.

I picked up a white knitted sweater off the ground and tugged it over my head, staining it with splotches of dark red. Knowing him, he would wear it regardless—whatever was mine, was also his, and was equally the same in reverse, even things as grotesque as blood.

Well, he would have worn it, I should have said.

The sweater had been specifically tailored for him. I remembered how the soft sleeves hugged his arms so well that every fluid curve of his biceps was visible, similar to a building wave before it crested. On me, the sleeves swallowed my arms whole, which I liked to think in their own unique way had also been unintentionally tailored for me, like someone out there knew one day I would need some way to drown in him when he was gone.

Finnick’s fingers tugged at the silk ribbons, unwrapping the opulent gift box that sat on our dining table. Capitol devotees would send extravagant parcels weekly, turning up in abundance on our doorstep. Sometimes Finnick didn’t even bother opening them; sometimes we opened them together just to get a good laugh out of whatever ridiculous item was inside.

He never, though, opened the perfume-scented letters marked with lipstick stains.

“Oh,” I said in surprise as he lifted the lid. Inside was a folded piece of fabric, knitted and cream-white and intricate, though still simple. It was soft to the touch; thick enough to retain warmth. I held it up with two hands, admiring the hand-sewed threads of cotton. Whoever’s handiwork this was, it was nothing to laugh at.

Holding it up to Finnick’s torso, I smiled and said, “Try it on.”

“What?” He shook his head and smiled quizzically. “No.”

“Yes. I think it will look good on you.” I pressed it further against him with conviction. “Try it on.”

He tilted his head and exhaled deeply through his nose, giving me a begrudging, squinty-eyed look. From that, I already knew I had won him over, and watched as he snatched the sweater from my grasp and tugged his shirt off with one hand. I averted my eyes, feeling the tips of my ears flush with heat—we’d been together for over a year now; you would think I’d have grown accustomed to seeing him shirtless.

His head slipped through the neckline and he pulled the sweater down his body. I was right. It looked really good on him. Perfect, actually. The measurements were so precise that the fabric sloped off his shoulders like a compact mountain of snow. The thick-knitted collar dipped into a deep, uneven neckline that partly revealed his chest and made his neck look like a strong, contoured pillar. He looked at me expectantly, as though to ask, “Well?”

“It makes your neck and shoulders look really nice,” I blurted out, instantly cringing inside.

His expression contorted into something of amusement and surprise as he took a slow step towards me. “My neck and shoulders, huh?” he said, grinning devilishly. Oh, now I’d done it. Leave it to me to rocket Finnick Odair’s already atmospheric ego. “Anything else?”

I began backing away, but his prowling strides were so long that the space between us only shortened. When my backside hit the edge of the dining table, I knew I was done for.

“You know,” I began, avoiding his unrelenting stare. “I think it was just a momentary lapse of judgement.” He was closing in now, placing his hands on either side of my body to trap me in place. “It—It actually looks terrible on you,” I said, feigning sincerity and adding a little nod to help further my case.

His eyelids drooped as he gazed down at me, lips curving into that seductive smirk he had mastered long ago. “No takebacks,” he purred, voice low and gravelly. Dear God, I could only pray I wasn’t going to melt into a puddle on the floor. He always did this—took every opportunity to flirt and render me a stuttering, bashful mess. It was his favourite game to play. “This is now my new favourite shirt. All thanks to you, sweetheart.”

But, given the right timing and ever-wavering amount of confidence, I liked to play too.

I inhaled deeply, hoping my voice wouldn’t betray me. “Maybe you should take it off then,” I said, cocking my head to the side. “So you don’t ruin it.”

His mischievous expression revealed his next words before he even spoke them. “Maybe I will,” he said, and then he was tugging his sweater over his head, and I was tearing off my own. As his hands slipped beneath my thighs and lifted me onto our dining table, I prayed the wooden legs wouldn’t collapse under the weight of our next actions.

My fingertips ran over the soft, rippling patterns on the knitted sleeves, my arms crossed in a self-soothing manner. After that day, the sweater had become a sort of good luck charm—or so we agreed upon as we lay panting on the tabletop. He started wearing it to a multitude of events and parties in the Capitol (basically any place in which he needed a pick-me-up, a reminder of what he had to come home to, who he had to come home to).

He even wore it the day we got engaged.

So many happy memories were associated with this one white sweater. So many times, those cloud-soft sleeves were wrapped around my body, suffocating me in the scent of him—if nothing else, at least that remained.

The last time he had worn it was the day of the Reaping for the Quarter Quell; the last time our lives were ever semi-normal. I had fought tooth and nail to reach him before he was escorted onto the train, despite being ordered, “No goodbyes,” by one of the Peacekeepers. In modest terms, I had significantly decreased his chances of reproduction.

When I reached Finnick, he had brought me into a kiss so harsh and fervent that my lips were bruised the next day. He then yanked off his sweater, leaving his upper body completely exposed to everyone around us in complete disregard for his trauma-induced fear of doing so, and shoved it into my hands.

I had just stood there frozen in bewilderment, watching as he called out, “I love you, sweetheart!” Two Peacekeepers were forcing him onto the train, but he too fought for the last word. “Don’t forget—I’m always with you!”

That statement had never been truer than it was now. For better or for worse.

My vision unblurred as I returned to reality. Dismal, grey light was peeking through the shutters that formed the balcony doors, the daylight hours seeming to tick away at a snail’s pace. I used to wish for the days to be longer, for time to move slower, so I could savour the moments I had of happiness and sunlight which used to be plentiful.

Why do wishes only come true when you grow to desire nothing but the opposite?

Slothfully, I crawled onto the unmade king-size bed, my limbs crumpling and balling to my chest as the side of my head hit the pillow. The imprint on the mattress beneath my body didn’t match my own. It was much larger and broader. How long would it take for the springs to forget his body weight and recoil back into place as though he never existed at all?

I inhaled the sweater’s scent with every breath I took (and I tried not to wonder how long it would take for his scent to disappear as well) and hugged my arms around my waist. No pain was worse than the fleeting moments I forgot the embrace was my own and not his.

Hours passed, and so did the evening. A beautiful orange sunset hadn’t slipped through the shutter’s cracks because the clouds never dissipated. Night-time brought no consolation either. Not even the stars or moon made an appearance. Everything that once gave me a shred of optimism was hidden behind a veil of gloom.

I knew tomorrow wouldn’t be any different—the weather, my mood, his absence. Because the end of autumn was closing in, and the days were becoming bleaker. Trees would start shedding their leaves; the leaves would start to die.

I hoped I would too.

I was still curled up on my side, my body aching with stiffness, when my face began scrunching into this ugly, twisted mess of despair. My tears were slow yet heavy, synonymous with the day I had incurred.

But then something strange happened.

Someone called my name.

No. That couldn’t be right. I was the only one who occupied a house in the Victor’s Village; the others had either relocated after the war or were… dead.

But there it was again—my name, distant and eerie, yet spoken with a tone people often used to beckon over and aid a frightened, injured animal. My vision blurred, both from tears and concentration on the voice.

“Hey.”

I couldn’t pinpoint the exact moment my surroundings transformed into a kitchen, just that they had and that I was no longer in my bed but standing upright.

Ahead of me, in the distance, the sun was beating down on the crystalline water, and white frothy waves were cresting on the smooth, golden sand. It was a perfect day; not a cloud was in sight. The only blemish that smeared the blue sky was the reflection staring back at me from the window I gazed out of.

In my hands was a soup bowl and a damp dishrag.

“Sweetheart?” That once distant voice, concerned and beckoning, was standing right beside me.

Blinking, I snapped out of my daze and turned away from the window.

He stood tall beside me, despite being half hunched over the kitchen sink and scrubbing the last of the few dirty dishes stacked neatly on the bench top. His head was turned towards me, his enamoured sea-green eyes peering into my own as though he was searching behind them for what troubled me.

“Hey,” he spoke softly, standing up straight. His touch was warm and gentle as he reached for my hand, leaving soapy bubbles on my palm and fingers. “Where’d you go?”

Three odd things seemed to occur at once: first, I flinched away from his touch, overwhelmed by its paradoxical unfamiliar familiarity; second, I felt an inexpressible relief from seeing him standing before me, seeing his cheeks painted with a soft pink hue as though blood-red roses were hidden just beneath his skin.

The third was an onset of disorientation. I couldn’t tell you why I felt disorientated standing in my own kitchen with the love of my life, just, simply, that I did. There was an answer—it was close by, right under my nose, yet unreachable. We did this every day, didn’t we? We would eat meals together and then wash up together. So, why did I feel so unsettled?

I shook my head, dispelling the confusion that muddled my brain. “Sorry,” I whispered. “I don’t know what happened.” I laughed uneasily, without a hint of mirth.

He laughed too, not to poke fun or because he found my obvious turmoil amusing, but rather to comfort me, so I would feel less alone in my unease. “It’s alright,” he said gently.

Neither of us addressed what had happened; we simply resumed our routine of washing and drying in domestic silence. And as seconds turned to minutes, and as the sky remained sunny, I found myself smiling. All that mattered was that he was standing beside me and that the sun was beaming in the sky. So, I kept smiling.

After I finished drying the last dish, we began placing the plates, bowls, and an abundance of cutlery in their assigned drawers and cupboards, weaving past each other and giggling anytime we got in one another’s path. I was carrying a stack of white plates, eyeing the high cupboard they needed to go in, but before I could even attempt straining onto my toes, the plates were out of my hands and taken into another much larger pair.

The smell of sea salt and expensive cologne wafted from behind me as he towered over my shorter frame and placed the plates in the cupboard.

“I could have done that,” I said, smiling as I turned around to face him.

He had a playful glint in his eye. “Yeah, right. What are you, like, four feet tall?” he joked.

It was an extreme exaggeration since I was no way near that height, but I suppose everyone was miniature in comparison to him, being over six feet tall and all. I feigned open-mouthed offence, to which he gave the side of my head a quick, playful kiss of apology.

He then leaned against the counter with crossed arms. “Plus, when was the last time you actually put these dishes away? I’m surprised you even remember where they go.” He was grinning at me in a teasing manner, but every ounce of humour had drained from my body.

My eyes drifted to the floor.

Well, that was the question, wasn’t it—when was the last time I put the dishes away?

I couldn’t remember. In fact, I couldn’t remember what had happened this morning or the day before. Hell, I couldn’t even remember what we were doing before the dishes.

To be standing in a room, in a place you call home, and have a sense that nothing is in its right place, even though that is where everything has always been, is a disconcerting feeling beyond belief. To be perplexed by your own state of being—your existence—is even worse. I could almost describe it as a nauseating bout of vertigo.

My hands found the counter’s edge behind me, and I exhaled a shaky breath.

He stepped in front of me, one large and gentle hand reaching up to cup my jaw. “Are you okay?” he asked, his forehead wrinkling with shallow worry lines as he inspected my face. I hated that. I hated that I worried him so much. Sure, partners were supposed to lean on each other for support in a relationship (as he too did with me when needed), but I always felt so guilty doing so. Hadn’t he already suffered enough… pain in his lifetime? Who was I to cause him any more?

A sunbeam suffused the room, oozing across his face. The illumination lightened his eyes into a refreshing mint green, though, in contradiction, unearthed a pain that had been previously been concealed. Pain from what, I wasn’t sure. From concern regarding my unusual behaviour? Maybe a thought that was troubling him? Or perhaps he too was enduring a spell of confusion and had an inexplicable feeling that he was out of place.

Whatever his pain regarded, seeing it had rattled the deepest structures in which held my mind together.

It was then that I suddenly realised I hadn’t answered his question, so I gave him a wan “I’m-not-too-sure-myself” smile and then began slinking back to the sink window.

He followed behind me. I could feel him staring into the back of my head, could feel his brows draw together and his lips pull into a tight line, patiently waiting for a further explanation, though I wasn’t sure I could offer him one.

I hadn’t noticed before, but on the windowsill was a small picture frame containing a polaroid picture of us in bed—I was lying on his chest, half-naked and asleep, and he was looking down at me, smiling fondly yet with a sort of mischievous knowability. Running down the middle of the protective glass was a small, jagged crack.

I plucked the frame from the windowsill, inspecting the picture in my two hands. It seemed to uncover a place in my mind—once clouded by disorientation—I’d forgotten. Whether this place was real or imaginary was beyond me, but the fear I felt upon its recollection was incandescently genuine.

“Do you think,” I spoke tentatively, “people can have nightmares while they’re wide awake?” My thumb ran over the crack.

I might have heard him inhale a quiet, sharp breath, but it also could have just been the waves breaking on the distant shore. “Like a flashback?” he asked, an unidentifiable unease in his tone.

“No, not exactly.” I searched my brain for the right words, the right way to tell him how I was feeling, but it was difficult when I could only conjure vague fragments. And it was all I could do to tell it to him elliptically, as I knew saying the words in any other manner would shatter my heart.

“I had this vision,” I began, my words apprehensively staccato, “where I was somewhere else.” My eyes flickered over the picture. “Somewhere… bad. Everything was grey and heavy, and I was alone. Sometimes you were there, but you—you weren’t really you anymore.” I paused and looked up to find him staring at me in the reflection of the window. He looked pained; it was then suddenly hard to recollect a time when he didn’t. My throat started to constrict. “You were gone and…” my voice quietened to a broken wisp of wind, “you were haunting me.”

The room was silent.

He said nothing in response

The transparency of his reflection in the glass was so familiar—so haunting—and it was like another forgotten matter had been dredged from the depths of my mind. Stinging tears brimmed my waterline, and, due to my inability to bear the sight of his translucent appearance, I forced myself to turn around.

I glanced up at him, smiling weakly as I whispered, “I’m sorry.”

He shook his head as if my need to apologise was nonsensical (even I was unsure of what I was apologising for), and he then pulled me into a tight embrace. His chin rested atop my head; my face was buried in his chest, and his arms held me like I was some dilapidated structure that relied on his support to remain upright. Part of me knew this sentiment was correct.

I expected his next words to be ones of consolation or reassurance, maybe an “I’m right here, sweetheart” or an “I’ll never leave you”. Instead, I felt his head turn and heard him say, “Think it’s going to storm?”

With a sniffle, I turned my head towards the window. The arms wrapped around my body tightened as if he somehow knew I would need the extra support. Because when I saw the wall of dark, opaque clouds rolling through the sky towards us, an unshakeable dread zapped through my heart.

My hands clung to the fabric of his cream-white sweater, which then brought to my attention that an inexplicable tingling sensation was spreading down the fingers of my right hand, numbing them.

Lightning flashed on the horizon, and the once serene waves began cresting violently on the shoreline. The dread grew.

Before my attention could drift too far, my name was called again.

I looked up to find those green eyes gazing down at me, swelling with tears. He was crying. Why was he crying? And why was his hair wet? His usually golden strands had darkened to a deep brown and were drenched with cold water that dripped onto my cheeks, and his hair was swept haphazardly across his forehead, a reflection of someone who had just endured an intense storm or had just been fighting for his life against a swarm of—of—

No.

My own eyes began to burn.

“It’s killing me to see you this way,” he spoke, every second word breaking and wavering in volume.

The world seemed to tilt on an axis. Return did the disorientation, ravaging my mind more violently now. “What do you”—My chest was rising and falling with heavy breaths—“What? What do you mean?” My lower lip was quivering, and my eyebrows were scrunched together in confusion. His words replayed in my head: It’s killing me to see you this way.

It’s killing me.

His hair was dripping—no longer with water, but with a thick, red substance that both dripped down and clotted on his skin. He didn’t look pained anymore; he looked like he was in pain.

It’s killing me.

But that can’t be right, can it?

It’s killing me.

Why?

It’s killing me.

Becausemy Finnickwas already dead.

I staggered backwards and out of his, no, this imposter’s arms. He stared at me as blood streamed down his forehead, pouring over his eyelashes and down his cheeks. I was going to be sick. This had to be some sort of cruel joke, a newly invented punishment from Snow. But that wasn’t right either: Snow was dead too.

“F…Fi…” I tried saying his name, my top teeth prodding the inside of my bottom lip, but I couldn’t make a sound.

He took a step towards me, and I almost stumbled onto the floor. “Remember what I told you?” he asked, though it sounded more like an urge.

I frantically shook my head. No, I didn’t remember. I didn’t want to remember anything.

Something dark and mountainous appeared in my peripheral vision, and an odious smell singed my nostrils. My head snapped to the left. Stacks upon stacks of plates and bowls mounded the kitchen sink, each crawling with maggots that were falling to the floor in white, wriggling heaps.

Nausea boiled in my stomach; horror brimmed my eyes.

I quickly turned away, my eyes meeting green again. His face was no longer stained with blood, and his hair was dry, shiny, and golden with life. I was as speechless as my face was drained of blood.

He took one more step toward me, but this time I didn’t back away, either frozen with fear or desperation for one last experience of closeness with him. My heart thrummed as he reached out to cup my face. It isn’t him, it isn’t him, it isn’t him, I repeated madly in my head. Oh, but it felt so much like him when his warm hand met my skin.

“I told you I’m always with you, sweetheart,” he murmured. And I knew engaging with him, in whatever form he took, affirmed my mental unwellness, but I couldn’t stop from leaning into his touch anyway. “Remember that.”

My cheeks were wet with tears. “I love—”

A bolt of lightning flashed, and thunder boomed throughout the house.

I was back in my bed.

My eyelids were heavy with sleep as they fluttered open. I felt detached, destabilised, and unsure of my existence in the world for I wasn’t sure which of the twoI was currently in. Real or fake?

A few minutes went by before I managed to get a grip on reality, which, in fact, was the real one. The Somewhere Bad. I pinched the corners of my eyes, not only finding them damp with fresh tears but also realising that my right hand—previously tucked beneath my head—was numb.

None of it had been real…

The entire time, my body was trying to alert me, to save me from the inescapable heartache I would feel upon waking. He hadn’t held me in his arms. He hadn’t cupped my cheek nor helped me wash the dishes. He wasn’t here. He wasn’t anywhere (not even in his own marked grave because there was nothing left of him to be buried).

Even despite seeing the familiar tall outline standing in the doorway, his features illuminated with each flash of lightning, I knew it wasn’t really him.

Rain was pummelling the roof, almost loud enough to subdue the perpetual rumbling of thunder (apart from the one sky-splitting thunderclap that had woken me). In another time, I would’ve been scared—of the raging storm, of my phantom lover who was watching from the shadows of our bedroom. But not now.

In recent months, I had found that no emotion, not even fear, surpassed the soul-crushing realisation that you have irretrievably lost the one thing you lived for.

On a defeated whim, and for the first time since his death, I let the singular, weighted word breeze past my lips.

“Finnick.”

It was a trembling plea, a desperate beckon.

And he indulged.

His footsteps were silent as he walked towards the bed. I couldn’t see his legs from my position, prompting me to wonder if he even had legs at all. Or did he only have legs when I could see them? That would then insinuate that if I couldn’t see him at all, he didn’t exist.

If a tree falls in a forest and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound? In my case, the answer was simple: no, it didn’t.

It wasn’t really Finnick. It wasn’t even his ghost. It was my mind.

He reached the bed’s edge, and I scooted over to my side of the mattress, allowing him enough space to lie down on his. His weight neither dipped nor shook the bed as he laid down and turned on his side to face me. His eyes were sad, and I’m sure mine were too. We stared at each other for a long, long time, long enough for my fatigued body to start playing tricks on me.

If I focused hard enough, I thought I could hear the sound of his breathing (the wind was picking up outside), feel the warmth of his skin spreading onto the sheets (the remnants of my own body heat were left behind each time I moved), and smell the musky scent of cologne and sea-salted hair (the sleeves of his sweater were tucked beneath my nose).

Maybe for a moment—just one sickly, self-indulgent moment—I could pretend it was really him.

I inhaled deeply through my nose. “You really weren’t kidding when you said you would haunt the next owner of this house,” I whispered as light-heartedly as I could, my voice obscured by the heavy rain pouring onto the roof.

He smiled, and it was one of the most heart-wrenchingly beautiful things I had ever seen. I think I might have given him one in return, though I couldn’t be too sure because the concept of smiling had become so foreign. The last time I was truly happy was… the last night we spent together. In each other’s arms, safe and warm and together.

And then he was gone. Just like that.

Cressida, whom I had only spoken to once in Thirteen when the war ended, was the one to tell me how it happened. Katniss was too personal, too close to him; Peeta’s instability rendered conversation futile. So, I had asked Cressida to tell me every detail—every expression on his face, every word he screamed. I don’t know why. Maybe it was so I could cling onto those last few minutes where he was still alive and breathing, despite dying and bleeding; or so I could replay the moment over and over in my head, as if somehow, someway, I could change his fate.

“He talked about you all the time,” she had told me. “Actually, I don’t think he ever spoke of anything but you. No one minded, though. While we were out there, no one ever really smiled, but every time your name was mentioned, Finnick would get this great big grin on his face, and it was impossible not to look at him and start smiling as well.

So, we all started asking questions about you: ‘What colour is her hair? Her eyes? Where did you meet? What are her hobbies?’—just to see him smile… A week passed, and it was like we all knew you inside out. It was all we could do to hang on to some shred of happiness, even if it meant talking about a girl who, to all of us, was a stranger.”

I was inconsolable after that.

She kept talking, but my sobs had drowned out most of her words, so much that I had asked her to retell me everything later in the day, despite inducing the same outcome. So, she told it to me again, just as she did the day after that and the day after that and so on until I returned home to District Four.

“He also spoke about how you never felt comfortable living in the Victors Village. He had this idea that the two of you would move somewhere far away, outside the borders of District Four­, though he emphasised remaining by the sea was very important—something about how you looked while swimming during sunset and the water was all sparkly around you.”

At this point, she had been holding my hand, knowing full well how debilitating it was for me to hear. Then she had spoken with a quiet incredulity and a facial expression to match, as though she’d never encountered a love like ours before. “He wanted to build a house for you…”

He wanted to build a house for you.

And now he never would. Our love was too ephemeral for that to happen; destined to remain history; to be a memory.

Finnick's eyes stared into mine, the green hue now a dark grey from the overshadowing dimness of the room.

“I would’ve gone anywhere with you,” I whispered to him, placing my hand on the sheets between us. “I would’ve travelled thousands of miles away from this place. Would’ve lived in solitary, just the two of us, for the rest of our lives.” A warm tear tickled the bridge of my nose. His eyebrows scrunched together in shared anguish. “God, Finn, I miss you,” my voice broke. “I miss you so much.”

I contemplated crying, sobbing, screaming, or begging for him to come back, but I was just too tired. All my energy had been spent on grievance throughout the following day, and my eyes were growing heavier by the second as my body was sinking further into a state of relaxation.

Between slow blinks, I watched Finnick’s large hand move to rest atop my own, and at that point, I knew sleep would soon catch me because I swear I could feel his warm touch.

Images flashed through my mind—incomprehensible and melting together, yet somehow still graspable.

Sky blue water rippling with calm waves, the surface glittering in the setting sun. A white stonewall cottage fronted by soft, white sand and tall palm trees. Two plates of fruit-filled yoghurt and scrambled eggs on toast. Three pairs of footprints in the sand, one larger, one smaller, and another between them so delicately tiny I could fit them into the palm of my hand.

Sea-green eyes above me. Golden hair tangled between my fingers. Finnick standing in the wooden doorway of our white stonewall cottage wearing a cream-white sweater and rolled-up slacks. Finnick grinning deeply and then throwing his head back with laughter. Finnick standing in front of our bed, taking my hand in his and guiding me towards him. Finnick. Finnick. Finnick. Finnick. Finnick.

Finnick holding our child.

I was between worlds now, both indistinguishable from the other. My eyelids were drooping, and I was quickly growing insensate. Just before my eyes closed completely, I saw Finnick’s—he who wasn’t really my Finnick—lips move. It wasn’t in my bleak reality in which I heard him speak, but rather in my mind, and God, did his words offer the sweetest relief.

“I’ll see you when you fall asleep.”

[lovelytsunoda]

sweet creature// pato o ward

summary: pato is in a romantic mood and wants to make love to his sweetheart around all of her favourite things.

pairing: pato o ward x female reader!

warnings: smut!! pato being an absolute sweetheart. he fucks her in front of a window so she can watch the sunset but the window doesn’t actually overlook and spots where they can be seen

authors note: why do I keep writing other stuff while the arthur leclerc first time fic rots in my drafts and the last two tina series fics are starting to collect dust-

all was calm and quiet in the reading room as she sat with her book, manicured fingers gently flipping the page before she turned to the end, trying not to read the last sentence as she counted how many pages she had left.

truth be told, the smut scenes in this book had been a little much for her. she loved the story and she loved the characters, but the rough intensity of the sex just wasn’t doing it for her. sure, it still had her clenching her thighs together, but if anyone ever spoke to her in the bedroom the way that the male lead spoke to his girlfriend, she was likely to burst out into tears.

sure, she and her boyfriend had experimented with tons things before and they’d probably had sex on almost every surface of the house, but the one reassuring constant was that pato always spoke to her like she was the most important person in the world, how he looked at her like she’d hung the moon, even when he was balls deep inside of her.

and how he was willing to recreate almost any scene in a romance book, putting his own little flair on every scene they tried.

she really didn’t know how she had gotten this lucky.

she had just turned back to the trials and tribulations of josh chen and jules ambrose when she felt two hands clamp down on her shoulders. she jumped, screaming as the book fell from her hands.

“patricio! what the fuck?”

behind her, pato laughed, coming around the ikea couch to settle in beside her, nuzzling his nose into her chest.

“you’re all sweaty.” she whined, but made no move to push him away. “what have I said about taking a shower when you were done conditioning?”

“I just wanted to see my girl.” pato argued halfheartedly, peppering kisses to her neck while he muttered sweet nothings in spanish. “I love you most.”

“love you too, darling.” she smiled, leaning over to kiss him. “I’ve got a new book scene I wanna try.”

patos eyes lit up, and he sat ramrod straight before he leaned down to pick up the abandoned copy of ‘twisted hate’. “can i tell you something?”

“mhm.” she nodded, fingers playing with the hem of her sundress.

“I’ve read this one already.” pato laughed. “I borrowed a copy from coltons girlfriend.”

she laughed, brushing her hair behind her ear. “honey, why would you do that?”

“because I knew that you’d read the first two and I wanted to know why you loved them so much.”

“so you know what scene I want to try?”

“fuck yeah I do.” he grinned, scooping y/n into his arms as he gets up from the couch, spinning gently in a circle before placing her back on her feet, his hands sliding up the skirt of her dress to grip her ass gently. “lean back against the bookshelf, corazon.” he kissed her softly, his nose tracing a path across her skin until his warm breath touched her ear. “just let me make you feel good.”

she backed towards the bookshelf, pulling pato towards her by the hem of his workout shirt. feeling the shelf hit her back. she leaned up to kiss him, all tongue and teeth as his wandering hands gripped her skin, his tongue exploring her mouth.

“you’re so sexy.” pato muttered, trailing kisses across her collarbone as she moaned gently, resting her head against the ikea shelf, one leg curling around her lovers.

patos hand slipped between her legs, cupping her core in his palm, her breath hitching at the contact.

“I hear you, love. im right here, just relax for me.” pato murmured, hands slipping under the waistband of her floral panties as he sank to his knees.

he looked up at her with his wide, hazel eyes, hair mussed as he began to slowly trail her panties down her legs. the look in his eyes made her heart melt. the look of love, the look he gave her when he was so utterly smitten that he didn’t even have the words to explain it.

she rested one leg over his shoulder, her face flushed as pato threw her panties off to the side, the whole world shrinking down to the point where all that mattered was the two of them. he kissed up her thigh, gently massaging her skin with the hand that was holding her leg in place.

“babe, be careful, what if I lose my balance?” she laughed lightly, taking her fingers through his hair, using the other hand to hike up the skirt of her sundress.

“I’ll catch you before you hit the ground.”he answered matter of factly. “you know I’d never let anything happen to you.”

the moment his tongue touched where she needed him most, every worry or apprehensive thought evaporated. she leaned back against the bookshelf, moaning as her lover moved his tongue in slow, deliberate circles. she felt every sensation in nerves down to her toes.

as he picked up the pace, adjusting his angle to suck her clit into his mouth, she dropped the hem of her dress, nails scraping against particle board as she tried to keep herself steady.

“fuck, right there. god, I love your tongue.”

“it does so many wonderful things, doesn’t it?” pato laughed, pulling away to look up at her with a cheeky grin, his hair messy and staticky from the fabric of her dress.

“yes, now please put it back inside me.”

“you’re cute. I just want to give you things. like kisses and orgasms.” pato hummed, slipping his tongue between her folds, closing his eyes in a moment of bliss as he worked his tongue inside of her.

she moaned, closing her eyes and tilting her head back, gently grinding against patos face, his tongue still working in and out of her as one of his hands came up to hold hers, her fingernails digging into the back of his hand.

“oh, babe, I think I’m close.”

“just let go, darling. I’m right here, I’ve got you.”

pato held her tightly, moving her hips gently against his face as he helped her through her high, evidence of her orgasm coating his face as he let her go, placing her shaky leg back on the ground as he stood up, wiping his face off on the bottom of his workout shirt before kissing her softly.

“I love you.”

“I love you more.” she laughed gently, pressing her body against his. he was hard, his cock poking at her body through his under armour sweats. “look at the sunset. it’s beautiful.”

pato smiled, pulling away from the hug to look out the picture window, where the sky was lit up in pink and orange as the sun began its descent. “it’s not as beautiful as you are.”

“aren’t you romantic.” she laughed, leaning over the back on the couch to watch the sun sink behind the trees, propping up her chin with her hand.

pato hugs her from behind, gently pressing kisses to her shoulders. “I have an idea.” he says in a sing-song tone.

“oh yeah?” she asks, a lilt of nonchalance in her voice as she places one of her hands over his. “what is it?”

“this.” pato says simply, pressing his hard on up against her bare ass, hiking her dress skirt up her waist. “let me make love to you in the sunlight, pretty girl. let me make you feel pretty.”

she giggled, leaning back against him as he started to undo the drawstring on his sweats. “take it away, lover boy.”

“with pleasure.”

he rolled his hips, slipping his cock inside of her in one solid movement. she braved her body against the back of the couch, their bodies illuminated by the setting sun as pato pulled her in by the waist, resting his head on her shoulder.

“fuck, pato, I love your cock.” she moaned, reaching behind her head to tangle her fingers in his hair, bucking her hips back against his.

he kept the gentle, soothing pace, thumbs rubbing circles on her skin as he kissed her neck.

“te amo, querida” pato spoke soft, sucking a hickey into her neck.

they would keep it up until the sun went down, going for another round tangled in the plush blankets on the floor, staring at the stars and laughing about nothing and everything.

and she knew that this was the way she would want it to be forever.

TAGS

@magnummagnussen @libraryofloveletters @thatsdemko @oconso @lorarri @httpiastri @clemswrld @sidcrosbyspuck @scuderiamh @scuderiasundays @silverstonesainz @userlando

[nocompromise-noregrets]

Fic authors self rec! When you get this, reply with your favorite five fics that you've written, then pass on to at least five other writers (except me because obvs I have done it). Spread the self-love 💜

aaaa, thank you so much! Thank you also, and apologies for how long it's taken me to do this, to @mirkwood-hr-department, @scary-grace, @erathene and @verecunda who have also sent me this one over the last couple of months. I'm afraid I took fright because I currently have uh 415 works on AO3 and I kind of don't know where to start. I am also terrible at picking favourites, and particularly terrible at picking a short list thereof. So I am going to cheat and give you some links to series instead, and I am not going to limit myself to five because that way lies far too much stress and anxiety XD

My Heart Is An Empty Vessel - well, obviously that had to be on the list, it's the fic that got me into the Barduil fandom and the longest I've ever finished, not to mention it's sparked a whole 'verse spanning at least three Ages of Middle-earth. :D Almost all of my canon-'verse fics take place in this 'verse, as it happens, and one of these days I will collect them into a series but it is not this day, mainly because it's an enormous task. Maybe when I retire... XDDDDD

All I Want Is You - the one that got me through the third and fourth (I think) lockdowns, the daft Christmas-movie modern AU that morphed into something rather bigger and gave me a chance to exorcise some of my work-related demons.

the hardest choice to make - because it's me finally tackling my favourite characters making their Choice between mortality and immortality. I love the Twins inordinately, more than any other character, and I think I have more very fixed headcanons for them than for any other - I've been putting this one off, or rather they have, but they've finally started talking and I'm hoping to piece the rest of it together gradually sooner or later.

a kiss in the cold and dark (I should have kissed you that summer) and its associated series - because it took on a life of its own and is also letting me channel a lot of my teenage memories :D

paint the sky and burn the stars - because, again, it took on a life of its own and pretty much wrote itself, and unlike a lot of my other stuff, it's self-contained. I don't think there will ever be a sequel, but that's all right; the story is complete as it is.

stained glass heart - another one that pretty much wrote itself, I loved the imagery in @piyo-13's art so much and it just all fell into place.

dancing in the dark - because I'm having so much fun with my old rocker bi widower dads :D another place to channel memories of my younger days, this.

A Little Piece of the Sea - one of my longest-running series, I started writing this 20-odd years ago, and then picked it back up when I came back into the fandom. Legolas/Imrahil my beloved underappreciated rare pair canoe!

I Will Be With You Always - last year's TRSB piece written for @seagull-energy's beautiful art, I finally managed to pin down my Arwen feelings in this rather reflective piece about her last moments on Cerin Amroth, where her life has come full circle at last.

breathe freely - the utterly out of character hanahaki twincest fic the premise for which came to me in a dream XD look I have problematic OTPs, I am old and have been here a very long time it is pretty much a given :D (the twincest is not the bit that's out of character)

Do You Remember The First Time? - the Twins/Rúmil two-parter that got rather out of hand and also gave me the headcanon about the Twins standing in alphabetical order as you look at them XD

It's Always Been You - the other problematic pairings one, featuring the Rúmil/Orophin story that had been sitting in my notes for nearly 20 years until I got back into the fandom with a vengeance in the summer of 2020, and the foundations of the Rivendell and Lothlórien bits of my canon-'verse set stories...

death is certain, life is not - the TRSB fic that ate me alive this summer, inspired by @erathene's glorious art, in which Tilda finally strides into centre stage and refuses to stop talking (I am already working on the sequel because I ran out of time to include most of what I wanted to squeeze in). Technically part of Empty Vessel-'verse but deserves an honourable mention here!

A Quiet Understanding - and finally, because if I don't wrap it up here I'll be going all day, the first longfic/chaptered fic I ever wrote, in the King Arthur (2004) fandom, about Gawain and Galahad and how their lives unfold both before and after the Battle of Badon Hill.

(and that's not mentioning the rare fandom stuff like A Knight's Tale, That Thing You Do!, Fisherman's Friends, Call The Midwife, The Alienist and The Palace, all of which I adore unreasonably, but I think I've rambled on quite enough here XD )

Thank you so much to everyone who asked me for this one, and I'm so sorry it took me so long to work out an answer! I haven't the spoons for askboxes, and I have to admit that the choose-x-people-to-ask games always feel a bit exclusive to me because what about the people who never quite make it onto that finite list, the people who nobody ever remembers to ask - and my memory is terrible and I will always inadvertently forget people. So, instead, I would like to invite anyone who sees this and wants to do it - don't wait to be asked, just rec yourselves! Let us know the works of yours you love the most! <3333333

[theviridianbunny]

CEREMONY AND DEVOTION

Viridian allows herself to be open to new ideas and experiences, after sharing an intimate secret with her lover… Jackie is more than happy to help his best girl feel good…

I’m usually rlly shy abt sharing my writing - but this fic has been a work of love for almost a year (thanks audhd) - it’s a Jackie x Viridian fic full of love and passion and soft spicy times and lots of communication and talking about feelings - I’m being brave and sharin this here -it’s not beta read, but still I really hope y’all enjoy 💖

This fic is intended for mature readers (18+ please!) fic under the cut - or can be found at my A03 here

“Can I tell you a secret Jac…” Viridian asked, laying still on the bed, her gaze up to the ceiling. Eyes wandering over the ring of electronic advertising. . Jackie sat on the edge, kicking off his boots..

It had been a quiet day for the pair, having collected the bounty for a gig, they;d spent the late afternoon getting street food and then went for a drink at the afterlife. Returning home for a quiet time together…

“Always… What’s on your mind?”

“OK- but before I tell you- please don’t laugh-” Viridian’s tone sounded… sheepish.

“Why would I laugh?” he asked, inquisitively raising an eyebrow. Looking across to her.

He smiled, Viridian smiled, shrugging….

“I-” the corpo stopped for a moment- thinking to herself- and then spoke. “I don’t know- it’s just- i I just-” She huffed.

Why were words so hard?

“Sorry- I’m overthinking again- I-.. I’m just worried you’ll laugh and judge me- even though I know logically you would not- ”

Viridian felt the weight on the bed shift-. Her love laying back next to her.

Just millimetres away from each other as Jackie took a hold of her cybernetic hand. His thumb making small circles, the corpo feeling the anxiety drift away- as the Merc took her hand to his lips and kissed the back of it gently.

Times like these, she was glad she’d invested in the nerve patch for the arasaka cyber arms…

“Would never judge you cariño, you said it yourself!” He smiled.

“Now… go on… what’s your secret..” he prompted softly

"Well-"

A blush creeping across Viridian’s face. She took a moment to find her words before she spoke.

“There are… things I’ve never done…” her cybernetic hand coming to her face as she spoke, scratching at her skin for a moment.

Stopping and wincing as she felt herself dig a little too hard at her skin- almost an anxiety response

Her gaze away from Jackie’s eyes, still to the ceiling as she spoke

“Things I’ve never done..uh-.. Sexual things-” she explained. Going quiet.

“Like…?” he asked

She swallowed-

"Uh-uhm… Remember that braindance I sent you last week?" Viridian asked.

Jackie nodded " oh- the one where that babe gets eaten out,right?"

"Yeah- that's the one"

How could he have forgotten? The brain dance Viridian had shown him that it was a truly sexy affair. A high class braindance, more soft intimacy than straight up porn. One of Viridian’s favourites. It depicted a passionate moment between lovers. Shot from the point of view of the woman- her partner serving her every want and need. Giving her pleasure.

A moment of quiet before Viridian continued .

“Uh-I’-I’ve never been eaten out-” she admitted, the words coming out of her mouth fast, almost too fast for her mind to keep up...

“I’ve never been eaten out- it’s something I have always wanted to do- but-” she took a quick breath “ but… I’ve always been too nervous thinking about the idea- or- or to as…- - but I feel safe with you Jac.. I trust you. I trust you…”

The weight on the bed shifted again, Jackie rolling to his side, to face his love. The two made eye contact, the merc shooting his love with this smile.

“I-I.. I know it’s ridiculous- gods I’m almost in my thirties and i’ve never been eaten out…” she berated- eye contact shifting from Jackie, back to the ceiling, the ring of adverts illuminating the otherwise darkening bedroom.

“Babe” Jackie started, his large hand cupping one of Viridian’s cheeks. “It’s not ridiculous- nothing is ever ridiculous with you…” his thumb gently brushed over a raised patch of skin on her jawline.

Jackie knew that his partner had a very complicated relationship with sex and her body as a whole.

“I’m honoured you feel like you can explore this with me” his voice was soft. Jackie noticed how Viridian’s gaze returned to meet his own. He noticed how she smiled, and how the white skulls where her pupils were oak brown pupils once were stuttered and glitched- all be it for just one moment.

She took a moment, edging herself closer to the larger man. She placed a soft kiss on Jackie's forehead. Her cybernetic hand tracing the cybernetic implants on his left cheek.

The glitching in her eyes was a subtle sign to her love that something was happening in that brain of hers- A soft smile over Jackie's lips. He could tell his love's brain was running a little too fast, so he took her hands in his.

“¿Sigues conmigo, cariño?” (Still with me sweetheart?') He asked, giving her hands a little squeeze

Viridian nodded "i- yes. I just… god the thought of you going down on me… it’s-…god, it’s so hot -" a shy laugh escaped her as she felt her boyfriend squeeze her hands again. Jackie’s baritone laughter filled the bedroom with life.

“me encantaria chupartela cuando quieras mi amor” (i'll happily go down on you any time, my love) he beemed.

"Anytime huh?" She inquisitively raised an eyebrow

"Yes babe"

"Even tonight?"

The merc enthusiastically nodded in response.

After sharing a kiss, the smaller woman moved away and paced to the bathroom of her corpo plaza apartment, turning to face her love, she leant against the door frame of the bathroom.

“Won’t be long…” she blew him a kiss and then entered the bathroom, half shutting the door behind her. Reaching to the panel on the wall, she put the radio on. The radio played softly, just as background noise…

Jackie knew what she was doing- she wanted him to follow her.. but with time… with time…

An ambient green light filling the room-, the corpo stripped out of her clothing, down to her laced underwear- nothing else. She’d pop on a tshirt once she’s washed her face. The bathroom was pleasantly warm. As she filled the sink with warm water and scrubbed the makeup off her face- she heard the door to the bathroom open. Jackie’s footsteps across the tiled flooring. Feeling his gaze over her as she washed her face clean.

Catching his reflection in the mirror- He’d taken off his bomber and vest- now just in his jeans and valentinos chaps, boots as well.

As she reached for a towel to pat her face dry- she felt strong arms pull her back into him. Her near naked body against Jackie's clothed.

She felt safe in his embrace.. Viridian looking at Jackie through the reflection of the mirror. She watched how his hands roamed over the landscape of her body.

A large hand cupped one of Viridian’s small breasts with ease - she gasped- Jackie's hands were warm and soft- she melted into the touch as he massaged her skin. One hand at her breast- the other running up and down her waist and over the curve of her hip.

Viridian watching how her lover played with her through the reflection of the mirror. Her eyes locked on Jackie's hands- but then they slowly wandered up to Jackie's own eyes. The two made deep and intense eye contact through the near dark.

Gods, he could worship her until the end of days…

"Look at your reflection.” a kiss to viridian’s neck as before continuing “ Look at how gorgeous you are. So fucking gorgeous…" he praised, his touch a little more intense..

Jackie was so big. So tall and broad over his love. He knew Viridian liked the size difference between the pair…

Viridian ground her hips against Jackie's denim clad thighs … just for a moment. A want for connection strong- The satisfaction she felt, hearing her love moan softly-. Her own breath stuttered as she felt Jackie play with her breast. His hand movement shuddered just as his breath did- the two melting into each other.

They were made for one another.

“serás mi muerte nena” (you’ll be the death of me babe) His baritone voice weak-.

“Oh- will I now?” she teased

“Yes- yes babe” he breathed- letting go of his lover's breast.

Viridian turned and faced Jackie- leaning up she kissed him on the cheek- before taking him by the hand and walking him back into the bedroom.

She slumped herself down on the bed after removing her underwear. Propped up against plush feather downed pillows - sat on top of a soft mint green duvet - decorated in floral illustrations.

Feeling her lover's gaze roam her body like a map, as he came to her at the side of the bed. Taking her in. The sight of his lover all worked up and spread out for him had Jackie weak at the knees…

“I want you to touch me Jackie”

"And I wanna touch you-" he stepped closer to her- brushing her short fringe to one side- placing a kiss to her forehead, before he grabbed a bottle of lube from the bedside cabinet.

Placing it on the bed- he quickly Slid off his golden rings - Viridian heard the delicate sound of gold on wood - as he placed the rings on top of the cabinet .

The weight on the bed shifted as Jackie knelt between her legs.

Tension between the pair as Jackie squeezed a generous amount of lube onto the pad of his index finger.

Viridian's eyes travelled down to her own body, as she anticipated what was to come. Focused as Jackie lined his fingers up to her cunt. Taking a moment to breathe, she focused on Jackie's voice…

Just one his fingers brushing over her clit already had Viridian feeling like she was seeing stars…like these tiny sparks over her skin.

How worked up had she been?

Had it really been that long since she allowed herself to be vulnerable- to feel this type of pleasure?

As Jackie’s dominant hand brushed at her clit, the other placed over Viridian’s biological hand that lay over the duvet. - the two holding hands- Jackie felt her squeeze hard - before she let go.

Horny, flustered and vulnerable. The two made eye contact and Jackie's fingers stroked up and down her cunt.

"Ready..?" He asked softly

"Yes" she nodded.

As the larger man sunk one of his fingers into his lover, he heard her groan. Her breathing was still steady- but then stuttered on the exhaled.

Noticing how her eyes fluttered in between open and closed- just for a second. Her eyes shutting- she exhaled as she rode the feeling that washed over her.

"How's that?"

"Good-yeah- its good- fuck- its good-"

"That's my girl" he praised "You're taking me so well- babe- fuck, you feel soo good around me"

Jackie's thumb moving to her clit- pressing into the bundle of nerves gently- before rubbing in these delicate circles.

“Ah-ah fuck- jackie- i- “ The teal haired merc whined. Her brain was running way to fast for her mouth to keep up “I-i- fuck this- thi-this is good-”

"Such sweet sounds you're making- just for me,huh?"

Viridian nodded- "it's… fuck- it’s the thought of you eating me out-" a quick breath " Th-the thought of you eating me out is so sexy- fuck- fucking hell" she breathed- her voice soft- but strained. Trying her hardest to verbalise her feelings.

"The thought of me eating you out turns you on that much, huh?" the taller merc teased

"Mhm-" Viridian's eyes closing'- craning her head back… She felt him move in closer to her. Still working at her cunt- she felt his breath over her

"Bet you're Thinking how I'd taste you? How I'd worship you?" he whispered

"God- yeah- yeah Jac- fuck… "

Viridian's word trailed off into this soft groan as Jackie's lips met the crook of her neck. Kissing her softly- gently. Still working at her- making her feel good. Jackie feeling Viridian’s cybernetic hand reach and roam over him. Pulling him closer.

As the bigger man brushed his free over Viridian's jawline- he her skin.

He could tell she was close already. How desperate she was.

“Don’t hold back- if you want to cum- cum around my fingers, beautiful”

Viridian nodded- in between a flustered smile.

“F-fucking hell-” the words tumbling out of viridian’s mouth- “fu-fuck- jac- I- I need you-”

She almost cried as she came… Her lover uttering sweet nothings to her. Working her through the most intense part of her orgasm - hearing her cry out with joy and pleasure.

“That’s it- that’s my girl” he breathed. Watching how Viridian responded to his touch - marvelling at how she bathed in endorphins and this emotional high.

He kissed her softly as he slowly removed his fingers from inside her- feeling how Viridian stifled a moan against his lips.

“You're ok- shh- you're ok” he uttered softly. Comforting her.

After washing his hands and grabbing water for the two of them- Jackie joined his love on the bed.

As he shared skin contact under ambient lighting- Jackie could feel a sudden change in body language.

“Everything ok?” he asked, watching how Viridian shifted- pulling a blanket over her shoulders. She smiled - almost uncomfortably as she took a sip of water.

“Yes- I- I mean-” she sighed “in all honesty- i’m.. Kinda nervous-” she admitted.

“What’s got you nervous, mi amor ?” he asked softly.

Viridian grumbled and furrowed her brow as she tried to speak her feelings.

“I don’t exactly know how to word what it is- “ she sighed- pulling herself closer to Jackie- she laid her head against his chest- listening to his heartbeat.

“And that’s ok babe, wanna stay like this for a bit?”

Viridian’s reply just came as a soft “mhmn”. Her eyes fluttered shut as Jackie ran his hand through her short teal hair.

“We’ve got all the time in the world… we don’t have to rush… if you want to leave things here for tonight, that’s all good by me” he reassured her.

All Jackie ever wanted was to make sure Viridian felt safe, that she felt loved and secure. He wanted to help her explore her sexuality in a safe and loving environment. No judgement was held or felt between the two lovers.

“I-...I feel like i’m not doing enough for you-” Viridian stated timidly. “I– don’t feel like I ever do enough for you-” .

Jackie felt his heart sink. Just a little.

“No-no babe… Viridian- it’s ok” His voice was gentle. Viridian lifted her head from his chest and looked at him. Jackie watched through soft lighting- how Viridian smiled sheepishly

“Really?” she breathed

“ yeah …” he started, cupping her cheek and running his thumb across her golden cyberware… “ Just knowing you’re enjoying yourself- that’s more than enough for me..” he answered.

The two shared a kiss- before Viridian laid her head back onto Jackie’s chest.

They stayed together in the quiet for a while.

“I don’t want you to ever feel like you have to do anything in return” Jackie broke the silence- as he spoke, a large hand rubbed Viridian’s cybernetic shoulder- comforting her. “You know that there’s never any pressure- ok?” He reassured her

Viridian nodded.

“Can.. can I kiss you?” She asked him.

The two kissed- the smaller merc melting into the moment. Comfort washing over her as the kiss broke.

She felt safe- she felt loved…

She was in control as the kiss grew deeper and hungrier.

As the kiss broke, Jackie grinned at his dear…

"Will you let me worship you, Viridian?" He asked.

“Gods- please… I’d love you to…”

Viridian moved away from her love, and made herself comfy. Spreading her legs and baring all. Jackie placing himself between her- grinning to Viridian…

He’d take his time with her… Slowly, he peppered these soft kisses slowly on the soft inner skin of her thigh, gently edging himself closer to her cunt. Stopping just over it, his breath warm. To viridian, it felt like these small sparks of electricity- sending a shiver up her spine.

He waited for verbal permission to taste her… He knew how worked up his love was- but he also knew Viridian were in charge here- she called the shots- He’d already worked her to orgasm with his hands- he knew how she was hungry for more.

Viridian gazed at her lover, cybernetic hand resting on his broad shoulder. Gripping gently the muscle as she tried to get words out… hand tensing in between ragged breathing.

"Please- I need this-I-I want you to do this- I- ''

She took a moment before she spoke again

"I want you to eat me out- …fuck -i need you Jac-..."

Before She laid herself down into the plush pillows behind her - Viridian’s eyes locked onto Jackie’s, her keroshis went in and out of focus. The cybernetics glitching violently. Like lightning in a storm…. , her brain running a little too fast- but she was still so in the mood to go- to continue.

The sight of her laid out was a feast for the eyes. Jackie thought Viridian looked devine… He took the sight of her in, like it was to be his final memory.

He wanted to please his love. To do nothing but make her feel amazing… to cherish her, to worship her. A comfortable silence between them for a moment before Jackie went down on her. Just the sound of the radio in the bathroom still playing softly.

“¿listo??” (ready) Jackie asked

“Never been more ready, love”

And with that, Jackie pressed a succession of delicate kisses to her clit. Hearing how his lovers exhaled breath staggered- ragged with anticipation.

New feelings and sensations. Foreign but oh so welcome.

“Fucking hell-” she whined. "Oh fuck- Jac-"

Her cybernetic hand covering her eyes, pushing her head down back into the pillow, a delightful noise escaping her as she felt the larger man taste her. His left hand stroked up and down the skin of one of Viridian’s thighs.

His head between her thighs- slowly working her up. Everything felt so- so new. Jackie finding his love’s most sensitive area. Flat of his tongue licking around her clit- until he found that sweet spot. Hearing Viridian call out his name- groaning and her body reacting… Her breath hitching as Jackie ate her out.

.

Losing herself in this new feeling- Viridian's hips grinding up ever so softly. Hearing and feeling her partner's soft laugh- she whimpered with pleasure at the baritone vibration… The hand on her thigh trailed upwards. Stopping at the curve of her hip. He pressed down gently- held her in place just for a moment, massaging her skin as he came up for air. Letting go of his love.

In admiration and awe at his partners reaction- he softly kissed the skin on her thigh- hearing how Viridian let out this giggle and squirmed at the contact-

“ah aha ah, quédate quieta hermosa~” (ah ah ah, keep still beautiful) marvelling in how his partner showed such joy. “Is this ok, Viri?” He asked- in between pressing another kiss to the soft flesh of her thigh.

“Mhm- it’s great- it-it’s more than great” the smaller woman beamed. Her cybernetic hand resting on Jackie’s shoulder- she rubbed in small circles before softly and confidently stating “I want more-” her voice was a little shaken - maybe it was the adrenaline running through her….

“Then I’ll give you more”

Returning to the position he held before, one of worship, ceremony and devotion. Jackie felt Viridian’s cybernetic hand run through his short hair , and softly hold the back of his head against her. He could feel the desire - the longing. It felt all the stronger as Viridian held him a little tighter.

“Don’t hold back- I need you” she rasped.

Closing his eyes, he worshipped every part of her until she came. Viridian crying out her loves name- her head and shoulders craned back into one of the soft pillows she laid against.

Her eyes strained as she basqued in endorphins and pleasure. Her breathing hitched and unsteady as she let go of the back of Jackie’s head. Red chrome fingertips brushing against the shaved section of Jackie;s hair as she bought her hand up to her eyes, shielding them from Jackie’s gaze.

As she caught her breath, she grinned, still riding that high. She couldn’t see Jackie, but felt as he pressed a final few kisses to the inner skin of her thigh, before moving upwards. He pressed delicate kisses to her tummy, and then between her breast, along the collarbone and then to her neck. A large hand rubbing at her side…

“How was that , mi amore?” He asked softly, patiently waiting as viridian found the words. He noticed as the smile on her lips never faded. After a moment- viridian took her cybernetic hand from her eyes. Taking Jackie’s hand in her own, she squeezed tightly.

“Amazing- it was… amazing and wonderful- I-I.. I really like that-” she answered. Bringing his hand to her lips, she kissed his knuckles. Viridian pulled her love close, they shared a succession of soft kisses.

Then, as Viridian’s stood- Jackie passed his love her long flowing, silk dressing gown. Navy blue and Patterned with illustrations of white birds… She draped it over her shoulders, feeling the expensive fabric before putting it on and tying the belt.

Stretching out her arms, she padded over to the open plan kitchen and put on the kettle, hearing Jackie’s footsteps and feeling him press himself against her, hugging her from behind like before. He pressed a kiss to her short hair, and the two held each other as the kettle boiled.

[calidore]

Sell your soul, not your whole self

hi guys! so i stumbled upon a fic i wrote under a youtube playlist for suguru (here's the playlist falling in love with suguru geto; a playlist (slowed and reverb) - YouTube) and i decided to post it here too (totally forgot i even wrote it) it's based on a lyric from "afraid" by the neighbourhood (aka getou's song) and it was supposed to be a little snippet for a whole ass serie; but i got lazy and had no ideas... so yeah suguru's a smoker. there aren't any other warnings. a bit of angst (????) hope you'll enjoy it! btw, if you have any submissions, let me know. i'll make a post about it later

Suguru took another cigarette from the nearly empty pack and leaned on his back, watching the moon disappear behind the dark clouds. This has become his favourite activity since Toji Fushiguro’s death; since he got separated from his partner. On the nights when he couldn’t fall asleep, which have become more frequent, he goes on the rooftop and stares at the world hidden in dark while smoking. Since the world was indecipherable, he was able to view it as he wanted: a world without non-sorcerers, one where he didn’t have to protect the weak and be righteous; a world where he wouldn’t have to sacrifice himself and go unnoticed. The sound of crickets wasn’t enough to block his thoughts, so he always brought his headphones with him. Some nights he takes a break from his own thoughts by listening to the ones of his old classmates.

He senses someone else’s presence sitting next to him and he knows who the uninvited visitor is before he even opens his eyes.

“Why didn’t you tell me you came back?” asked y/n, the one who has been keeping him company on nights like this. He takes off his headphones and welcomes his classmate with a smile. “I was planning on going to collect your bones.” He smiles at his classmate’s words. He gets up, facing her.

“I thought you were sleeping.” He was lying and both of them knew. He knew she wasn’t asleep. She told him to go see her when he gets back, no matter how late. But he still hoped she managed to get some well deserved rest.

“Bullshit.” He stared at her, noticing how proeminent the dark circles under her eyes had become.

He’s aware of her bad sleeping habits. They started hanging out after accidentally bumping into each other one night, when both of them were unable to sleep. Now they confide in each other. He found out that she dreaded waking up in the morning because the chances of her waking up with a racing heart and intrusive thoughts were high, so she would avoid going to sleep for as long as she could. She found out about the hole his old partner left in his heart and how he chose the wrong ways to deal with it.

“If you want me to leave you alone you can just tell me.” she told him, ready to get up and leave him alone. Since he and Satoru are no longer partners he spent enough time by himself and he was always feeling abandoned, but asking someone to stay with him felt selfish.

“No, it’s fine. I like your company.” y/n just stared at him, not knowing how to react. A part of her was telling her he was just being nice, but another part was replaying the nights they spent together, confessing and finding comfort in each other. ‘But maybe I’m just making everything up.’

“Then I shall bless you with it.” she said, trying to act unaffected. She sits in front of him, legs crossed, and for a few seconds they stare at each other. It felt like they could see their souls: tired and desperate to make everything stop, even for a few seconds. “Can I take one?” y/n breaks the ice and points at Suguru’s pack of cigarettes. He tosses the pack at her, then inhales deeply from the cigarette between his fingers. She takes the last one and puts it between her lips. “Please tell me the pack wasn’t full when you got here.” she said while trying to light it. The lighter was out of gas, but she didn’t give up.

“Almost.” She sighs, still trying to light the cigarette. Suguru gets closer to her, with the cigarette between his lips and his face at the same level as hers. He puts his hand on her cheek, making sure she doesn’t move her face and touches the end of her cigarette with his. y/n freezes at the feeling of his skin touching hers, the cigarette almost falling. “Did you forget what you have to do to make the cigarette light up?” he giggles, but she’s too busy trying to engrave this image in her memory to hear him. Subconsciously, she knows she needs to cherish these moments. Her times with Suguru were born from moments of weakness and desperation, so they weren’t meant to last.

When she’s finally aware of the proximity between the two of them, she takes an amateure inhale and starts coughing.

“So,” y/n starts, taking another smoke, “long mission?” she asks him, already knowing what he’s going to say. He sighs and moves his eyes on her shoes, now playing with the lace.

“Nothing I can’t handle.”

“Is there something the strongest of Jujutsu High can’t handle?” She immediately regretted saying that, but he acted unbothered. He was just staring at the sleeping city and the realisation that in a few hours everything will go back to normal hit him. “Do you miss Satoru?”

“I see him every day.” he doesn’t hesitate answering the question.

“You know what I mean.” He looked at you confused, so she further explained. “You’ve been partners since the beginning.”

“He can handle missions by himself,” he lowered his voice, “and so can I.” He didn’t look at her. He never does in moments like this. It was easier this way. If he doesn’t look at her it doesn’t feel like someone else was in possession of his secrets. It doesn’t feel like someone else sees him being vulnerable.

“Can you?” The boy ignores her. She didn’t ask if he can handle them physically. “Satoru also noticed you lost weight. You know he’s worried about you, why are you trying to deny it?” Because he didn’t want to make him worried. “How bad is it?” He didn’t know what she was referring to, so he just stared, waiting for her to explain. “The curses. When you ingest them.” He was a little surprised at the question, but he knew she would ask that sooner or later.

“Like ingesting a rag used to wipe up vomit.” He expected her to look disgusted, but instead she gave him a compassionate look.

“And how do you feel?”

He didn’t answer. He didn’t have the words to describe the feeling nor did he want to. He thought that if he ignored it for long enough it would disappear. Everything would go back to normal; the same as last year. He and Satoru would go on missions together. All four of them, he, Satoru, y/n and Shoko, would go on a trip to the beach and act like time can't move. Like tomorrow was just a scary fairytale. Like their next mission can’t be their last one together.

Neither one of them knew what to say. That’s how most of their nights together ended, scared to ask or say something that might push the other away, so they just stayed there, letting the wind and the crickets fill the silence. Sometimes they change the subject and ask each other random questions, like “Do you have any hobbies?”, “If you could live somewhere else, where would you?”, “Who do you think would date Gojo Satoru?”.

Tonight, y/n’s question took Suguru by surprise.

“Do you believe in soulmates?” She already had an idea of what his answer would be, but she wanted to see if she really knew him. After all these nights, she knew she will get her heart broken.

“Some people feel like they are meant for each other.”

“When do you think you’ll meet them?”

“I already did.”

“Would you kill them?”

“I wouldn’t be able to.”

Suguru’s dark eyes become lighter in the morning sunlight. She almost believed him.

[kestrelofink]

not a specific story or line but like ...pacrim hyerim commentary from the Director 🤲

Sorry this took a while, oh god there's SO much I want to say...

Pacific Rim is my comfort movie. It's fun cheesy action that leans into its ridiculousness and is achingly earnest about it. It's about how love will power robots taller than skyscrapers and save us from forces we can't hide from. It's about how the mortifying ordeal of being known is not so terrifying when it's with someone you love.

And so when I get the chance to bestow upon my favourite ships the highest honour I can give them, I write them in a PacRim AU.

Spoilers for Strangers in the Light and Is It Going Too Fast for You, as well as bonus trivia on how I named the Jaegers Echo Centauri and Horizon Rite below the cut:

I actually came up with the PacRim AU idea before I decided who to write it for. The image that came up in my head was of a pilot sitting on a catwalk shrouded mostly in darkness, small and vulnerable, feet kicking into the drop below, a few orange-hued lights in the distance lighting up a Jaeger that stared back, huge and intimidating.

It's a way of saying: this fic was always made to be a story of parallels and contrasts, but you'll see as this commentary unfolds.

I knew that I didn't want to write something about two pilots, just because it's been done so incredibly well by a few other writers and I didn't want to take the spotlight away from these pieces that really did inspire me to add to the LOONA PacRim collection (some of my favourites include Eden Forsaken, We'll Swallow The Sun, sink into me, and will you unearth me from the water). There's also something INCREDIBLY compelling to me about the relationship between someone who builds things to be destroyed, and the person who destroys the very thing someone else loved enough to build, over and over again. So it was clear to me that I should write something about a pilot and their engineer. From there, it was just a decision of who to write in, and what journey they were going to go through.

Hyerim came to me in a bit of a surprise, really. I knew I wanted to explore grief (which is a pretty common theme in a lot of my fics; exploring loss and the place the character feels they play in the world, the sense of unmooring that comes with losing a pillar in their lives) and so it made sense to me that both of them experienced grief, but in different ways: the engineer cannot do anything to protect her loved ones directly because she's made of flesh and heart and her flesh parts with a sigh under a kaiju's claw, and the pilot can do nothing but relive the way her copilot died, still hooked into the system. Hey, what if instead of one dead copilot, we had two? And what if Yerim is the only surviving member of Odd Eye Circle? Wouldn't that be cruel?

There's a running joke my beta and I have between ourselves that Jungeun "just has the kind of face that makes me wanna hurt her a lil, you know?". In every fic she's been mentioned in so far, she's either dead or we know she will die. As a long-time fan of Lipsoul, I didn't want to leave either of them alive to mourn the other, especially because I needed Yerim to be the focus rather than Jinsol. So... I killed her off. I suppose the silver lining is that I could give Yerim the experience of feeling every sensation of both getting gouged out of the cockpit by a claw, and drowning. But no, in all seriousness, I also wanted to play a little with how Lipsoul are both younger siblings and Yerim is the only older sibling in OEC, but how she's so well taken care of. And now she doesn't have that anymore. Again, grief.

Part of the joy of writing a pilot, too, is that you get to give someone the power to kill gods. Power that could so easily kill thousands too, that could hurt so many by accident. Picking Yerim was the perfect choice because she's at once so incredibly powerful in her dancing and singing, but also unbelievably graceful. How do you balance these two seemingly opposite aspects? How can Yerim hold something as delicate as someone's heart in her brutish robot hands built to bring down titans?

Picking Hyeju came out of this line of thought. Olivia Hye in the LOONA lore as a foil to Heejin, as a destroyer and wrath contrasted with light and colour and creation. Hyeju in the clips we have of her interacting with others, showing love by doing things for them and having a very soft side. I really wanted to bring that out in juxtaposition with Yerim's contrasts of violence and grace. Giving her the role of engineer building because she loves her pilots, because she wants to keep them safe, because it's what she can do to protect them and her family, that just made sense.

It just also made sense to me because, in real life they feel like a bit of an odd pair: Hyeju with her tsundere-esque projection of herself, Yerim as eternal sunshine, ENFP personified. And yet, they still work so well as friends. To me, Hyeju will always be a story of contrasts and finding unexpected middle ground.

Okay, shall we review quickly?

Yerim: here because of love (wanting to carry Lipsoul's legacy and finish the job) Hyeju: here because of love (building Jaegers to protect the pilots she cares about, equipping them to protect the people she loves in the city) Yerim: experiencing grief (lost both copilots to a kaiju) Hyeju: experiencing grief (can't do anything herself to directly affect the safety of her loved ones, regular folks or pilots) Yerim: lives at the intersection of ostensibly opposing qualities (dances on a razor's edge between violence and grace) Hyeju: lives at the intersection of ostensibly opposing qualities (projects as being tough and no-nonsense, but genuinely cares a lot and loves through creation) Yerim: looks at the Jaeger as a tool of protection, but as something that could do so much harm Hyeju: looks at the Jaeger as her ultimate declaration of love, built to protect and save

Ultimately when the program closes and Yerim is left deeply unsatisfied knowing she won't get to carry Lipsoul's legacy with her every time she steps into the Drift and finally end the threat to earth for good, and Hyeju is left unsatisfied knowing she won't get to have a hand in protecting the ones she loves most, the story becomes about having a shared grief to carry together.

All this time, they have been grieving slightly different things together and finding solace in midnight banter overlooking this place where their agonies collide. Now, on this cliff overlooking a new day, already familiar with the ways the other mourns, they get to share a new loss, but also a new joy: they're freed from the duties and responsibilities that have tied them there and kept them from moving on, and they get to choose where to go from there.

And they choose to leave together.

At the end of the day, PacHyeRim (as I've come to be very fond of calling it) is about finding love and understanding where you least expect it, about navigating grief together, and about choosing joy for yourself. It's two people walking parallel paths and realising the journey is less long when you do it with someone. That they can reach into the space between them and find the other's hand to hold.

It remains my favourite series I've ever written, and barring some pretty insane things happening, there should be one more piece in this series coming out next year that I am very excited for. This series has brought me a lot in joy and friends and I'm looking forward to sharing the end of this series with readers.

Thanks for the question, hope this rather long-winded answer gave you some fun insights as to my writing!

As a treat for reading all of that, have this little tidbit on how I chose the Jaeger names!

Echo Centauri: named after Alpha Centauri, which is actually made of three stars: Alpha Centauri Alpha Centauri B, and Proximal Centauri, often just called Alpha Centauri C. To the naked human eye, A and B are close enough together in proximity and far enough from us that they appear to be a singular star. That's Lipsoul. Alpha Centauri C is small enough you can't see it with the naked human eye, but completes the triad of this star system It also happens to be the nearest star to our Sun. And so Echo Centauri is a Jaeger made of three, but first of two so close you can't separate them, and the story's narrator is the third, the closest one we can get to. And then Echo because it's cool and also bats.

Horizon Rite: I picked Horizon because some of my favourite sunrises and sunsets are yellow and purple, which is perfect because this one is piloted by Hyunjin and Yerim. I chose "Rite" because I think this is how Yerim reminds herself every time that she brings Lipsoul with her into the Drift every time. She considers it her duty, like a funeral rite she will carry out until either the Kaiju are dead or she is, to live out their legacy. And I think Hyunjin understood and gave her seal of approval without hesitation.

[queerspacepunk]

Would love a fic where instead of running away, Stede explains to Ed why he needs to go back to his family and he brings Ed with him. It's probably a massive story idea I realize, but any tidbit would be amazing if it sounds interesting <3

ask and ye shall receive!! or something like that. it is indeed a Massive Story Idea and not one I'm super invested in exploring in too much detail as a whole thing (i love the angst too much!!!) but a tidbit? a lil snippet??? something a lil light and a lil silly? fuck yes!!

ofmd drabble #02 - three 1651 words | meeting the parents kids family?

If you had asked Edward Teach at, oh, literally any time in his life prior to this exact moment, whether or not he'd ever willingly allow himself to be shuffled out of the room with the children so that the adults could talk, he would have told you to go fuck yourself with whatever uncomfortable utensil was closest to hand.

Ed had discovered however, in the last few moments, that discretion is in fact the better part of not having to be in the middle of that domestic. Fuck, he would have crawled inside his own bloody beard and hidden in it, had he still had the damn thing, just to get away.

Alas, he doesn't have a beard, but Stede (legally speaking at least) still does, and her name is Mary. Ed's always thought of 'Mary' as a sort of humble, unassuming name, but the woman in front of him is a hell of a lot closer to the formidable end of the scale than Ed had been expecting. She may well be the only person he's ever met who's ballsier than Stede himself, with a touch more common sense and rather a lot more follow-through.

He's pretty sure the only reason she hasn't stabbed a hat pin or something right through his ear hole and into Stede's squishy little brain is that she wants him to be able to hear what has got to be the most severe and well-deserved bollocking of the poor sod's life.

And so, Ed had assessed the situation, and his options, and decided; fuck this all the way to church, actually, and had nicked off out the back door with Stede and Mary's equally judicious children.

He'd figured that they would, you know, entertain themselves, once they got out of there. Ed would had, when he was a kid, and there'd only been the one of him! Even if they didn't they surely wouldn't be bothering him.

Ed's back in his own clothes, mostly. He needed the knee brace for the walk, and it doesn't fit right over normal trousers so he put his leather ones back on too. Sure, he's left the jacket off and pulled his hair back into a bun in an attempt to look slightly less obviously a notoriously escaped pirate, but even with the beard gone, and a normal amount of weapons on his person, he still looks like a pirate.

(He'd put the cravat back on too, and no it hadn't escaped his notice that Mary was wearing one as well. He'd found himself wondering if she'd stolen it from Stede's wardrobe too, or if black cravats were just something all rich people owned. Then he'd wondered if it was weird that he's hoping it's the first option.)

The point is, he looks like the pirate he is. A cool one. An intimidating one. The friend of Mary's who'd passed him on her way out had certainly gone an awfully funny colour at the sight of him, which means that the kids would surely leave him alone to indulge in his favourite and most lucrative hobby – being a nosy little shit.

Not much to the immediate garden – some tidy but not perfectly kept flowerbeds, neat lawn worn down into desire paths in places that Ed suspects the children are responsible for, a small collection of sticks staked perfectly upright in a circle near the back of the shed in a way that would give Frenchie the absolute shits, you know, normal kid stuff.

"How good a pirate are you?" a voice asks from behind him, as he turns away from what he's assuming is (at least) attempted witchcraft, and he doesn't jump, but he does suddenly have a lot more sympathy for Frenchie.

"What?" Ed asks, turning to look at her – one of the kids, Alma? Because he'd processed 'pirate' and 'creepy child' and not a lot else.

"How good of a pirate are you?" she repeats, and he's not sure how someone half his height can stare him down, but damn if she isn't giving it a go.

"Very," Ed says with a shrug.

Her face scrunches up, like she's thinking, in a way that is familiar and oddly endearing. "You're Blackbeard."

"What the fu- no I'm no- how the hell do you know that?" Hell's not a curse word. It's fine. They say it in church all the time. Or, so he's been told, "I don't even have a beard."

"You're running away. It would be silly not to shave it off."

Well, yeah. Okay, fair.

"Lots of pirates have beards," Ed points out, "how'd you know I was Blackbeard."

Alma shrugs and kicks at the dirt, "my dad has a crush on you."

Ed laughs, a genuine one, a happy one, because yeah, she's not wrong.

"Wait," he says after a moment, "how do you know that? He hasn't seen you since we met."

A child should not be able to pull off such a scathing eyeroll, "he used to read us stories."

Ed’s chest feels tighter at that and not in a good way, at the idea of Stede daydreaming over the idea of him, even though he knows that no one's ever seen him as truly as Stede has, that Stede was giving him those delighted looks even before he realised that Ed was Blackbeard.

"He had a crush on the Beast from Beauty and the Beast, too," Alma adds.

"Uh…" Ed says, because he's honestly not sure how he feels about that.

"and King Arthur," she continues, turning and wandering away, "and Shakespeare."

That's something, Ed supposes, as he watches her goes, before turning his sights on the… barn? Shed? It definitely isn't housing animals, he can tell that even before he gets to the wide open doors and steps inside to find himself surrounded by… paintings? Cool ones.

They're not like the hoity-toity, fancy-ass (boring-ass) paintings he often sees in the fancy ships he's raiding, nah, these ones are interesting. There's some that seem to be all lines and shapes – siblings to the lighthouse painting of Stede's still sitting back in his cabin on the Revenge, while others are more… anatomically suggestive?

(Well, if he's honest, they're vaginas. Floral vaginas, but definitely vaginas. A few botanical penises and the odd probable ballsack too, but they're definitely Mary's work, and she is both terrifying and a lady so Ed's going to try and keep his own non-implied balls right where they are and not mention that to anyone. Ever.)

"Er, hello?"

Ed spins on his heel, doing his best to put his back to something resembling a wall as he turns to face the intruder– or well, since Ed's kind of the intruder in this situation – the newcomer, and tries to keep his stance as outwardly casual as he can.

The man, he notes, doesn't look like he's much of a threat to anyone, and seems more perplexed than concerned with the stranger in what may well be his painting shed – if the smears on his fingers and the fact that the smaller kid – Luciu- no, Louis – is just about clinging to his leg, is anything to go by.

"Who're you?" Ed asks, because he gets the feeling that this guy is daft enough and wholesome enough that he might just answer despite it definitely not being Ed who should be asking that question.

"Doug."

Called it.

"Ed," Ed says, because it only seems fair, really, and steps forward to shake the guy's hand. No need to not be polite. "who are you. In er, context?"

"Mary's painting instructor," Doug says, at the exact same moment as Louis says "my dad."

Ed looks at Doug, who's now blushing bright pink, and then to Louis who (fortunately? Unfortunately? Hard to say) takes quite strongly after both Mary and Stede, and then across the lawn to the window of the house where, thanks to the sheer curtains Ed can the silhouette of Mary brandishing what looks concerningly like a lamp while she yells something that Ed can't quite catch but has the distinct cadence of someone articulating just what they're planning to do to your favourite organ (which, knowing Stede is probably his bloody heart, but which Ed's hoping Mary will assume to be his balls because that at least they can recover from), and then looks back to Doug. Doug who looks like either a real estate agent's idea of a painter or possibly a painter's idea of a real estate agent (Ed's sadly not familiar enough with either profession to determine which).

"Nice."

Doug's face goes all… funny, all wibbly in a way that takes Ed far too long a moment to realise is him being all gooey-eyed and in love, and is weirdly, a rather familiar expression (and oh fuck no he cannot be realising that that's what Stede's face means when he does that. Not while he's in Stede's wife's painting shed talking to Stede's wife's mister-ess. Only apparently, he can), before Doug laughs awkwardly and asks, "and who are you? In, uh, context?"

"I, uh-" oh fuck it, it's not like he can get any deeper, "I'm the other man. The, er, other man's other man."

Doug mouths that silently to himself a couple of times before it seems to click, and then he's giving Ed a once-over before letting out a rather appreciative whistle, "good for him."

"Doug," Louis asks reaching up to tug on his wrist, "what does 'other man' mean?"

"I think, kiddo," Doug says, hoisting the boy up onto his hip (and he's too big for it, really, but it makes Ed's heart do something funny to see it, all the same), "that it means that you and Alma are about to be the first kids in town with three whole dads."

He glances up at Ed, who is absolutely not freaking out, "want a drink?"

[annathesillyfriend]

Anna's August Fic Recs

Welcome to my August fic recommendations masterpost!! This has been quite a busy month for me but I'm holding onto last weeks of freedom. I am trying to read as much before uni starts and I had a pleasure of reading some brilliant fics this month. I am so excited to share them with you all! I hope your summer is going amazing and to those, who have just started classes - good luck!

To all the writers - I love you and I appreciate you so much!

To all the readers - please, share the fics you read and love. The reblog really makes the change! It’s the least we can do to show our gratitude.

HOLLAND & Co.

✨ Tom Holland

revenges is sweet by @t-lostinworlds

series, social media au, college!au, football player!tom, fake dating, idiots to lovers, all of our fave tropes, i am invested in this series more than i am in my own life, it's just that good

sunkissed by @duskholland

one-shot, 18+, surfer!tom x lifeguard!tom, exes to lovers, h's great mind at its finest 👏

souvenirs of the heart by @veryholland

one-shot, brought me to tears no joke, such a beutiful story, mila did such an amazing job!!

heartbreak girl by @lauras-collection

one-shot, 18+, lead singer!tom, based on 5SOS song, this is so goooood 😫😫 this story lives in my heart rent free right nextdoor to laura!!

act 1: scene 5 and 6 by @youandtom

one-shot, best friends to lovers, helping tom with learning lines, i loved this very much!

happier than ever by @vendettaparker

one-shot, tom being the great lad he is comes to save an awful date and we stan

the trial of the eldest holland by @reawritesthings

one-shot, ex!tom, welcome to the angst town! this is so deeply heartbreaking but so beautifully written!

lucky to be in love by @hollandsvogue

one-shot, rose is going staright for my silly little heart :')

slide in by @uglypastels

one-shot, frat!tom, i fall in love with this story time and time again

white winged dove by @muhollands

one-shot, 18+, conuntry!tom, insert country boy i love you vine here (also, i'd like to take this moment to kindly invite you all to go through d's whole masterlist cause it's brilliant. this mj blurb has sent me straight to hell but it's so worth it)

abide by @hazofmyheart

one-shot, 18+, mob!au, tom x reader x harrison, this made me feel some type of way 👁👄👁

getting ahead of ourselves by @/hazofmyheart

one-shot, 18+, college! lacrosse player!tom holland x tutor!reader, this is soft, this is cute, this is hot, this is everything! 12/10 would recommend

✨ Harrison Osterfield

little lune by @dovenymph

one-shot, celebrating your birthday with haz, made me want a refund for my birthday cause it's so lovely 🥺🥺

it will come back by @greenorangevioletgrass

one-shot, part of the rich kid!au series, 18+, richkid!haz x richkid!reader x actor!tom, there are no words in any language that would let me express how much i love ava and this au

✨ Harry Holland

wild side by @softholand

one-shot, 18+, best friends to lovers, that trope was made to be written about mister harry holland, i swear

lost in your light by @spider-barnes

one-shot, 18+, best friends to lovers, bloody lovely 💛

falling in love at a coffee shop by @/spider-barnes

one-shot, college!au, oh to fall in love with harry holland at a coffee shop 😫

hope is frightening thing by @peterplanet

one-shot, writer!reader x first da!harry, her book gets a film adaptation and harry is being is wonderful self 🥰

my forever by @unsaidholland

blurb, talking about your future with him, it's just 🥰🥰

circles by @farfromharry

one-shot, rich kid!au, enemies to lovers, so wonderful!

MARVEL

🎂 Suz's birthday fics

this total babe @samwilsons-pillowpecs gave us four beautiful gift on her birthday! we adore you, lovely 🥰 these stories are all wonderful anddeserve their own category 💛

you're the glitter in the dark

one-shot, 18+, mob!bucky

if i could touch you...

one-shot, 18+, boxer!steve

love you in a thousand ways

one-shot, 18+, ceo!sam

miss your kiss

one-shot, 18+, biker!thor

🎂@rodrikstark ’s 1.5k follower celebration!

collecion of headcanons with our favourite marvel boys as well as some other characters, i bloody love them all but my numer one has got to be joaquin teaching you spanish 😌

✨ Sam Wilson

book smart by @indyluckycharlie

one-shot, librarian!sam x PhD student!reader, such a warm and comfy little story by my dearest cate who i love very much 😌

he we go again by @/xbuchananbarnes

one-shot, idiots in love 🥰🥰

adventures in babysitting captain america and winter solider by @princessmisery666

one-shot, reader takes the boys to disneyland and it's just so amazing!

stay awhile by @lacapucharoja

one-shot, black!reader, a saturday morning with sam 😌😌

slow motion by @ambrosiase

one-shot, 18+, sam in baggy grey sweatpants and no underwear, need i say more?

✨ Steve Rogers

bullies, bullied by @anika-ann

one-shot, my main babe is blessing us with protective steve and i love her 🥰

there's a peace in dreaming by @babycap

one-shot, i don't have the words to tell you how stunning this story is, please go read it

✨ Bucky Barnes

timer by @xbuchananbarnes

series, soulmate!au based on the movie TiMER (2009). i could go on and on about how incredible that series is but with dani it's a given, sooo 🤷‍♀️

the kids will be alright by @imaginationintowords

series, social media au, lawyer!bucky x interior designer!reader, single dad!bucky, single mom!reader raising their kid together as friends, also reader x clark kent. honestly this is one of my fave social media aus of all time. and it's got a sequel is coming!!

quick fix by @ocean-bucky

one-shot, tfatws!bucky x ofc, vidra is the queen of ofc's, you simply can't not love her characters!

grant (part 2) by @coffeecatsandsarcasm

two-shot, bucky's in a relationship with a single mom with a little boy, it's so soft, i love this little family!

before sunset, i fell by @buckysbiota

one-shot, modern!au, when i get drunk i get myself cake, when reader got drunk, she got herself a husband. a very fine husband 😏

alcohol you later by @/xbuchananbarnes

one-shot, is it the 4th of dani's fics on this list? yes, she's just that powerful

three flags up by @starbuckie

one-shot, 18+, campcounselor!bucky x campcounselor!reader, best friends to lovers, buck being a cute little puppy in love and i adore him very much

and he kissed me right there by @sunmoonandbucky

one-shot, veteran!bucky, age gap, this is so full of feelings and it's gonna steal your heart!

lost and found by @sunshinebuckybarnes

two-shot, neighbour!bucky, alpine being the matchmaker of the year and we love that for her

hazy dreams and good mornings by @angrythingstarlight

one-shot, 18+, firefighter!bucky, i think that's enough encouragement to read this gem 😏

✨ Joaquin Torres

red by @remmysbounty

one-shot, a truly exceptional story!!

hold my words, keep us together by @/xbuchananbarnes

one-shot, soulmate!au, just simply stunning!

✨Peter Parker

love lies by @rosyparkers

series, social media au, y/n is silk but peter doesn't know it, peter is spiderman but y/n doesn't know it, sarah is the brightest star in the universe and everyone knows it

sunset lovers by @duskholland

one-shot, college! au, soulmate!au where what your soulmate writes on their skin, appears on yours. i don't think i have to tell you that eveything written by h, my beloved is pure gold. the softest thing!

always waiting (for you to come home) by @peterbenjiparker

one-shot, reader comes to peter cause she needs him to patch her up after patrol, it's so funny and sweet and i just love it so much, m is the bestest!!

perfectly a little late by @/t-lostinworlds

one-shot, college!au, reader forgets about peter's birthday. or does she 👀 please, give a round of applause for this wonderful writer who's been feeding us so well this month 👏👏

this fic by @peeterparkr

one-shot, last kiss with peter :') nancy knows all the most beautiful ways to break someone's heart

the plan by @spideyyeet

series, aveneger!reader, reader likes peter, peter likes mj, mysterio shows up, lots of angsty things happen. it's so bloody good, my mates, go read it!!

burning red by @spideyspeaches

one-shot, avenger!reader who who describes people's personalities as colors, it's just a stunning story with wonderful writing and i love it!!

this fic by @mcumendes

blurb, peter brings y/n flowers and is very very adorable!!

kiss me more by @celestialholland

one-shot, first make out with peter and i'm just 😫😫 in love

the reveal by @cloudybarnes

one-shot, best friends!reader where she finds out about him being spiderman, so lovely!!

always by @ptersmj

one-shot, an absolutely adorable best friends to lovers moment

red-handed by @/vendettaparker

one-shot, stark!reader, morgan interrupts y/n and peter's alone time 😏😂

OTHERS

✨ Spencer Reid

as told by flowers by @reidingmelodies

one-shot, story about the progress of the relationship with spencer told by flowers (duh 😂), it's just wonderful!!

✨ Frank Adler

thnks fr th mmrs by @wiypt-writes

one-shot, 18+, reader goes to frank the night before his wedding, i love this with everything i have

will you hold on my love by @writerwrites

one-shot, don't come anywhere near this piece without tissues!!

✨ Ransom Drysdale

undercover boss by @chase-your-dreams-away

series, reader's working at drysdales' company and hooks up with ransom not knowing who he is. this series is so bloody good! i love the reader in here so much!!

a/n: if you catch some kind of mistake or if you see that i miscredited someone - please let me know so i can change that!

[notebooks-and-laptops]

Welcome to my blog! Here you'll find OFMD brainrot (particularly Izzy/Ed/Stede) and Dragon Age ramblings.

For context, some of my Dragon Age OC’s. From right to left, top to bottom, we have:

Ambeth Lavellan: an elven warrior, Ambeth has no interest in being the inquisitor. Unfortunately, her protestations have fallen mostly on deaf ears. My only inquisitor who is also a mother, Ambeth is keenly aware of her son back with her clan. Her romance with Cullen was a slow, soft thing. 

Alexandria ‘Alex’ Hawke: A soft, diplomatic girl who holds the world on her shoulders and always sees the good in those around her, Alex Hawke has a group of friends that would kill to keep her safe. She is immensely in love with her wife Merrill.

Merripen Lavellan: Merripen Lavellan was born a twin, and when his brother died from the plague, he devoted his life to Falon’Din, Elven God of Death and Fortune. Now, he lives a supposedly quiet life with The Iron Bull, although rumours abound about his close contact with his previous Spy Master and one Dorian Pavus, and what plans he may have for the future.

Aiden Hawke: my canon Hawke, my beloved, my angry boi, my favourite. Full of rage, Aiden started ripping the world apart when his sister was taken to the circle. He fell in love with Anders because of the work Anders was doing for the mage underground, a course he violently believed in. He was very, very tragic and very, very angry and I loved him with my whole soul.

DeLila Cadash: my canon inquisitor, my beloved, my girl, my favourite. The youngest of six, a warrior and a closet nerd, DeLila found a family in the inquisition she never thought she'd have. She misses them all dearly, but loves running rooftops with her wife, infamous Red Jenny Sera (extra pics and info: x x x)

Queen Lillian Hawke: A power hungry blood mage, Lillian finds it mildly funny that her friends, even her biographer, all also kinda hate her. Her relationship with Sebastian led to her claiming the title of Queen of Starkhaven, along with Champion of Kirkwall and Provisional Viscount of Kirkwall. 

Aban Adaar: my sweet, shy mage qunari who loves gardening and his wife Lady Josephine Montilyet (extra pics and info: x x x x)

Jenny Hawke: Crazy, sacrastic, and a little obsessed with gold coin (if prone to over-spending with them), Jenny deflected all her problems with sarcasm. She also had a weakness for pirate queens. 

Rust Cadash-Rainier: whatever her original name was, it's been lost to time. Now she goes by Rust and is learning to cook eggs with her husband (who, rumour has it, may once have been a war criminal, if one can believe the kindly man who spends his free time making toys for children is the same Thom Rainier that Orlais tried to execute), and also fighting to put a stop to Solas's stupidity (fightings in her bones, she could never put down her daggers) (extra pics and info x x x)

Thank you to everyone who puts up with me talking about these idiots, and the many more I'm no doubt likely to create and talk about in the future - my asks are always open if you have any questions about any of them, from which songs I think fit them to their backstories to the choices they made in game x

Some links to other things you may be interested in (because tumblr only lets you pin one post at a time):

I run two discord groups: a Dragon Age one, and an OFMD SteddyHands centric One. Both are 18+. If you want a link to either, please message me and we'll sort something out. Both are v chill communities.

All my writing can be found here on Ao3

My Mod Recs for each Dragon Age game can be found here (I’ll try and keep these vaguely updated too): Dragon age Origins, Dragon age 2, Dragon Age Inquisition

My Solas Romance Review can be found here (one day when I have time I’ll review all the romances in Dragon Age but alas, not yet)

Some fic rec lists of other peoples fics! Iron Bull/Dorian Pavus , Geralt/Jaskier

The Dragon Age fic data I collected can be found here (Nov 2021): Dragon Age Origins, Dragon Age 2, Dragon Age Inquisition

[bullshxtvixen]

On Mute

Pairing: Kenma x Reader

Request: This is me making the request for sucking Kenma while he streams. PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE I NEED IT! - @queenktbigal​

Word count: 3.2k (oops)

Warnings: 18+, Softdom!Kenma, Bondage, Spanking, Finger fucking.

Song: Gravity by John Mayer

A/n: Thank you to @kiribakuho​ and @egghoe-waffle​ for reading this over for me, and to everyone in the karasuhoe discord server for thirsting over this idea with me, i hope i did it justice!!

You can find the sequel to this fic here

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ

“Kenmaaaaa.” 

Standing in the doorway of your boyfriend's gaming room in nothing but one of his old volleyball shirts and a thin pair of underwear, you looked at the back of the brunette’s head with a pout. He’d spent the last 2 hours streaming with the boys and you were desperate for some attention.

Pulling his headset back slightly to free up an ear, he mumbled to the guys about hopping off for a second before he turned to you, a sheepish smile playing on his lips. You watched his eyes widen slightly as he took in your bare thighs and his old shirt loosely clinging to your form -even though he no longer played, he still got a thrill out of seeing you wearing his number. He shuffled in his seat, tempted to reach out and slip the shirt off of you.

His eyes lingered on your thighs a moment longer, his tongue darting out to coat his bottom lip before his golden eyes met yours. A smirk forms on your lips at the blush covering his cheeks.

“I-I’ll be done after this game, I promise, bunny.” He turned back to the game, repositioning his headset. He needed to finish the game but his mind was already distract by thought of his fingers running up and down the soft skin of your thighs.

Your smirk disappeared. 

You were well aware that ‘After this game’ could mean anywhere from another 20 minutes to an hour, and you were too needy for that. You needed to feel his hands on you.

 You watched him a moment longer before a thought occurred to you. Let’s see if he can concentrate after this. Peering over his shoulder, you checked to make sure that he was only streaming via audio before shimmying your underwear down your legs and kicking them to the side. His shirt fell just below your butt so you were still covered.

Without bringing too much attention to yourself, you crept over to the side of his gaming chair before sinking to your knees. He was so engrossed in the game and mumbling commands under his breath that he didn’t notice you until you began to slowly turn his chair towards you, and even then his eyes never left the monitor in front of him. It wasn’t unusual for you to climb into his lap when he was gaming so he didn’t think anything of it. 

However, his head did snap in your direction, when he felt your fingers tug on the waistband of his sweatpants, “what are y-oh” it was too late for his hand that was reaching out to stop you. His cock was already released from it’s confines with your hand wrapped firmly around it, gently stroking his shaft. He immediately became hard under your touch and knowing that you had that effect on him had desire pooling in your stomach. 

You subtly rubbed your thighs together to create some friction.

Covering his mic with one hand, his free hand shot out and wrapped around your wrist, halting your movements. “What are you doing, bunny?!” He hissed, though you felt his cock twitch in your hand. He was getting turned on just as much as you.

You shot him a wicked smile before stroking your thumb over the tip on his cock, a move you knew would drive him wild.

His reaction was immediate, his hips bucked up into your hand as he bit back the moan that was threatening to leave his throat. 

‘I want to suck your cock’ you mouthed before leaning forward and pressing a kiss to the head of his now leaking member.

Kenma knew he should’ve pushed you away, or at least quit the game and carried you to the bedroom so he could take you there, but the sight of you pulling back from his cock with his precum coating your lips as if it were lipgloss, had all sense of reason flying out of his brain.

If that’s how you wanted to play, then so be it. 

“Give me a sec, guys.” He mumbled into his mic as he uncovered it before hitting the mute button. Releasing your wrist from his grasp, he reached for your chin, his soft fingers tilting your head so you could meet his eyes. Desire swirled in them, causing your body to heat up under his gaze. 

His usual laid back demeanor had gone and was now replaced with hunger. He wanted you, and the look alone told you his was going to have you begging for him.

He leaned forward so that his face was hovering just above yours, forcing you to crane your neck to look up at him. His warm breath ghosted over your lips, sending another shiver down your spine as his scent wrapped around you.

“You want to suck my cock, bunny?” His thumb swiping across your bottom lip before giving it a gentle tug. You nodded, giving his cock a gentle squeeze to convey your need for him. He leant back, a small smirk falling on his lips.

“Then suck it,” he held up a finger before you could move an inch, “but I’m going to finish this game and unmute the mic while you do it.”

You tensed. While the thought of sucking him off when there was a risk of people overhearing turned you on, you couldn’t help but still be a little apprehensive about it. Looking at Kenma, you could see that he thought he’d won as a smug smile settled on his features. He didn’t think for a second you’d go through with it.

Reaching over his desk, you pressed the unmute button so that the light switched from red to green, meaning that the mic was back on. “Game on.” You whispered.

Then your hot tongue was on his cock, licking a slip up his thick shaft before taking the tip into your mouth. He had to bite down on his lip to stop himself from moaning as your tongue danced around his tip, licking up the precum that was still collecting there. God, he did he taste good. There was no way you’d ever get bored of the way he tasted.

Turning his head back to the game, he managed to keep his voice level as he let the other players know that he was back in.

That just wouldn’t do. You wanted to see him writhe under your touch. 

Hollowing your cheeks you began to take more of him into your mouth, sucking and swirling your tongue around him as you did. You loved how big his cock was, even as it hit the back of your throat and caused you to gag, you only continued to suck harder.

Your free hand gripped his thigh as your head continued to bob up and down his length, your hand working what you couldn’t fit passed your lips. Meeting his eyes, he mouthed ‘all of it.’ before giving a gentle thrust of his hips and turning back to the game. As he hit the back of your throat once again, you felt your throat protest. Pulling away for air, you felt his hand reach down to fist in the back of your hair, preventing you from taking his cock all the way out of your mouth.

You moaned around what was left between your lips, the vibrations almost causing him to spill into your mouth right there. Fuck, did you feel good, he should’ve known his third favourite hole of yours would be able to work him well enough to have him ready to cum in minutes. He wasn’t going to let you have that satisfaction though.

Even still, that mouth of yours knew exactly how to work his cock and he was having a hard time remembering how to breath properly, let alone concentrate on the game in front of him. 

“You good, Kenma?” Kuroo’s voice came through the headset.

“Y-yeah, just having some issues...with my controls.” He said, his voice higher than he’d meant it to be as your mouth made a sinful sound around him. 

“You sure, I thought I heard a weird noise…” 

“It’s nothing!” He said quickly, too quickly. He hoped they didn’t press any further. He held his breath for a few seconds, but if Kuroo and the rest of the party suspected anything, they didn’t voice it. He let out a shaky breath.

Good. He didn’t actually want them to hear the lewd sounds your mouth was making as you took his cock down your throat. Those sounds belonged to him and only him.

He loosened his grip on your hair but you continued to take him further as your throat relaxed around his length, your nose now hitting the spatter of dark pubic hairs at the base of his cock. When you hummed around him and brought your fingers up to gently massage his balls, his whole body seemed to convulse under your touch.

Shaking his head, he tried to focus back on the game, his grip on the mouse a little tighter. His eyes followed his player on the screen when he spotted movement in the corner of the screen.

“Sniper, to the r—” He heard Kuroo -or maybe it was Shoyo, he couldn’t tell anymore, his mind was hazy with lust- call out, but it was too late. It was game over.

Throwing his headset onto the desk, he turned to you, his eyes burning into yours. You felt your walls clench between your thighs, your arousal beginning to leak out of you.

“Up, now.” You didn’t need to be told twice. You stood up in front of him, waiting for him to make the first move.

“Bunny, that mouth of yours...it’s sinful.” His voice was low as his hand reached out to caress your inner thigh, his fingers leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake. “I couldn’t even concentrate on the game, I just wanted to watch you taking me between those beautiful lips.” Up and up his fingers went, “but now, now I want to see myself disappearing into the ones between your hips.” His fingers reached the apex of your thighs and he groaned.

“You’re not wearing any underwear, Bunny. Did you plan this?” He already knew the answer. You could only moan as he slipped two fingers in you, his thumb beginning to make tight circles on your throbbing clit.

“You’re already dripping and i’ve hardly touched you,” his fingers picked up their pace inside you as the knot in your stomach began to tighten, “always so ready for me like the good girl you are. Even if I couldn’t feel how wet for me you are, I’d be able to tell from those sounds your pussy is making around my fingers.” 

You could only whimper at his words and grasp onto his shoulders as he curled and scissored his fingers, stretching your walls in the most intoxicating way. Your legs began to tremble as his other hand shot out and gave you a firm smack on your ass.

“Put your foot up here, bunny.” his fingers continued to work inside you as you placed your foot on his chair next to his leg. Your head fell back as he was now able to slide another finger inside you and reach even deeper than before, brushing against your sweet spot with every movement of his wrist. 

“Fu-, Kenma, fuck. Oh god.” Your words were failing you as he continued to pump his fingers inside of you, his palm now pressing against your clit as your fingers dug into his shoulders. He groaned at the feeling, dipping his head down to kiss your inner thigh. You were his and only he could ever make you feel this good, you both knew it.

“I want you to cum on my fingers, now.” Then his teeth were nipping at your inner thigh as he pressed his fingers against your g spot. Kenma watched as your orgasm consumed you, your hanging out the side of your mouth and your eyes closed as the ecstasy ran though your body. 

His cock was throbbing unbearably now, his hand reaching down to stroke himself as he felt your walls continue to clench around his fingers that were still moving inside you, prolonging your orgasm as much as he could. He wasn’t done with you just yet.

Before you had a chance to come down from your orgasm, he was removing his digits from your greedy cunt, your juices coating his hand. Your eyes were heavy as you watched him bring the hand to his mouth so that he could lap at your juices.

“You taste amazing, bunny,” he licked some more of your release off his fingers as you brought your foot back down to the ground, your legs unsteady, “no one else will ever get to taste you, you’re all mine.” You were his, you always had been, you both knew it.

“All yours, Kenma. Forever.” you whispered, bringing a hand up to cup his cheek. He leaned into it, pressing a kiss to your wrist. His heart swelled at your words, he’d never wanted you more than he did right now. 

“Turn around for me, hands behind your back.” You hesitated for a second, searching his eyes for any hint of what he had planned. Unable to find anything you turned and did as he said. You heard shuffling before you felt something being tied around your wrists, securing them in place behind your back.

“Wha-” 

Before you could ask what he’d used to tie your wrists, you were spun around and pulled into Kenma’s lap, a knee falling on either side of his thighs. His hands reached out to steady you as you were unable to use your hands to stop you from falling. 

His face was just inches from yours. You could see your breath moving the hairs that fell on his forehead, pushing them out of his eyes as they peered up at your disheveled state. His hand came up to brush some of your own hairs out of your face, tucking them behind your ear. He took your chin between his thumb and index finger, bringing you even closer to him.

“Do you have any idea how crazy you make me, Bunny?” then warm lips were on your throat as his hands slipped beneath his shirt you were wearing, trailing his fingers over your stomach and under your breasts before settling on your thighs. You shivered under his touch, your arousal beginning to coil in your stomach again. You whimpered as you pulled at your restraints -that you now realised must’ve been some kind of spare cord from his computer- wanting to touch him. 

You could feel his cock pressing against your entrance, your juices coating his tip so that he’d be able to slip inside you so easily.

“Please, Kenma. I-I need you.” You grind down onto him, needing him to fill you.

He let out a groan, his hips coming up to meet yours so that just the head of cock was inside you. He was teasing you, finally getting his own back for how you’d snuck up on him earlier. You tried desperately to sink down onto him but his grip on your hips stopped you. It was driving you mad.

Every nerve in your body felt like it was on fire, there was no one who could drive you crazy like him and he knew it.

Removing a hand from your hip, he reached around your back before grabbing a fist full of your hair and giving it yank, making your head fall back so that your throat was exposed to him. 

You yelped at the pain but it was quickly forgotten as Kenma used your vulnerable state to press a kiss to each of your collar bones, before licking a hot path up the hollow of your throat. You shivered at the feel of his tongue on your skin.

Then he was wrapping his free arm around your back and easing you down into his cock, your jaw hanging loose as he finally filled you in the most delicious way.

“Good girl, take it for me.” And you did. He didn’t give you anytime to get accused to his length before his hands were back on your hips and he was guiding you up and down on his hardened shaft.

The feel of him stretching you had your head swimming as you braced your forehead on his shoulder and began to match his pace. The grip he had on your hips was sure to leave marks, but you didn’t care, you craved his hands on you.

Your moans filled the room as you felt another orgasm building. His lips latched onto your neck as he angled his hips to a new position that allowed his cock to hit a spot inside you as stars danced across your vision.

“Kenma, I’m close, I’m so close, please.” 

He knew you were, he could feel your walls beginning to clamp around him, he knew he wouldn’t be able to hold on much longer either. 

His thrusts became sloppy as a thin sheen of sweat coated the both of you. His hand grasped your chin and pulled your face to his, needing to feel your lips on his. Your breaths mingled as your stomach tightened once again.

“Cum for me, bunny. Cum on my cock like a good girl.” he whispered against your lips as his arms wrapped around your waist, stilling your movements. He picked up his pace, giving a few more hard thrust inside your sopping pussy, feeling your body seize up in his hold as another orgasm ripped through you.

“Iloveyouiloveyouiloveyou.” was all you could say as you were lost to the ecstasy that flowed through your body. It had your eyes squeezing shut and your toes curling as you rode it out. 

Kenma followed not long after, his teeth latching onto your shoulder as his warm cum coated your walls. His breathing was heavy as you sank into his chest, his now limp cock falling out of you. 

You felt empty for a second before warm lips were placed on your forehead, his hand coming up to brush your hair from your sweaty forehead. He reached around and removed the makeshift restraint from your wrists, placing a soft kiss to the raw skin on each one.

“That was...” you started, unable to find the words.

“Mind blowing?” He muttered into your hair, his voice sleepy. He shifted you in his arms, picking you so he could carry you to the bedroom.

You peaked up at him through your lashes and he gave you one of his private smiles. It made your heart squeeze. He shared so much of himself with you that no one else got to see and it made you unbelievably happy.

Sighing with content, you looked over his shoulder at where he’d just fucked you and you froze in his grasp.

“Um, Kenma...”

He stopped in the doorway. “What is it, bunny?”

You could only nod your head towards the gaming set up and the bright green mute button that you knew should’ve been red if it was on mute.

He turned his head to see what you were referring to. When he realised what you meant, his whole body tensed.

“Oh fuck.”

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ

Yeah, so i got a little bit carried away with this request and i’m not sorry. I can’t even begin to describe how much fun i had writing this. I live for soft dom Kenma!! - Vixen

[creativeashproductions]

We Wouldn’t Be Us // Charlie Gillespie

IN WHICH: We get a look into the timeline of the reader and Charlie’s relationship from the first date that wasn’t so perfect to the news they get. The relationship has its ups and downs like all relationships do but this one brings the birth of a song. They know in their relationship that anything less just wouldn’t be them

Warnings: Swearing, an argument, allusion to sex (NO SMUT), pure fluff

Words: 3.1k

A/N: I suppose this is an entry for @cherrymaybank​’s Valentine’s Day Fic Challenge. 

Based on the song We Wouldn’t Be Us by Alexandra Kay

TO BE TAGGED SEND AN INBOX/ASK PLEASE!

Masterlist

Every dress didn’t seem to fit properly no matter what mirror with different light in your apartment you tried. The spare bathroom’s bulb was dying, so that made the colour appear off, and the best mirror was dirty, which would dampen the romantic goal. Nothing made you feel that oomph that you desired for this date. 

You could wear the standby little black dress of which you had two options, the clubbing one or the work appropriate one. It didn’t seem right to choose a standard black and no colour for this insanely sweet guy that had this insane energy. With that thought in mind, you dug deeper in your closet for that special dress that you’d never found someone worthy of it. It was your best dress and your most expensive with the tags still on. You would have gone for the maroon dress but it was Valentine’s Day and that seemed like over kill.

Somehow it still fit perfectly despite the length of time from purchase, it was a vibrant green satin with lace matching the colour. The dress's satin ended just below the knee with the matching lace falling an additional six inches past. The A-line skirt was loose flowing contrasting to the form-fitting material across your bust and midsection. 

One of your favourite parts of the dress was the off-shoulder bateau neckline that gave a tasteful sneak of your cleavage. The bottom of the thick straps came to make a perfectly straight horizontal line. Across your waist was a one-inch wide satin ribbon attached to the dress that formed a perfect bow that tied the outfit together, no pun intended.

“Whoa.” You breathed stepping in front of the floor-length mirror kept in the spare bedroom, it had once been your roommates’ room before she moved.

You had to admit the dress was magical with it, bringing out all your curves and went with your skin tone. It was a pure shock to see how you managed to make the dress come to life with just a makeup look that was easy to do. All you did next was your favourite beige heels that went with everything. You had just slid on the left heel when the buzzer sounded and slid the right on as you hit the button unlocking the apartment building door.

“This is going to be perfect.” You breathed leaning into the mirror beside the front door. You inspected your lipstick as a knock sounded on the dark brown wood of your door. 

“You look gorgeous.” Your date breathed, widening those colour changing irises as he took in your outfit, “You take my breath away. Happy Valentine’s Day”

Your cheeks flushed, “Thank you, Charlie.”

He stepped into the apartment as you quickly went to the kitchen to grab your coat and purse with your essentials. He had gently retrieved the coat from your arms to help you into the cold jacket. 

“I know traditionally I would have brought you flowers, but I also know you love books.” Charlie breathed grasping the items in his hands, “So I got these flowers.”

His warm hands held three books. The top one was The Orchid House by Lucinda Riley with a cover that had the background blurry with only the back of a girl in clarity. The girl’s pink dress matching the flower in the upper corner of the book. The next cover proudly displayed The Rose Garden by Susanna Kearsley with red flowers growing down on a stone building. The third one was a light pink book with an anatomically correct heart with flowers growing out of the arteries, veins and valves; a collection of poetry I Saw You As a Flower by Ellen Everett. Lastly, you held Rupi Kaur’s second collection of poetry The Sun and her Flowers that had come out a couple years ago.

“Charlie, this is so thoughtful. You even has a rose one!” You breathlessly spoke gently touching the covers, “Thank you so much for these.”

“I thought we could read them together?” Charlie was bashful as he quietly asked with flushed cheeks. He didn’t know why he felt like this was his very first date all over again.

“I’d love that.” You softly told the Canadian with the manners a mother would be jealous to have in her home. Charlie’s fingers linked with yours as he tugged you out of the apartment into the hallway.

Your hands swung during the short walk from the apartment building to his bright orange Subaru across the street. The sound of the light wind rustling the trees lining the sidewalk mixed with the humming from Charlie was a perfect film score. He was the ideal gentleman even before he asked you out.

You couldn’t wait to tell your close loved ones about Charlie. You could really see this going somewhere. The relationship that is, as you were now on the side of a road with the Subaru’s hazard lights flashing.

“I forgot to fill the tank.” Charlie moaned, pressing his forehead against the steering wheel. His eyes clenched just as tight as his fists.

The Canadian was so embarrassed to have had what he thought was the best date of his life. He’d played music from the playlist he had patiently curated specifically for this date, and he held your hand to the restaurant. He’d already made plans for another date when his car’s warning beeped.

In Charlie’s haste, he’d forgotten to fuel up his car, so here he was with the prettiest person he’d ever seen in his passenger seat. His confidence in a second date had greatly diminished.

“Char, you said Owen was on his way. There isn’t anyone else I’d prefer to be stranded with. Don’t be so hard on yourself.”

“I wanted this date to go perfect. This is my first Valentine’s Day with someone.” Charlie admitted turning his head to stare into warm pools of your e/y colours. His eyes scanned the soft smile that appeared on your face as his confession, “I had this whole thing planned out, and now you definitely won’t want a second-”

“I’m gonna kiss you. If you don’t want that, let me know.” You murmured before pulling him in for what would be the best kiss of your life thus far.

Sure his car broke down, but you kissed him anyway. He tasted of the complimentary chocolate dessert from dinner.

A Year Later

A young, admittedly broke couple sat on the cold floor of the unpacked kitchen eating SpaghettiOs. You had only just moved into the studio apartment with Charlie that had drained most of your savings. Had it not been in a decently safe area in the city and a close commute you would have said no.

But it was the perfect starting place for you two as you both were unfamiliar with living with an SO. It sucked on each of your ends to not have a better situation, Charlie wanted nothing more than to spoil you on the first day living together. Unfortunately, it wasn’t possible but sitting on the floor with a cheap candle was imperfectly perfect.

“I’m sorry we’re eating out of cans.” Charlie whispered pointedly, keeping his eyes on the spoon, stirring the red sauce with the beige circles.

“Char this is perfect. As long as it’s you and I then anything is perfect. Besides we didn’t label the boxes, I have no idea which box has our kitchenware.” You admitted glancing at the boxes boarding the edge of the room. 

You ate out of cans for at least a week before you had unpacked the kitchen and had the means to buy actual groceries. Living together thus far had been going super smooth until wasn’t.

It was a bad day on both your parts, your entire work was deleted after a computer glitch. Charlie had auditioned for a role he had been really really wanting since he heard about it. Your father came down with the flu axing the plans to meet for dinner; it would have been the first time in six months you saw him in person.

The apartment's atmosphere had been rising and very volatile by mid-afternoon when Charlie blatantly forgot a deal. If he was going to play music, it had to be in the study so you could focus on your work. 

Today he’d decided to be in close vicinity to have a virtual jam session with both Owen and Jeremy. He’d chosen the room you were in solely because it had the best wifi reception which you needed as well.

“Charlie, please can you go to the study? I’m trying to finish this!” You cried out as he struck a chord on the electric. His eyebrows came other in the glare he sent you, “I lost all my work last night.”

“The guys and I are working on songs-”

“-Charlie, this is due tonight. I can’t concentrate with-”

“It’s not my fault you have a shitty attention span!” Charlie angrily snapped contradicting the gentle touch on his guitar. He placed it back on the stand to not accidentally damage it, “The wifi is best in this room.”

“I’m very much aware of that Charlie. Out of the two of us, I use it the most. Can you please either move to the study or at least wait an hour so I can finish?” You pleaded with the Canadian actor ignoring the two guys on the computer silently waiting for the fight to be over.

“Why can't you mov-”

“Fine. I will.” You fully stared down your boyfriend for a full five seconds before you harshly closed the top of your computer. It took seconds to gather your work stuff into the leather satchel you stored the computer in, “You didn’t even mute the call.”

Charlie watched as you swiftly pulled on your jacket, “Babe-”

The sound of the door slamming shut cut his sentence before he even had a chance to speak his thoughts. The apartment was eerily silent compared to the sounds of music that always played through the Bluetooth speaker.

The inspiration to play evaporated with the aftermath of a stupid argument permeated the apartment typically filled with love. All three actors quietly said their goodbyes before they ended the video call.

You spent an hour uncomfortably sitting in a cafe finishing up what you’d needed to finish with the argument replaying. Your finger barely hit the button to send the email before you had already stepped outside the business. You spent the walk struggling to draft a text to your boyfriend. 

It didn’t matter because when you walked into the apartment, you heard the soft song you’d both deemed yours. It was cheesy, but that was part of Charlie’s charm. Speaking of your boyfriend, he was sat on the floor of your kitchen with matching mugs of brownies.

“I’m sorry. I was insensitive.” Charlie started as soon as your jacket was draped over one of the kitchen chairs. His usually wide smile was as bashful as the one he’d worn on the night of your first date.

“No I’m sorry, Charlie. I could have easily put on my headphones or moved to the bedroom for a bit. The fight was stupid, and I love you so much that sometimes I think I take you for granted. I mean, look at you! You made the brownie cups-”

“Even sitting on the cold floor like when we moved in.” Charlie cheekily inserted, reaching over to hold your hands in his, “I like our tradition. I definitely like how we upgraded from SpaghettiOs to brownies.”

“Me too.” You breathed leaning over to press a lingering kiss on his lips. His hands delving into your hair to keep you close.

The butterflies stormed your stomach as the heat slowly inflated from your toes until it reached your flushing cheeks. Raw emotion pouring into the passionate kiss that only closed down as you broke for air. But you also went back in as that warmth slowly built in your tummies. Charlie’s eyes marginally opened to ensure he wasn’t imagining the Angel he got to kiss.

Finally, with heavy breathing, you pulled apart, but only a fleeting moment froze the time in the apartment. For, as soon as Charlie caught your dilated pupils, his one hand cupped the back of your hand, fingers tangled in your h/c tresses. 

Soon enough, you were making up on the kitchen floor with each article of clothing tossed in the vicinity. A shirt landed on the kitchen sink spout. The brownie mugs forgotten as you gave into the passion with your boyfriend. Your lovemaking had you missing supper.

Charlie’s solution was a trip to the local authentic English pub founded by a nice guy from London. You never failed to stop him for a dance in the empty street as his smooth voice gave music for smooth motions. Dancing was a common thing from pulling off the road in Dieppe to dance. You drank and danced at the pub until Jack cut you off at 2am as his pub rules had.

You and Charlie just laughed in a love bubble as the real-world worries faded because you always came together in the rough times.

Months later you returned to Dieppe with Charlie to spend the holidays with them. The entire family together creating such a welcoming atmosphere.

“I’m gonna grab a glass of water.” You informed the group of gals ad non-binary pals who had gathered in Meghan’s bedroom. The group had decided to sleep over Meg’s childhood room with face masks, nail polish and lovely wine.

Meg and Jeannette both nodded to acknowledge your announcement before they returned to their respective conversations. You took a moment to take in the great group of Gillespie and Co you had the honour to be part of. The thirst was only temporarily forgotten in the happy bubble you found yourself in.

You practically skipped to the kitchen, barely noticing the two people in the living room, but their words stopped you in your tracks. Your boyfriend, Charlie Gillespie, stood close to his older brothers Ryan, Patrick and Michael.

“I’m gonna ask her to marry-” Charlie caught himself from finishing the sentence when he saw you standing pale-faced at the opening into the living room.

His entire body was encapsulated by the lights casting in the living room from the Christmas tree. The tree couldn’t hold a candle to the ring of your dreams that promptly had you bursting into tears.

“I RUINED THE SURPRISE!” You sobbed dropping your face into your cold hands, avoiding the gaze of the Gillespie brothers. Had you not been hiding in your hands you would have known the older three had vacated the room.

“Hey, it’s okay.” Charlie cooed with the ring safely put away in the box he had shoved back in his pocket, “You didn’t ruin the surprise. I shouldn’t have been telling my brothers in the middle of the living room.”

Charlie’s warm hands slowly pulled your hands from your soft post-mask skin with such a pretty healthy glow. He could see the remnants of the mask on the edge of your scalp, but it didn’t take away from your beauty.

“I’m sorry.” You whispered, staring up at him from underneath your eyelashes. The soft hazel eyes not upset in the least, things often didn’t go the way you wanted to together.

Take the first date from over two years ago where you and Charlie had waited for Owen to meet you with a jug of gas. You’d shared childhood stories and future dreams. Or the time you hadn’t marked the boxes creating an entire week of eating out of cans and cartons.

Ruining the proposal was almost expected at this rate.

“I knew from the moment I saw you in that emerald dress I knew that you were the One for me. I���ve adored each moment I’ve gotten with you from the spontaneous dances on the side of the road. To bursting into song in the middle of the street.” Charlie shakily started with sweating bands but an open heart, “When your best friend told me the emerald dress was the special one, it melted my heart.”

“Charlie.”

“Other than my belief that this relationship will last, I was only ever sure of one thing in my life. I was sure I would be an actor, but now I’m more sure that my favourite role will be supporting you, loving you and evolving with you as your husband.” Charlie sniffled, taking one hand from yours to wipe the tears flooding his cheeks, “Will you marry me?”

“Yes.” You breathed lunging on your tiptoes to kiss him with as much passion as you could. Your hands caressed the skin of his cheeks; his long tresses tickling your wrists.

“God I love you.” Charlie gushed with a gentle shake of his head. His hazel pinned to your e/c eyes as if you were the most precious gem in the world.

A voice cut the bubble enveloping you, “Well are you gonna put the ring on her finger or what?”

Charlie’s head moved to meet the teary eyes of his mother surrounded by his siblings as they bounced on their feet. You laughed as your now fiance clumsily rushed to slide the absolutely gorgeous ring on your finger. 

“Welcome to the family officially.” Jeannette cheered along with the celebratory whistles and yells as the crowd of the family grew more and more. Soon enough, the entire room was overflowing with people congratulating your new engagement.

Months later, you stood in front of that same group holding the hands of your handsome fiance. Both dressed to the nines in front of the officiant.

“I wasn’t looking for a fairytale, because they all end the same. The princess has a conflict that she revolves with the help of the prince. They get married and live happily ever after. I adore how we’re writing our own story that fits our relationship. Charlie Gillespie, I wouldn’t change a thing about our lives. I wouldn’t have it any other way even with the fighting and slamming doors, but we always end up on our kitchen floor making up with two brownies in mugs.” Your vows brought tears among the onlookers along with the Canadian barely keeping it together.

The vows would later be eloquently transformed into lyrics from you with the accompanying melody provided by Charlie. On Valentine’s Day, you played the song on the kitchen floor with a plate of brownies. Three brownies waiting to be devoured.

“Three for each of us.” You wept as you watched as Charlie melted into a puddle of joyful tears. He took no time in placing his hand over your flat stomach.

Yeah, you wouldn’t have it any other way. Especially when Valentine’s Day become more to the Gillespie family; a new little love taking up the day.

(Reader’s Dress In Beginning)

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[potteresque-ire]

Concerning the incredibly far and deep reach of CCP’s propaganda, the narratives the government can spin and call the truth; does ‘the common normal populace’ actually know what’s really going on?

Hello everyone!!! Happy Chinese New Year!!

I’m grouping these asks because if I hear them correctly, they’re all related to this question: how much do people in China know about the atrocities committed by their government, and why don’t they do something about it?

It’s a difficult question, isn’t it? A potentially upsetting one too, just to think about. My answers are more opinion-based, more personal this time. Since there’re no polls about what people know, they have to be based a little more on my own impression, which has more chances of error. Please bear with me and proceed with caution ...

As with people in most countries, what people know is hugely dependent on individuals. Specifically, re: politics, I can think of at least three reasons why people don’t have the facts

1) they have limited access to information 2) they’re being lied to about what they know 3) they’re not interested in current affairs.

1), of course, is what most people think about when it comes to China. You’re right, Anon(s), that VPN use is indeed rampant in the country and is essentially an open secret; there’re no official numbers but surveys have estimated the number of users can be up to 100 million, most of them being youngsters. They use it to do exactly what most of us would imagine: gain access to things they don’t have otherwise. Instagram has been (sporadically?) blocked since 2014 September and so while users may have set up their accounts while being overseas, it’s indeed, (very) possible, that they’ve set up and maintained their account under VPN use.

Wait, you may ask, so you mean the Great Firewall of China doesn’t exist?

That’s exactly the official stance. Not because of private VPN use, but because individuals/companies can apply for a license via their telecommunications company to visit all internet sites. Hence, the government’s claim that the Great Firewall doesn’t exist—you’ll be let through as long as you ask (and we’ll watch your every step)! There are also no explicit laws prohibiting the use of private VPNs; only a handful of arrests associated with private VPN use have been made and only since 2019, and the punishment is considered light—no imprisonment, just fines. It is, in contrast, against the law to *provide* private VPN services, and while companies have been shut down, the crackdown has still been incredibly sluggish by Chinese government’s standards, especially when the Xi regime has made its intention of banning VPN known and directives have been issued for that in 2017.

Why has VPN continued to enjoy this “grey existence”? Because without VPN, a lot of foreign businesses would leave—some, for example, require the most efficient online tools developed outside China to track the foreign markets, and talents have rejected job offers in the country when they realised they couldn’t get on their favourite social media. The science and tech sectors also rely heavily on VPN—programmers relying on Google to search stackoverflow, for example, to find known solutions to bugs. 

VPNs have also served political purposes—Hong Kong, Taiwan, and Chinese Communist Party (CCP)-critical communities all over the world are all painfully aware of the Chinese government’s practice of hiring its own collection of internet commentators (”50 Cent Party”), and at times, mobilising their youths (gamers, fan circles) to scale the Firewall and astroturf, throw insults at the “CCP enemies” and bomb message boards with pro-CCP messages.

Also, a significant fraction of VPN companies, both in China and overseas, have been reported to have Chinese ownership, by companies with government connections. These VPN services provide a false sense of security for those who do not enjoy having big brother peeking behind their backs while acting as surveillance tools that extend beyond the country.

(Please be careful about free VPNs).

The next question: If until now, users of private VPNs only rarely get into trouble, what’s holding them from scaling the Great Firewall and learning the facts?

It is this: the law isn’t about “climbing the wall”, but what one does outside the wall.

Article 6 of the 2016 edition of Cybersecurity law states the following: 

第六条　国家倡导诚实守信、健康文明的网络行为，推动传播社会主义核心价值观，采取措施提高全社会的网络安全意识和水平，形成全社会共同参与促进网络安全的良好环境

Article 6: The State advocates sincere, honest, healthy and civilized network conduct; promoting dissemination of the core socialist values, adopting measures to raise the entire society's awareness and level of network security, and forming a good environment for the entire society to jointly participate in advancing network security.

What this article implies is this ~ legally, Chinese citizens are bound to the Chinese government’s rules of good internet conduct, regardless of whether they use VPN to get on the internet. As with many Chinese laws, however, the vagueness in wording invites more questions than answers. Is it getting on Twitter, a banned website, “sincere, honest, healthy and civilized network conduct”? Obviously, it’s illegal to interact with other users about the Xinjiang’s internment camps, but what if one only goes there to talk about their favourite stars, because on Weibo supertopic they can’t even mention the stars’ name, can’t ahkgkhagjkfaskjgdf about their favourite fics? What if one goes there to discuss a M- or E-rated fic? Where is the line drawn and given its vagueness, will that line move tomorrow? How?

Most people, therefore, have opted to simply stay away from VPN. After all, China offers its own version of many of the fun websites out there (Weibo-Twitter; Instagram-Oasis; Tiktok-Douyin; Youtube-Bilibili). For those who do use VPN, they tend to stick to websites that are unlikely to cause issues (such as Instagram; Instagram became an issue when Hong Kongers started to upload information about the protests on there).

Now, let’s proceed to 2): People don’t know the facts because they’re being lied to about what they know.

There’s a difference between having access to facts and knowing that they’re facts. This is among the most painful lessons, perhaps, for those who followed the politics of the United States in the last few years (please forgive me for the US-centric-ness of the following few paragraphs!). Even with equal access to identical information, people can vary a LOT in their understanding of what are facts and what are lies.

This illustrates the power of propaganda—and propaganda in the US isn’t even centralised. Some media outlets and individuals (political leaders and analysts) have more say on what should be viewed as the truth, but parties without significant power—small foreign and domestic interests, fringe political organisations, conspiracy theorists, regular folks—have also made critical contributions to the “fake news” phenomenon in the US. There haven’t been apparent coordinations between these parties;  little concerted effort has been made to create one coherent story out of the many tales told.

In China, the propaganda effort is centralised, coordinated, free of distractions from competing story lines. The One Story the government decides on is repeated, over and over again, on newspapers, in shows, in textbooks, on signs on the streets, on social media. To put it another way, when it comes to political discourse, the country is designed to be an echo chamber with 1.4 billion people. Over time, the One Stories inevitably become firmly held beliefs—so firmly held that even if the people are exposed to facts, they no longer believe in them.

This is especially true when the source of the facts are countries with strong traditions of freedoms of speech and press, where the facts are often laid out with a critical eye to the administration and with vastly different opinions attached to them. While we view the latter as evidences that the values we embrace are alive and well—a critical eye to the administration means the Fourth Estate is doing its job, and the different opinions means freedom of speech gets to live another day—people who haven’t been exposed to these values tend to interpret these things as signs of weakness of the government. They may think the Chinese government is better than its counterparts elsewhere because no one is penning scathing criticisms against it. They may think the Chinese government is stronger because it unifies the opinions of their people—the failure of which, they’ve been taught, would lead to social chaos and economic free-fall.

The Chinese population has also been “immunised” against the truths that may be exposed about their government by a propaganda talking point used since Chairman Mao’s days—that the “Imperialist” western world, particularly the United States, is always scheming its downfall. The phrase often used is 美帝亡我之心不死 (”The heart (intention) of Imperialist US to bring us down will never die”). Unfavourable truths exposed must therefore be part of the “bring down China” scheme. This decades-old demonisation of the political apparatus of the US and Europe also prepares the people to accept what most would see as outrageous conspiracy theories: for example, in March 2020, the Ministry of Foreign Affairs claimed that the US Army intentionally planted COVID in Wuhan during the 2019 Military World games. “Foreign interference” becomes a frequent and convenient scapegoat for policy decisions gone wrong, sometimes to a (somewhat) hilarious effect ~ for example, a Taiwanese journalist calculated the cost required for the CIA to fund the 2019 Hong Kong Protests, as the Chinese government had claimed—and it turned out that the CIA was too poor to do it. 

(Many of us in the US would probably laugh at the idea that our government is capable of secretly paying 2 million foreign-language speaking strangers to show up together in one march.) (It can’t even get the COVID relief payments to its own people right over a period of months.)

(Fun trivia for turtles! As 美帝=“Imperialist US” is the synonym of a feared, imaginary super-villain—super organised, super efficient, super everywhere and super impossible to take down—c-BJYX, the indestructible No. 1 CP fandom in China, has been nicknamed “美帝 cp” by those not so enamoured with it.)

Finally, there’s the psychological factor. Once a set of beliefs becomes personal truths, listening to alternatives can be very upsetting (for those in the US: imagine the blue voting block made to listen to Fox News). Hence, even when people gain access to the facts later—for example, when they study/work abroad, even emigrate—they often don’t take advantage of the access. Instead, they remain logged in in the Chinese social media sites where they’re comfortable with not only the politics but also the language and the friendships they’ve built, and continue to immerse themselves in an environment heavy with CCP propaganda. They remain defenders of the Chinese government; some have even gone out and harass people who disagree with it, in the name of freedom of speech that their country of origin never offered to them.

Censorship, of course, is an important component of building a One Story echo chamber, and I should add a note about it: censorship in China comes in vastly different strengths. The restrictions on LGBT+ issues, for example, are fairly lax, relatively speaking—“homosexuality” remains a term one can find on their internet and a topic the administration continues to address, and while BL dramas are censored, their adapted versions, along with highly publicised discussions of their original material, have so far been tolerated. The strictest form of Chinese censorship would’ve allowed neither: any mention of the 1989 June 4th Tiananmen Square massacre , for example, is immediately removed, including any hints that the event may have happened. When the former leader of the Chinese government, Jiang Zemin (江澤民), was rumoured to have passed away, the censorship apparatus went so far as to remove all mentions of Jiang, which also happened to mean “large rivers”. Chinese netizens therefore joked that major rivers had ceased to exist in China that day, as one couldn’t find any information about them online.

(LGBT+ activists have therefore remained optimistic about the future of their campaign, despite the current state of affairs. To put it simply: the Chinese government has bigger fish to fry. Sexual minorities haven’t had major clashes with the administration, haven’t embarrassed the Chinese government with their demand for rights as the ethnic minorities—the Uyghurs, the Tibetans, the Mongolians etc did. Political dissidents, including the millions in Hong Kong, are also (far) ahead in the ranking of fish size.)

For most issues, the censorship effort sits somewhere in the middle and is often inconsistent over time. The people, therefore, often have knowledge that an event has happened — even when the event is considered, beyond the Great Firewall, damaging to the reputation of the Chinese government. However, critical information is often missing in their knowledge, or is heavily distorted. For example, overseas Chinese citizens have insisted that the motivation of the 2019 Hong Kong Protests was economic, echoing the longstanding CCP propaganda that Hong Kongers have been jealous of China’s prosperity (reality: China’s GDP per capita was $10,268 USD in 2019, and Hong Kong’s, $48,713—more than 4 times higher). They missed out a critical fact: while the fast economic growth of China has created some unease—Hong Kongers have always known the Chinese government has only tolerated them and their freedoms for their ability to generate wealth—what has truly ignited Hong Kong’s anger is the Chinese government’s violation of the 1984 Sino-British Joint Declaration, and the terms it had agreed upon to get back the then British crown colony. Hong Kong hasn’t been demanding autonomy and freedoms because it’s a troublemaker, but because these things were promised to the city as conditions of the 1997 handover. As residents of the world’s third largest financial centre, Hong Kongers are diligent drafters and executioners of contracts (which international treaties are) and above all, faithful believers of them. For an asker (the Chinese government) to claim a contract as “historical”  because it has received the goods (Hong Kong) and no longer feels a need to pay (allow Hong Kong 50 years of freedoms and autonomy) is offensive to the principle, the very heart and soul of the city. 

(Gg’s former boss was a Hong Konger, and his experience working for him was a rather accurate reflection of Hong Kong’s view on business. What made an impression to Gg—that the posters should be without rips and misprints, even if these imperfections were not the fault of the design company—is a no-brainer to the Hong Konger in me reading the interview. Delivering high quality goods and services isn’t an act of kindness but rather, of professionalism and respect for the contract.)

(This interview is a highly recommended read, for those who’ve missed it!)

(One more example of “conveniently missed critical information”: remember GG’s show on Chongqing? Did you know the underground bombing shelters were not built by the Communist government, but the Nationalist government that was still ruling China during WWII?)

Anyway, where was I?

Right. We’re getting to 3): People are not getting the facts on the political situation in China because they’re not interested in current affairs.

Some—well, many— people are not interested in politics.

Some of you may be thinking: well, I’m not interested either. I follow politics because it’s important.

Why is it important? Because political engagement means you can do something about the many ills of the society, speak for those who cannot, force the government to change by voting, by voicing your opinion, by going to marches and protests etc.

What if you follow politics and still can’t do most of these things? What if, if you do choose to do these things, the price you pay may be astronomical? Will you still follow politics or devote your time, your energy to something else, something you’ve got more control over, something that won’t be as saddening, frustrating because it’s something you can actually change?

3) is therefore intricately related to why people often don’t do anything, even if they manage to find out about the facts.

There’re no national elections in China. Marches and protests are practically banned because while the Chinese Constitution guarantees the freedom of assembly (as it does freedom of speech and press; Article 35), it also explicitly states that "Citizens of the People’s Republic of China, in exercising their freedoms and rights, may not infringe upon the interests of the State, of society or of the collective, or upon the lawful freedoms and rights of other citizens.” (Article 51) — ie. the freedoms and rights only go as far as if they do not stand in the government’s way. Social media and all communications platforms are under constant surveillance, and so only opinions tolerated by the government is allowed... 

And so, the fact, social ill that has broken your heart—you can’t tell for sure if it isn’t talked about because the government has censored it, how many people know about it and more importantly, how many among the people who know about it will agree with your take. If you break your silence and voice your concerns, how many people will have your back, even if you also conceive them as victims of the social ill? If the social ill is the lack of rights of a minority group, for example, will they appreciate your speaking out, or will your “rocking-the-boat” make things even worse for them? A heavily watched net means communications with the oppressed/vulnerable social groups are often filled with obstacles, if not outright impossible. You don’t know how these groups feel; you don’t even know how many affected individuals are there. You watch the and news and shows and they all talk about how wonderfully things are going; how everyone seems so hopeful and positive and happy with their lives—are you the only person feeling that way? Are you wrong? If you speak out then, will you be yelling into the void, or worse, yelling at the police who “invites” you for a chat in the police station? To speak for those who do not have a voice to speak, are you ready, willing to take the risk of also becoming one who no longer has a voice to speak? Is your family ready? 

To put it another way: the opportunity cost of “doing something” about the political situation can be astronomically high in China, compared to the opportunity cost of us doing something similar in our own country. 

If I want to support the LGBT+ population in my part of the US, for example, I can do so effectively with minimal investment and most importantly, with minimal risk. By pasting a rainbow flag on this Tumblr post, for example, I’ve already signalled to those who need support on this issue that I’m ready to give mine. And this “signal” of mine will join the hundreds and thousands on the site, collectively telling the activists doing the “on the ground” fighting that they’re not alone; that they have my vote of support. I pose no danger to myself in doing so; no one will accuse me of, arrest me for infringing upon the interests of the State and the Collective. The rainbow flag, a display of my stance, will not turn into a blurred blob the next time I look at it, transform overnight from a symbol of solidarity to a warning sign to those who may wish to join the cause. There’s no danger for me, even, to carry an actual, huge rainbow flag to Pride, perform my activism in person. I don’t have to worry about my phone already giving away my identity as a protester to the government, especially in post-COVID times. I don’t need to watch out for plain clothes pretending to be my allies. I don’t have to look at the many surveillance cameras present and wonder if I’ll get blacklisted as a troublemaker.

Am I still being tracked and taken pictures of? Possibly. But for this cause, at least, I’m not afraid that these information will be used to arrest me. If I were arrested, I know there'll be lawyers and activists who would come to my aid. LOUDLY. ANGRILY.

I’m not afraid. Period. I’m having fun. And I doubt I can say the same if I try to carry a rainbow flag to Tiananmen square and march there.

This vast difference in the opportunity cost of taking political action is the reason why I’ve refrained from demanding those who live under authoritarian dictatorships to stand up for their neighbours who’ve been oppressed / bullied by their governments. I’ve refrained from criticising them for looking away, minding their own business. Do I wish they’ve take action? Of course I do. Am I aware that their lack of action is potentially more harmful because of the frequent atrocities happening around them? Yes. But I also understand that going on a fight is far more frightening when one doesn’t even have a sense of how many will join their side of the fight; I understand that fighting for what one deserves—freedoms, rights, justice—should never equal martyrdom, and just because a regime has elected to put equal signs between the two doesn’t mean those equal signs should ever be there. I remind myself that, to ask the people in any authoritarian dictatorship to stand up for a political cause is to ask them to make sacrifices that we, as people in relatively free societies, do not need to make when standing up for the same cause. In a country where a father demanding the truth about the milk product poisoning of his own son got jail time for “eliciting social disorder”, to stand up for even a single issue, no matter how small that issue is, requires courage that I’m not sure I have.

I can’t ask anyone to do anything I may not be able to do myself.

And this is why I, too, have chosen to support these people, even if many of them are single-issue activists, even when many support the Chinese government on other issues that matter. For example, the late Dr Li Wenliang, one of the eight COVID whistleblowers in China who passed away from the disease, was an opponent of the Hong Kong Protest, but I still (greatly) appreciate, respect him for what he did. As long as they’re not actively helping the government to cause (more) harm to others, as long as their cooperation with their government falls within what is demanded of them as citizens, they have my support. Why? Because most people who speak out in China cannot afford to stand up for more than one cause before it becomes dangerous for them. Because even if it’s only a tiny vulnerable social group, one small minority that makes a tiny step towards more rights, more freedoms, more justice, it’s still a victory in a country where rights, freedoms and justice are luxury items for those with neither political nor economic power. Because those who’re not part of the ruling class cannot afford to cherry pick their allies, cannot afford to in-fight when the ruling class already holds absolute power. Because I still believe in pay-it-forward, that most people who’ve benefited from someone standing up for them, even for one small incident, one minor cause, is more likely to stand up for someone else.

This is, admittedly, not always an easy choice to make—not for me, at least. I do get frustrated, can’t help but think at times that those who subscribe to and spread propaganda are, to a certain extent, corroborators of the atrocities committed by their government. (So, to those who’ve felt this frustration, you’re not alone!). And the Hong Konger in me has every reason to be furious with everything about China right now—all I could think of, when I listened to Gg singing 異鄉人 Foreigner the other night, are all the Hong Kongers fleeing the city now, as refugees, because of their political beliefs.

But for now, I’m hanging on. I’ve been able to tell myself that given the country’s political reality, given its tradition of collectivism (which tends to view confrontational dissent with scorn), the paths to freedoms, to equal rights and acceptance, will not be the same as what I’ve seen, what I’ve wished for. They’ll likely be slow; They’ll likely be long and winding, taking three steps forward and two steps back; they’d likely be unexpected in places, offer us surprises —

And since it’s Chinese New Year / Valentines and I’m feeling brave (irresponsible?), I’d venture a little bit of speculation and say this ~ yes, I’ve wondered if one of these many paths may be trodden, intentionally or not, by two beautiful male idols and their millions of turtles. Is it wishful, fantastical thinking? I’d be the first to admit the answer is yes. But the BJYX scheme has been so well executed as of now, so effective that I can’t help but wonder if it’s leading towards some sort of a goal, whether devised by the humans involved or by the gods/Fates who, as c-turtles have said so romantically, have been writing an original BL story with our favourite boys. The goal may be personal —simply two people being able to act more like themselves again under the spotlight—or a bit more ambitious…

… Because the sneakers + ice-cream post did catch my attention (will probably have to devote a post on that?). Another small incident that has caught my attention, unrelated to Gg and Dd but can significantly change the path they may be trodding, is this — in June 2020, People’s Daily, the state controlled newspaper, boasted its country’s increasing friendliness towards the LGBT+ communities on Twitter . While the tweet was met with skepticism and soon removed, the message it sent is this: the Chinese government may have figured out the the Western world (in particular, the younger generations) view LGBT+ rights as a measure of progressiveness. While I’m still leaning towards the government maintaining a tight grip on LGBT+ rights within its borders, with the strengthening call to boycott 2022 Beijing Winter Olympics because of the country’s poor human rights record, I can see a glimmer of possibility that the same government may do the unexpected and cater to the queer community for the sake of propaganda.  As I mentioned, the queer community hasn’t caused much headache for the Chinese government, and so it’s far more likely to be chosen as the “benefactors” of such a “we’re a human rights champion too!” propaganda campaign than, say, ethnic minorities and political dissidents. Promoting dissemination of core socialist values has always sat high on the CCP’s agenda list, and its target audience has always included foreign, non-Chinese populations; this effort is known as 大外宣—“The Great External Propaganda”. And who better to cast as leads of an international propaganda campaign on LGBT+ rights than two of its own stars who’ve already demonstrated loyalty to the government, who’ve already garnered international fame from a TV series widely viewed as queer, and who may actually be queer?

(And if—if!!!— this ever happens, may I ask everyone to please consider doing the following? Please do not feel a need to express gratitude. Please do not act as though it’s a gift. Celebrate as you would celebrate anyone in a free country exercising their birthright to live, to love the way they want — no less than that, no more than that.)

(For those who’ve asked ~ as international fans, not allowing the CCP to modify our expectations of how a government should behave may be one of the most effective ways to protect Gg and Dd.)

(I call this learning from the best: get the goods we want (more rights for the people in China), refuse to pay the cost (subscribe to CCP’s propaganda), and RUN! ❤️💛💚)

[beautifulletdownfics]

Nothing To Him - A Harry Styles One Shot

Harry Styles is a liar.

He lied your whole relationship.

He promised to love you forever and then he walked away.

A lovers to nothing break up fic feat. blisters, heartache & two sides to one story.

Word count: 15k (Sorry! You’re going to want to open this little pal in a browser window probably. Eek)

Story Playlist:

The First Lie: Damn This Love - Thirsty Merc The Second Lie: Do You Remember - Jarryd James The Third Lie: Nebraska - Oh Wonder The Fourth Lie: I Saw You - Jon Bryant The Fifth Lie: Here We Go - Emily Hearn The Sixth Lie: Crying Dancing - Nina Nesbitt , NOTD

+

MY MASTERLIST.

+

The first lie was that you were different.

Harry felt different with you.

You just slipped into his routine and his life. You didn't buy into the spectacle of it all. You told him on your first date that you didn't play games, and that it wasn't often you connected with someone on an intellectual or emotional level. Harry sat there and listened to the woman across from him say she didn't expect to finish the date still attracted to him.

And he fucking loved it.

The next morning he called you at quarter past eight, because he figured you either started work at eight-thirty or nine o'clock, so he'd catch you on your commute or just before you walked into the office. You answered your phone like you would a business call. He teased you for it, but really he was just glad you answered at all. It felt like getting test results telling Harry he was in the clear.

The truth was when Harry first met you at the birthday party the night before he'd been angling towards you being a hookup. He saw you across the bar as soon as he arrived, gaze zeroing in on your legs in That Dress, his ears leaning to the sound of your laugh pulling eyes from around the room. Harry wanted you, and he'd been through a bit of a dry spell. You radiated the kind of energy Harry could get drunk on, the sort of body he wanted to lose himself in for a night.

It was almost an hour before he managed to edge into the same circle of bodies as you. You knew the birthday girl the same way he did; through work. Harry caught early on that you didn't still work for his record label, but did a few years before and stayed in touch with everyone. You seemed like the kind of person who collected people, who everyone wanted to keep in touch with. Harry just wanted to touch you.

Two tequilas in he got you to himself.

You were good at flirting, which excited Harry initially. You had a quip for everything or an interesting addition to each story he told. You were well-read and well-travelled, and you weren't hesitant in showing Harry that you had opinions and ideas of your own. Over the years he'd become good at getting people to talk, good at asking questions that make someone share themselves because the alternative—Harry sharing himself—wasn't something he could do. But something about you and the way you framed questions made Harry feel like it was safe to share a little more, you'd disarmed him quietly, and by the time he noticed Harry didn't feel the need to protect himself anymore.

"That's bullshit," you'd told him when he said he wasn't all that into contemporary fiction. You hated the artsy elites who listed off the Hemingway's and the Kerouac's and the Vonnegut's as though the only literature worth mentioning came from lifetimes ago. Your hair swished back and forth at your cheeks as you shook your head emphatically, "You're being lazy. Imagine saying the same about modern music."

Harry's lips ticked up into a smile, and he raised his eyebrow in concession, "That would be bullshit," he agreed, thinking of the album he'd just released and how he wanted to know if you'd listened to any of his stuff. (Very quickly he decided he probably didn't want to know because it stuck Harry the answer would be no.) His eyes couldn't pull away from watching your lips as you spoke, admiring the shade of lipstick you wore.

"Right," you continued, "Modern fiction teaches me about myself, about my life. It gives words to what my friends and I are experiencing. The classics are amazing—don't get me wrong—but I don't see myself in them."

"Seems like your criteria stem from narcissism," Harry was sure he had you there. He grinned at you happily.

"Exactly," you agreed without hesitation, "Maybe 'Hills Like White Elephants' is genius, and as a woman, I should be grateful to Hemmingway for horrifying his audience in 1927 with a normalised view of abortion but … I don't think he wrote that for me. He was challenging ideas then. I feel more connection and loyalty to an Instagram poet who's painting the world that actually matters to me, the world I'm trying to survive now."

Harry hums into his drink and says nothing. He expects you to back away a little, or ask him some question that watered-down your view and opened up the table to his. But you don't. You let your view sit on the slice of the bar between you and don't apologise for it.

"There's a reason artists burst out of every generation," you add, sitting forward on your stool. "If the classics were the perfect form, the perfect commentary of humanity, then there'd be no need for anyone after them to bother trying to put the world and life into words, or pictures, or music. You can't just dismiss a generation of voices because some smelly, old, white, university hasn't decided to name a building after them yet. I don't think being published as a little orange Penguin Classic is the singular hallmark to good literature."

He didn't entirely agree with you, (he thought it was vital to learn from the past, thought those great authors you reeled off and dismissed set the benchmark artists today should aspire to) but Harry liked hearing your thoughts and seeing the passion burst out of you. He liked seeing how you didn't second guess yourself or try to soften your opinion by asking for his. You just said what you thought, and that was always one of his favourite characteristics in a person.

That night you met him, you were the designated driver for a few of your friends. He should have noticed the way you switched to pineapple juice after you finished your first drink, but he was too busy trying not to look at the curve of your thigh when you crossed one leg over the other. Trying to ignore the smell of your perfume or how you kept licking your lips and he wanted to taste them, desperately. Harry didn't like to say anything when he offered to buy you another gin and dry. Still, when it eventually came out in conversation—that you were strictly only having one tonight—he felt his excitement deflate. His warm buzz suddenly felt pervy and presumptuous.

"Well, that's bloody annoying, isn't it?"

His response surprised you, "Me getting my friends home alive?"

With his hand comfortably resting over your knee, Harry shook his head, "I was hoping to go home with you."

"Oh."

You blinked at him, not having expected him to be so bold. You didn't hate it though, you felt the twinge of realising you were going to miss something that could have been good. Could have been great, probably. The last time you had sex had been … sad. And disappointing. Still, you hadn't come out to meet anyone tonight, why the sudden rush of despondency? These were old work colleagues you rarely saw, and you figured it would be a night of catching up before six months of not seeing each other because life got in the way.

Then Harry asked for your number. Asked if you'd go out with him the next night. He didn't beat around the bush with it, he wanted to see you again and told you so. The way you said you would filled him with relief but also fear. Harry knew he'd need to really deliver with you, he couldn't half-arse it. He was terrified he'd overshoot it and lose the change to be someone who impressed you.

He settled on a Sunday evening picnic where the two of you ate takeaway on a beach towel at the top of a park halfway between your houses. Something told Harry you would be happier with him underplaying the date than you would be getting taken to an expensive, showy restaurant. You wore jean shorts and a long sleeve jumper which churned his body more deeply than the dress with the split from the night before. He was hooked.

"Do you not like olives?" Harry asked, sucking the oil off his fingers after just depositing one into his mouth. You instantly loved the way the inflection of his words rose at the end of his sentences, and you'd mock him for it your whole relationship.

You looked at the plastic container sitting between you, you'd been picking at the cheese and crackers, the antipasto was not your thing, "They don't seem like something humans should eat … Salty and rubbery with a tiny stone on the inside? No, thanks."

A laugh burst out of Harry's mouth as he picked up another green olive, "More for me then."

"I'm happy about the rosemary in these though," you held up a cracker before digging it into the hummus, a plastic-stemmed wine glass with a dry rose in your free hand, "You got the fancy ones."

"Only the best," Harry returned with a smile and then went on trying to playfully wedge more information from you about the secret poetry Instagram he was convinced you had. He was already feeling buzzed from the wine, but more from the way you kept looking at him and he couldn't catch a hint of you being anything other than yourself.

You didn't go home together that night either, despite The Kiss at the end next to his car. Despite Harry's hands on the back of your thighs as things got heated. The way the tips of his fingers feathered against the elastic of your knickers, just slipping under before pulling away. Your chests heaving together in a rhythm you'd never found with anyone else.

He felt like he had just auditioned for a part he wasn't sure yet that you were going to give him. Wine always heightened his anxiety, so Harry also wanted to appear controlled and measured. He wanted to be as thoughtful as you were. As connected to himself as you were to all your wonderful opinions and facts. There was some part of him that feared taking you home too soon might risk that being the only night Harry got. So he pulled away, kissed your cheek and promised to call you later on.

Somewhere along the line, Harry decided he wanted more than a little bit. He was greedy. Harry wanted the whole pie all to himself.

That was a theme, him wanting more. Even now, months since you've seen or heard from him. Harry always knew how to get you to take that one step out of your comfort zone, take that little bit extra risk. Letting go of him in one way felt like small release valve finally letting go. A tiny bit of your safety net tucking closer around you. A little quiet moment to take stock and check every part of you was still connected, still there. A deep breath in. A short pause of calming silence. Like getting your heart back … But then finding it didn't fit in your chest the same way anymore.

So you found it particularly cruel to have received a follow-up email from his assistant this week, checking to see if you were able to attend his show tonight.

The show that six months ago Harry drew you a mock ticket for and hand-delivered to you sitting outside in his garden with a tea and a biscuit. Even then, even as his girlfriend, you'd feigned not knowing if you could say whether you would attend. Now it felt foreboding, the way you'd pulled your features together thoughtfully and told Harry you'd have to see closer to the date. You waited just long enough for him to switch over into thinking you were serious before you laughed and told him of course and where else would I be?

Where else would I be, was right, in a sense. Because this is still your city, and you're here tonight. It's not his anymore. He moved soon after you broke up … Relocated to one of his—what was it you used to mockingly call them?—" location" homes. Houses you never saw in person. Places he never took you. Either Italy or France. Somewhere he could hide, be creative, recenter himself. All three of those things filled you with dread for different reasons.

Were you really going to go tonight though? Walk in through the front door of the venue with a ticket and barcode on your phone, sit in a crowd and listen to Harry for two hours? Look at him from across the room and just take it on the chin?

It certainly seemed you were dressed for it. And you were out of the house with time to get there. Would you get off the train at the stop though? Would you walk down the street with the bright sign his name lit up? Would Harry even know if you didn't go?

Part of you wonders if his assistant didn't mean to email you. Maybe she forgot you were no longer in Harry's life? Perhaps it was a scheduled email she forgot to stop? Probably it was Harry just being fucking nice, and polite, and worrying about how you'd feel if you were uninvited. Or if he didn't check in on you while he was here.

You accepted the reminder too easily and scolded yourself for it. His team was expecting you. Harry was expecting you. And now, sitting on the train and counting down the stops you felt caught. Felt like he had you again, even if it was just winning whatever tonight was.

Harry did always enjoy the chase. Admitted it himself, admitted to loving the beginning of meeting someone. Loving the audition process, the figuring each other out, the get. The Catch.

You wonder now if it was the chase he liked back then. Was it a thrill having you make him feel as though he had something to prove? Or was it Harry experiencing for the first time not having the upper hand, not having even the tiniest amount of weight around who he was count for anything. Now it felt like Harry was nothing but upper hand.

Whatever it was—the Chase, or your endless facts, pancakes on a Sunday morning—the part of Harry's lie about you being different that hurts the most is the way you bought into it so proudly. Wore it later as his girlfriend like a badge of honour. As though it signalled to others you'd been hard-won, and Harry was lucky to have you.

Different turned out to be such a dirty word.

Different turned out to mean nothing. To get you nowhere.

All different got you was Nothing To Him.

+

The second lie was that he saw a future with you.

Harry didn't shy away from talking about it. He made plans for you both.

Sometimes it was in the moments right before you both fell asleep at night, or in the final seconds before the kettle finished boiling. Always in some small window where his mind drifted and sat comfortably stagnant when all there was to think about was the next holiday you'd take together. Or what breed of dog you might have one day. Whether you wanted your kids to be close together in age or have larger age gaps between them. What you thought about silent retreats in Thailand.

He stored your answers away in the file full of you in his head or added them to the note on his phone with ideas for gifts for people or things going on in their lives he wanted to remember.

"My family have always had cats," he told you one night, fingers drawing circles around your bare kneecap, your naked thigh resting across his stomach, "When I'm settled I'd want to get a few of my own."

It was one of those hot summer nights no position felt comfortable for sleep, you raised your arms up over your head and stretched out further on the mattress, fingers dangling off the edge of the bed to feel the cold stream from the air conditioning unit above, "I don't trust cats. Isn't there something about them being evolutionarily build to hunt their owner?"

Harry turned his head to face you, "A fact for everything," he recited fondly, his common quip for your always having an answer for everything, "I'll let the cats hunt me, you'll be spared."

"As long as I can name them," you murmured, your eyes finally closing.

Close to three months later, an hour into unsuccessfully putting together a flat-pack shelving unit in Harry's garage, you heavily plopped yourself down on the concrete floor and hailed defeat. You tossed the small, silver Allen key onto the floor in Harry's direction and rested your chin in your palm.

A few minutes of watching his embittered attempts passed before he spoke.

"Hey Sulky, I can feel you looking at me," Harry was frowning at the short piece of timber in his hand, he was holding it next to what was supposed to be the base of the structure. This was your second attempt at pulling apart the shelves and starting again while you cursed the entire Swedish furniture empire. You were enjoying seeing Harry's stubborn frustration immensely.

He could be such a man sometimes.

"Yeah, 'cause you're hot," you said, mocking him dreamily.

"Ha ha," he drawled, rolling his shoulders back to try to regain his focus.

When he paused a moment later and looked up at you, his arms dropped as his brow softened and he let out a breath.

You grinned at him, "I'm pretty cute too, right?"

"All this shit is going to end up living on the ground because you're sabotaged the assembly!" He gestured wildly at the tools and spare paint colours for the house lying around you. His bike parts and the weird assortment of garden tools Harry collected were leaning against the wall waiting to be put on their new home as well, the shelf neither you nor Harry were skilled enough to put together.

"Baby," you began, but Harry waved you off, and you saw genuine frustration start to emerge on his face, "Okay! Okay, I'm sorry," you stressed, "Are you sure we're looking at this thing from the right way around? Maybe the designer meant for it to be wonky?"

He rolled his eyes at you. As if the mere thought anyone would design anything to look like the mess currently on the floor was purely preposterous—his temper for small frustrations on full display.

"Don't be rude!" You admonished, "It's a fucking shelf, we can do this, Harry."

It took you another hour and a half, but when it was done, Harry draped his arm around your shoulders, kissed you on the head and told you that you were the person he wanted by his side of all his future crisis. Someone to say to him, whatever the challenge was, it wasn't beyond him, wasn't something he couldn't handle or wasn't capable of.

You felt like you were floating that night.

It was one of those few times you could see your imprint on his life. See some evidence of it. There were shelves in his garage only there because you told him he needed storage there, and then you pushed him to keep trying assembling them. It was some proof you'd been in his life. An impression of your influence. A memory that would hover in his garage forever.

Two days after putting the shelves together, you and Harry had an argument about the plastic tubs he went off on his own to buy for all the loose bits and pieces he wanted to go on the shelves. You were annoyed he didn't purchase wooden ones, and he couldn't understand why it mattered that they were white plastic which would apparently be impossible to keep clean.

It's a garage, he thought, who's cleaning their garage?

And because arguments always dredge up things that they aren't supposed to, you made a jab about your relationship being secret.

You said something like, If I'd been able to come with you, we wouldn't be having this row!

Harry knew what you really meant straight away. You'd been together for more than nine months at that point, and nobody knew about it: nobody but your families and very very closest friends. There were no photos of Harry having lunch with you at a cafe, or of you walking a few steps behind him at the shops. Nobody had snuck a picture of you backstage at a show of his. He'd never appeared on your social media, even by suggestion, and Harry had never taken the risk including you on any private Instagram Stories.

Those photographs didn't exist, because those circumstances never had. There wasn't even a celebrity paper trail linking you to knowing Harry, let alone dating him. Harry didn't dedicate performances to you, or even to an unnamed significant other. You never got a song or an album dedication. Harry was so adamant on nobody getting wind of the relationship that sometimes it felt like … Like he enjoyed the sneaking around. The having a secret. (Later on, when you reflected on the relationship once it was over, you really weren't sure how there'd never been even one instance of you being seen coming or going from Harry's house. Hindsight made that feel suss to you.)

Most of the time you liked it, though, liked not having any fuss or interruption to your life but sometimes—a lot of the time—it felt like something silently eroding you from the inside—a silent acid eating your spirit.

But you'd never tell Harry that. Then anyway. Now … You're not sure what you'd tell him now.

The truth was a lot of the time you weren't sure how you'd managed to keep it going so long. Part of it was obvious, maybe, like not being in public together. But still, surely after being together months and having arguments about shelves you could afford a platonic appearing coffee trip or going for a run at the same time, together?

Instead, you'd gear up and run in opposite directions down his street. Or Harry would stay in the car while you went in for the coffee. You'd sit in a nosebleed seat if you went to a show, sneaking through some fire exit and into the main hallways of a venue with the public to get to it. You looked like a sad woman attending a gig on your own, not the girlfriend of the star.

Nobody would know you even knew the man up on stage. That you had something in the slow cooker at home for you both to eat when you got home, or that he'd stolen a tube of your favourite lip balm and had it in his blazer pocket for his set. Nobody would guess you made him late for the soundcheck with just a smile and the undoing of a zip.

Seeing him tonight would be just like it always was, you and Harry from across the room. But then not like always, because Harry wouldn't see you tonight. You wouldn't have the taste of a good luck kiss on your lips. Or the sound of Harry's warm-up in your ears. Yours was always an invisible connection that was kept invisible by design, and now being broken up, it looked no different than together. Not really.

Tonight though it would only be you seeing Harry. Like you see him on late-night talk show promotions and billboards. Like the times you get into an Uber, and his song is playing. How strange it feels, to have your heart crack in your chest again while also lifting somehow. Singing along with a song about you. Or hearing his laugh or even just Harry speaking, and being able to picture the exact expression that would go along with it.

Every raised inflection. Ever breathy giggle. Every brow crease at a thought that Harry was chasing or somehow unable to articulate. All of those turning into you picturing what he looked like every time he knew he was disappointing you. Every whined sorry and all the instances of him loving on you to move your mind away from his deficiencies.

"What's the plan for Y/N?"

If your relationship with Harry was a t-shirt, that would be the slogan across the chest. Those would be the words under the cartoon impression of you banging your head against a wall Harry's standing on the other side of.

How will Y/N get in? Who's staying behind with Y/N? Where will I meet up with Y/N?

There was always a question. Always a plan for you and it was decidedly separate to the plan for Harry. His team organised a second car or an earlier flight for you. A back entrance or some other smokescreen to keep you concealed. In the beginning, it felt like a kindness, but in the end, you were embarrassed by it. The bother, the way what started as a careful consideration for your wellbeing turned into something rotten that painted you a different colour to Harry and his public inner circle, the circle you were never invited or initiated into.

It was exhausting. But Harry assured you it was for the best.

You wonder what the future he saw for you really was though. How much further did Harry see a life like that going? A life with you perpetually operating under cover of darkness. A life of you decidedly not existing. Not really.

So when he said he saw a future with you, you're really not sure what Harry meant.

Did he mean one day he saw himself lifting the veil and telling the world he had a Someone? Or did he mean that he saw himself forever hiding you, forever living that lie?

Maybe he actually saw nothing.

Sometimes you could be convinced the fact Harry hid you was an action pointing to a more profound truth.

That the future he saw was an imagined indulgence; a convenience, and a comfortable lie. Comforting on a temporary level, like bowling alley bumper rails or the plastic covering on a new watch face. The fake sense of security—of protection, of immaculacy—was just that, artificial and temporary. It ceased to exist the minute you plucked the corner and pulled back the protective layer. Crashed as soon as the bumpers were flipped down.

You were a secret only Harry had any power over. He led from the front because you didn't know there was any other option. And in letting yourself be that, you made yourself easily dispensable.

Disposable. Replaceable. Erasable.

Which is precisely what happened when he left.

Harry left, and the You of the two of you ended. But more than any other relationship ever could, the silence that followed felt deadly. It wasn't just a relationship that once was, it was a relationship that never was. A year of your life made no imprint on his. Nobody looking at him could know there was anything—anybody—missing, and maybe that was the whole point.

Maybe that was the design of it.

+

The third lie was that you could tell him anything.

Harry's golden rule always was honest communication.

There's no such thing as an overshare, he'd say when you naturally hesitated.

He was all about that. All about hearing what was worrying you, or the mundane things that were going on in your world. Sometimes you felt like maybe it was an act because nobody had ever found your family, or your friends, or your life in general as interesting as Harry seemed to. He was always telling you he loved hearing the funny text conversations going on, or who was having a row and why, or what each of your friends was stressed about in their jobs or relationships or themselves. And Harry always said he loved hearing it from you the most.

(Now, that struck you as a strange thing to say. Where else would he hear anything about you? Harry was the only line connecting you back to him. You didn't have mutual friends or people who'd known you both before you dated each other. There was nobody for Harry to hear anything from. It's not like your friends were going to reach out to him with gossip about you. Not like how you could sneak a look at update accounts or read about his performance online while he was away.)

Still, you loved the stories he told from the road, ate them up. The missing coffee mugs where everyone got their caffeine fix served in wine glasses and lemonade tumblers for almost two whole weeks. And then the tour t-shirts accidentally ordered in bulk in children's sizes that Harry hand-delivered them to a local children's charity. The crumbs of gossip Harry picked up about who in his team was sweet on who (he loved a setup, loved watching crushes silently and awkwardly orbit around each other).

Your secrets were safe with him, he promised. He wouldn't ever judge you. Wouldn't dismiss your feelings or what kept you awake at night next to him. So you did it. You believed him. And you slowly drained everything inside of you into him. Harry got all your stories, even the ones you vowed to leave exactly where they sat in your past. Even the ones you felt like might kill you to dredge back up. The ones that made you look like a shitty friend or sister or daughter. He got them all.

And even now, he's still got them.

"What's the biggest lie you ever told?" He asked you one night in his kitchen, both of you elbow deep in making dinner. Harry rolled out the lines of gnocchi and cut the inch long pieces while you pressed them over a fork to decoratively indent them. (Although Harry likes to tell you how when he was in Italy he learned in patterns weren't just aesthetic—it was all about soaking up more of the sauce, For the sauce, of course! He'd sing out in an Italian accent, proud of himself.) "Like, a proper lie," he clarified, "Not like how you told my mum you didn't take sugar in your tea when you first met her."

You hinged your knee out to attack his calf for the teasing comment but then rolled your lips together in thought, "I lied to my parents a lot growing up," you told him honestly. "I think about eighty per cent of the time I wasn't where I told them I was. Definitely wasn't with who I said I was with."

Harry shook his head as he rolled out the next lump of dough, "No, I mean like … Like a lie."

A moment passed as you thought more deeply about the question, travelled around your memories until you landed somewhere suitable, "I lied to my boyfriend at university," you begin. "A pretty bad one, I guess."

"And the lie was …" Harry prompts.

"I told him I was a virgin before him."

Harry eyes raised, and then he nodded, accepting it, "I think that's probably a common one, really."

"I thought he'd like me more if I said it," I admitted quietly, pausing the work with your hands. "Wasn't too proud of losing my virginity in a tent in the sixth form … And I mean, at that age you just so desperately want to be the version of you that you think the people around you will like the most. A whole group of us went camping at someone's grandparent's farm during the summer holidays. Not sure how our parents let us, to be honest. Anyway, I had awful, painful, embarrassing sex in a tent with a guy named … Dylan Fraiser."

You were surprised by how long the name took to come to you. Years ago, that was such a defining event in your life. Now it hardly mattered at all anymore.

Progress, you thought.

"A tent," Harry winced.

"Really came back to bite me in the arse when my uni boyfriend went on to tell a group of his mates he was my first and—

—Tent Guy was one of them?" Harry guessed. Correctly.

"Yep. Small towns are a curse."

"I promise never to have sex with you in a tent," Harry teased, grinning at you over his wine glass and then leaning over to kiss your temple. He looked down at the line of gnocchi pieces you'd made together proudly, "We're alright at this."

"Hmmm," you hummed, now lost in the past, "I told that uni boyfriend him I loved him … I didn't though," you say without thinking, shrugging as the words came out, "I thought he was boring. But it was cool to have a boyfriend, so I didn't break up with him … Guess I've told more whoppers than I thought."

Harry gives you an understanding look, "I've said I love you to protect someone's feelings too. Thought it might come a little later, that I was just not feeling it as quickly as them."

It should have made you question whether Harry meant I love you with you. But it didn't. He was speaking in the past tense, and you were imaging that version of him being younger than the almost thirty-year-old you were dating. Now though … You wonder what love meant to Harry when you were together. Whether your wires were crossed by different definitions. Even now, you couldn't vilify him. Not completely. He was too thoughtful in general, there'd be a reason for it. There always was with Harry.

"What's your biggest lie?" You turned the exercise back on him, smiling as he refilled your wine glass and skipped a few songs on the playlist. These were your favourite moments with Harry. The end of the day, where you were the only thing on his to-do list. There wasn't a lingering work call, or a meeting to prepare for, an email to reply to. Harry was just finishing his day with dinner and some time at home. With you.

Harry gave you a withering look, "I think you know already."

"I don't," you said because you really didn't, "What was it?"

"There's no way I'll ever do anything else with The Band," he said tonelessly as he turned to rinse his hands in the sink, unable to look at you while he said it. And even then, Harry didn't admit to the lie. Didn't name it. He just said what the truth was instead.

"Why wouldn't you?" You asked, instead of what you were sure Harry thought you'd ask.

You weren't interested in why he told that particular lie though, the answer to that was pretty apparent to you: he cared about his fans—they all did—and didn't want to disappoint them. And they probably hadn't been able to deal with thinking about the ripples ending it completely, right off the bat, would have caused. Saying you were taking a break was a much nicer way to let a world of fans down. An easier pill to swallow than 'We're done' straight off the bat.

You gave Harry time to respond. He fiddled with the gnocchi pieces in front of him, waiting for the water to boil in the pot behind you both, "Not sure, really."

He was lying now, and you could tell. He was ashamed of the truth.

"You're not sure?"

"I just wouldn't, there's no one reason. No big thing. It's not like I hate them all or anything, I just …"

There was one big thing, though. And it was typical Harry to not be able to name it. He was always so in denial about his own arrogance, about what it was that drove him. Harry thought he was above them. His success since The Band far outweighed anything any of the others had done. Going back to that would be diminishing for Harry's career. Wouldn't help him any. He was stronger on his own, more successful. More widely appreciated. That chapter of his life was done, it had been a stepping stone—yes, a life-defining one—but Harry had moved to bigger and brighter stages on his own.

"It's not what you think," he told you lowly when you didn't ask anything further.

It was so typical of Harry to not see the forest for the trees. To not see how he, yet again, was blurring and confusing the lines between a business decision and an emotional, personal one. He was speaking about The Band emotionally, but his reason for distancing himself from it was all to do with business.

"It's not?" You asked plainly.

"I don't think I'm better than them or some shit," Harry said, "I just … That part of me is done. I'm not who I was back then, and I don't want to go back to that person."

"You also wouldn't get anything out of it," you prod, knowing that you shouldn't have. But it was true. So much of Harry's life was a business decision. Everything was so carefully done, so deliberately set into place by him and his team that results and his successes were almost guaranteed.

At the time, you didn't understand how he couldn't see it. Or you couldn't believe that he didn't. He was so calculating, and he hated you telling him so. But he was. He liked to say he wasn't defined by his job, but Harry's whole life was defined by his career, by the who he was.

He loved to spout off his public shit about staying grounded and having a life away from being Harry Styles ™, but he didn't let anyone see even a skerrick that life. The only thing Harry ever let be projected about him was his job, that was all was ever on the table for discussion. And so it was hardly surprising that became who he was away from the cameras and lights as well.

Hiding you was a business decision, you figured out in the aftermath of The End. It was his way of keeping the narrative about his music and career on track. As soon as there was a You, Harry's private life would distract from his real focus and goal, his career. And you mean, it's not like it didn't work for him. Because here you were, standing outside in the chilly night looking at his name up in lights.

Harry's name always looked so good up on billboards and the fronts of stadiums. You always used to tell him even the letters of his name were visually pleasing, they looked good together, like they fit. So you stand on the street across the road from tonight's venue and take it in—HARRY STYLES, SOLD OUT—for several minutes.

You don't know that you're ready for this. Seeing him. You've so perfectly avoided it until now. Until you felt like there was a promise you made lifetimes ago you now can't break. Even if you felt like he'd broken a thousand promises between the two points in time.

Where else would I be? you'd said when he first drew that stupid mock ticket.

Where else, indeed.

You scuttle across the street and sneak between people to get yourself in through the doors. Dodging lenders selling merchandise and ticket holders excitedly covering their painstakingly planned outfits with t-shirts Harry—aided by his perfectionism, you were sure— probably spent months deciding on.

The barcode won't scan though. And the usher at the door doesn't appreciate you pulling your phone back and trying to adjust the backlight, as though that will help the loud, angry sound his scanner is making each time he aims it at the email on your screen. He eventually reads part of your email and then tells you that you need to stand off to the side, barks something gruffly into his walkie talkie and dismisses you in favour of getting through the backlog of people behind you. You're filled with a white-hot embarrassment as you shuffle over and stand under a neon EXIT sign. A moment later you step forward and ask him to try again, but that doesn't get you anywhere different, and you think you're going to get in some kind of trouble when he insists Just stand back over there for a moment.

Your feet have already started hurting in your too-tight boots when finally the wall behind you opens up, and you very quickly come face to face with Harry's assistant.

"Y/N," she smiles, "I thought I said in the email to call me when you got here?"

You're dumbstruck, you didn't read the email, not properly. "I … I …"

"It's good to see you again," her smile hasn't moved, and it's genuine. She reaches one hand out towards you and deposits a VIP lanyard around your neck, "Follow me."

You get halfway down the emergency exit, and she sidesteps a security guard through a doorway, leading you into the veins of the backstage area where there's a familiar buzz of busy people you'd not realised you missed being around until now. Your heart is racing because you weren't prepared for this. You'd been deliberately dragging your feet getting here, and you've arrived barely fifteen minutes before Harry's due to go on stage. She's walked you right to the side of the stage where there's a curtain just to your left and scaffolding all around. You can hear the audience, and you know that one step through that curtain will take you to the pit side of the stage, where you'd seen Harry's family stand during shows before.

"He wanted to say hi beforehand but," his assistant looks at her watch, "But it's a touch too close now so are you okay if I leave you here for just a second? I'll be back in …" her eyes go back to her wrist, "Probably about twenty-five?"

"That's fine," you nod dumbly. "Are you sure this okay?"

You're looking around wondering if this is where Harry meant you to be. Really, you're sure this isn't where he intended you to watch his show at all. A few people are milling around but nobody you recognise, and you figure the majority of them are probably venue employees. Harry and his band would only walk through here at the very last second. He didn't like standing around beforehand with anyone who wouldn't be on stage with him. Harry got in his zone and needed to stay there.

When you look back at his assistant she's giving you a look you don't want to read too deeply, but it almost looks like pity, "Of course," she tells you, "I'll be back by the end of the first song."

"I might go stand through here now," you point to the curtain, preferring the thought of standing in the dark by yourself than waiting for Harry to walk straight past you during his thirty-second countdown. "Is that okay?"

You get a nod, and she tells you to grab a drink off the table behind you. Leaving you with your heart rattling and the heaviest lanyard you've ever worn burning through your shirt to your chest.

Finding a spot to watch the show was easy. You picked the furthest side of the pit, under the concrete overhand of the seats above, and stand in the shadows, only half the stage in your line of sight. It felt like a little cave almost, and you lean your back against the cold concrete and tap your boots together on the ground below you.

The area starts filling around you as members of Harry's team finish their part in preparing him for the show. There are a few women wearing belts with makeup brushes and combs peaking out of them, and two familiar faces from Harry's executive team. They don't see you, though, and you're glad. You watch the roadies' torches flash on the dark stage as they neaten up leads and manoeuvre over amp boxes double-checking the guitars are in the right order for the sets.

There's a movement in your periphery that draws your attention back, the group of people who joined you in the pit all gravitating towards something back at the curtain. And it's not until one of them steps to the side that you see the floating head that's poking through the dark material.

Harry.

He's staring right at you: no expression on his face, just his searching, green eyes that stop when they see you standing in the dark as far from him as you can possibly be. He takes half a step forward, and the shoulder of an expensive suit peeks out. You hear in your head echos of a moment in Harry's living room unpacking a delivery from Gucci, the way you nearly choked on your tea at the cost of a tailored trouser and his half frustrated dismissal, 'It's nothing, that's standard for me.' You felt small at that moment, thinking about how one of Harry's suits could pay for your education for a year, and that would be nothing for him.

You feel small now too. This isn't the space you're supposed to occupy.

The shadow of a frown barely cross his features, but then Harry tries to pull his dimples up to give you a small smile. But it's testing, it's not a confident smile or one he looks sure he's giving. Like he's smiling at someone he's not sure will smile back.

There's no way I'll ever do anything else with the band, he'd said.

But that wasn't the biggest lie he'd told, just the most public, the widest.

His deepest, biggest lie was you.

+

The fourth lie was that he loved you.

Harry was the one to say it first.

It came out like a compliment. A response to a fact of yours he'd particularly liked. A sort of well done, that was a good one.

It was nearly two months since you'd met, and what started as three or four dates a week morphed into you staying at Harry's house most nights. You spending your weekends off work trailing around after him on his errands or to work things, or hanging out alone at his place until he returned from them. A couple of times, you went to the same exercise class, which involved the two of you going separately and not interacting at all. Still, you'd peek at him from across the room and have to hold your giggles for later when Harry spent the hour concentrating beyond anything you'd ever seen just to stay in the seat of the spin bike.

Saturdays and Sundays he started taking off too though, around a month into dating you. No more 6am weekend PT sessions or midday conference calls with creative teams. The only work Harry allowed himself to do on weekends was housework. Laundry. Food prep. Touching base with his mum.

"Did you know blueberries are actually false berries?"

"No, I did not know blueberries are actually false berries," Harry parroted back to you. You catch the half rolling of his eyes at you where you're sitting up in your favourite spot on the bench next to the hob, peering at him keeping careful watch over breakfast: blueberry pancakes. He was wearing just his pants, chest bare and cool in the autumn morning air. You were rugged up in leggings and a sweater, unsure how he could stand being in such a state of undress.

"It's true," you reaffirmed your tidbit, popping a false berry into your mouth while Harry—with far too much concentration for the job at hand—dropped the small round berries on top of the batter sizzling in the pan. "Berries by definition are fleshy, pulpy ovary fruits that have their seeds embedded on the outside. Blueberry seeds are on the inside. So they aren't really berries."

"Ovary fruits?" He questioned, with a look of mild distaste.

Your shoulders dropped as you realised Harry knew less than you thought he did, "All fruit are ovaries, Harry. Think about it."

He does for a moment, and you can practically see the cogs turning. Harry thinking about how fruit grows on their plants and bushes and shrubs. The fact of what an ovary is when it comes to basic anatomy. And when he comes to the full circle of it, he groans, "That is so weird."

"I think it's cool," you grinned. "Like a little bit cannibalistic in a way."

He barked out a laugh at that, "I don't think that's what it is."

"Well, maybe not technically," you conceded, "But it's something … Really makes you rethink eating eggs."

"Oh my god," Harry was truly laughing then, "Stop, please."

"Sorry," you peeped with a cringed look, tossing back half a handful of the small, round fruit in front of you.

He was shaking his head at you, laughter bubbling out between his perfectly straight teeth, and then it just slipped out, "Fuck, I love you."

The words didn't bump over any hesitation. I love you, Harry said.

Your stomach dropped instantly, but the fond happiness dancing across Harry's face didn't go anywhere. He didn't look back at the pancakes or to where your hands were wringing together on your lap. Harry held your gaze and didn't dodge away from what he said at all. Like he knew you'd need a moment with it, that you weren't expecting him to just come out with that.

"I love you," he repeated after a moment, smiling when he saw your lips start to turn up, "I mean it."

Hearing him yell the same words through the microphone from stage sizzles your heart a little, like the pancakes that day crackled in the pan as Harry pushed himself into you on the kitchen floor. You remember the feeling of his hands under your clothes, your leggings barely halfway down your thighs before he was claiming you in a wave of lust, pushed by the new, invisible force in your relationship—love.

The floor under you now vibrates as everyone gets to their feet to join Harry dancing through his first song. You stare at him, daring him to look over at you but knowing he won't. The longer you stand there, the more you thaw out to it, the more you find yourself with a smile on your face and a slight sway to your hips. His music is fun and familiar and feels like clicking into place.

It's mesmerising. He's mesmerising.

You don't like admitting you'd forgotten how good at this he was. He has the whole crowd eating out of the palm of his hand. Even his crew around you are grinning ear to ear and singing along. Sharing private jokes between them and cutting dance moves in small groups as they watch the show. It's fun. And it reminds you that so much of your relationship with Harry was like that. That there were countless nights spent dancing in the living room or screaming at laptop screens doing board game nights with his family.

You'd forgotten that you could laugh so hard your belly hurt and that Harry was one of the few people who'd ever been able to get you to that point of joy. Watching him throw joy off the stage now at thousands of people was reminding you how very good Harry was—used to be—at making you feel like the only person in the world to him.

"Babe," his giggles filtered down the hallway and into the bathroom where you were plucking your eyebrows, "Babe! Come … Come see this."

You rolled your eyes as you put the tweezers down and padded into his living room, not at all surprised to see Harry pretzeled on his yoga mat in a fit of laughter. He did this a lot, called you away from a task or from work for something hilarious that ninety-nine per cent of the time wasn't hilarious at all. You'd end up snorting out laughter of your own though, at him.

Now, Harry had one of his feet hooked behind his neck while the other was prostrate on the floor behind him.

"You're doing great, baby," you condescended lightly, tilting your head to the side and frowning at his position. It looked awful and not at all calming, let alone comfortable. He wasn't a very good advertisement for yoga at all.

"They say this one's great for—great for," he giggled too much to get the words out, his arms holding his torso back so his legs would do what he wanted them to, he took a deep breath, "It's meant to be the yoga colonic."

Harry was heaving with laughter as he finally got it out, his position faltered, and you watched as his limbs all fell back to the mat as he leant forward cackling. You were grinning too, amused by how amused he was.

"Been feeling backed up, have you?" You asked him, crossing your arms as you hitch one hip out.

He rolled over on his back and wheezed out the final string of laughter, one hand holding his lower tummy as if it ached from the whole spectacle, as his other hand reached out for your ankle, "Come down here with me."

"Hmm," you hummed, pretending to be unhappy to be dragged down on top of him, your hips resting on his thighs as your chin propped up on your hands at his chest, "It's very entertaining how entertaining you find yourself," you mused.

Harry rubbed the tears from his eyes and then settled his hands on your back, breathing in the pleasant weight of you there, "I just—I was thinking about what they think the yoga colonic is going to do." His giggles started again, "Imagine being in a class and it literally working? Everyone just—everyone just shits themselves!"

You can feel his laugher, his bones pushing yours up as his whole body fills with his happiness. The stream of tears coming from the corners of his eyes start again as he squeezed his eyes shut while the sound of Harry's deep, uninhibited laughter filled the whole house again.

The memory brings back a smile, like so many with Harry do.

But there's still the Too Fresh Sting of your final moments with him, your last moments with him. You've not seen him since that evening months ago where you both yapped at each other things that couldn't be unsaid, unhappinesses that couldn't be reverted or unadmitted. It wasn't like the fights you had about Harry's casualised view of money and how he'd drop thousands of pounds on seemingly nothing without thinking how small it could make you feel. Or the times you'd snap in frustration when Harry tuned out of you complaining about an issue with your friends he deemed as superfluous or rooted in something silly or not as essential as the Important Thing He Was Planning. He could be so dismissive when he didn't think something mattered highly enough on his scale of measuring things.

The Harry dancing around on stage in front of you wasn't the man who said you were independent like it was a dirty word. Yelled across the kitchen that it was too easy for the two of you to be apart, you didn't miss him enough. The man who told you he didn't feel like you needed him, thought you were always standing with one foot out the door the whole time you were together. And you can remember being flabbergasted (still are, really) by what he was saying because it just wasn't true at all. You? Too independent? You spent every night at his house, and were at Harry's beck and call the whole relationship. And you can hear all the times you said 'what would I do without you?' when he talked you off a ledge or had answers to questions you believed to be unanswerable.

You can see how it was another classic example of Harry telling a non-truth to cover up what was really there. To distract from his own shortcomings. He accused you of what he was feeling, of his flaws. Making them your problem meant he didn't have to be vulnerable. Didn't have to take a risk his business manager hadn't guaranteed. Didn't have to gamble on your future together.

In the relationship, he always had the upper hand. And maybe you did have one foot out the door emotionally, but that was only because you had to. Harry never invited you in with him completely. You were always on the outer. After nearly a year of dating you were still The Girlfriend He Didn't Have.

But I fucking love you, he'd said when he sensed where that night was going. Like Harry had a list of grievances, and it wasn't until he got to the end of reading them out to you that he realised where it landed him. He told you he loved you as though it would erase all the things about you he seemed to dislike so much. Things about yourself you apparently couldn't see.

Hindsight has taught you that if anyone was too independent, or hesitant to commit fully in that relationship, it was Harry.

Halfway through his set, Harry's assistant comes over to check on you, and you end up chatting for a few minutes about how you've been. She speaks to you like there was some club you were a member of and she missed your meetings. Although neither of you references the breakup, or acknowledge in another life you had a lot more to do with each other, the unspoken things weigh on your chest. You find yourself wiping away a quiet tear when she walks back over to the main group watching Harry.

Of course, that's when he teeters over to your side of the stage and looks straight at you. His expression falls instantly, and you're sure that he only meant to glance at you in passing, but what he sees has him doing a double-take and fixing his gaze on you for two lines of the song he's midway through. He tugs on the collar of his shirt and Harry's eyes are desperately trying to read what you're thinking, just like that day he told you he loved you at the end of the breakup, as though you'd forget everything that came before it.

You stick your thumb out to him and give him your best fake smile. Like he might be led to believe you were crying about something else. As if you hadn't just pulled his attention from a room full of people who'd paid for his attention tonight. At that moment you think the fact there's a secret love and life between you must be too obvious to everyone else. There's a connection, something whirls around the room between you and it feels threatening and perilous to how you've been trained to think things have to be.

You wait until Harry turns and goes the other way across the stage before you push off from the wall and walk out.

At first, love was an encouragement between you. It was approval, a showing of appreciation. Love was a promise that was just for the two of you. A declaration that validated everything you were doing together. Love was a feeling that proved what every action meant.

Then, love was a bandaid, was a line used in desperation to fix something unfixable, and you walk the world with skun knees now because of it. Love was never just love. It was used to fix the wrong things.

And in the end, nothing healed at all.

+

The fifth lie was that he'd always fight for you.

Harry promised you that the two of you would make it work.

You'd make up after every argument, big or small. The little ones that were those tiny bickerings in the car which somehow roared into yelling matches. Or when one person's grumpiness from the day leaked into your evening together. You always expected his call or the long sigh that would precede his apology. You never got halfway home to your house if you left his after a row. He'd call and beg for you to come back, that nothing was worth you physically leaving being near him. You left knowing before the night was done the two of you would reconcile.

Until it was That Fight you were leaving after. The one that began The End.

It started because Harry was overseas for a few weeks. While he was away, you suggested the two of you going on a holiday together during the summer. An anniversary trip. From the other side of the world, it was easy enough for Harry to worm his way of out of it. He went off on a tangent about there being no holidays (rest) for the wicked and then got you talking about something else until you forgot how you'd been sold on the idea of lying on a beach with him for a week.

When Harry got home, you had it stored in an unhappy little pocket in your mind. Top of the agenda for when he returned.

"Can we talk about the holiday thing again?" You asked his first night home.

He sighed against you, his body gearing up for a reunion that didn't involve speaking, lips attached to your neck while his hands danced around the band of your bra, "Do we have to right now?"

"Well," your instinct was to back away from the tension rising between you, "I'd like to."

Harry pushed his hair up off his face and briefly looked at the ceiling, "I don't see how we can, babe. It's too hard, logistically. Just take a week off work and stay with me here."

"I already stay here," you counter, "I'm talking about a holiday somewhere. A beach. Or a ski resort. Something fun and different."

"Those places are all busy," Harry complained, his hands off you. He started to pack the dishwasher from dinner.

"I just want to go away with you, do something normal, you know?"

He clipped the side of the sink with a dinner plate and swore angrily under his breath, "Fuck."

"Don't get angry."

"I'm not fucking angry," he growled, tossing your forks into the plastic crate, "I just fucking got home, and you're straight into this. No 'I missed you so much' or 'It's so great to see you'… Just straight into going on a holiday as if I have endless time to mess about."

"What do you mean? We've just eaten dinner together, you told me all about your trip. I said I was happy to have you home!"

"Yeah, well, feels like you just don't give a fuck that I'm back."

You frowned at him starting to get annoyed yourself, "I cried on our FaceTime call on the weekend because I missed you! You have a lobotomy since then?"

"Don't yell," Harry instructed quietly like he was chastising a child for not controlling themselves.

"What's this about, Harry?" You asked. "Why is it such a crime for me to want to go away with my boyfriend?"

He sighed again, "It's not."

"Right," you crossed your arms over your chest and wondered how many times he could wipe down the chopping board.

Probably one more time.

"So …"

"So what?" Harry repeated, "What do you want from me?"

His words and their harshness shocked you, and that was the exact moment you started worrying this was going to turn into Something Else. Not just a Normal Fight.

"I want you to tell me why you're so annoyed by this?"

It would have been so easy for you to break down and scream about how insane it was that you were talking about celebrating your first anniversary with him and the relationship was still a secret. How badly you wanted to throw that out there, but there was a wise fear in you which said that would be a death wish. (That fact haunts you today, how you knew he'd never step out with you. There wasn't any hope in you or promise from him it wouldn't always be that way. You knew your place and where the boundary line was, don't push past this point. And you always behaved. Never peeped out of your box.)

"It's like you don't even need me," Harry said bitterly, "You're so fucking independent. What's the point?"

"What are you talking about?" You gushed, nearly swallowing your tongue when he turned back to look at you for the first time.

"You don't need me," he accused, "You've always got one foot out the door."

"I don't," came your defence, but you both knew it was the truth. You were halfway out the door because you hadn't been invited all the way in yet.

"You don't want this life with me," Harry shook his head, "You've never been happy where we are. Relationships don't work that way, you can't just keep demanding the same thing hoping you'll wear me down. That's not fair."

Tears shake out of your eyes slowly as your body catches up with what he's saying, "Harry."

"It's not fair!" He repeated loudly. "You can't keep on about it."

About what? You want to ask him because you hadn't mentioned a holiday until the week before. That's not what he was really angry about. He was talking about The Secret. And his guilt was showing. His anger was misdirected, aimed at the wrong thing. He muttered something to himself you didn't hear.

"I didn't hear that."

"I said," Harry looked up at you, and when your eyes clicked together you saw surprise rise and then quickly disappear as if he hadn't expected to see you there. "I said, I don't think we can keep doing this."

"You don't think we can keep doing this?" You repeated it because the words hardly sounded like English the first time you heard them.

I don't think we can keep doing this.

Harry stood across from you with no expression on his face. And it took a few moments for him to own up to what he said, but he does. He nods his head once, awkwardly, and then nods again.

"We can't keep doing this," he tells you, sounding defeated, and then his voice rises again—in pitch, not in volume—"But I fucking love you!"

But I fucking love you.

As if that was enough.

It was days of you expecting a call, and a make up that never came. Expecting the fight for your relationship Harry promised you he'd always put up. You wanted him to prove that you were someone he couldn't do without. You hated the thought of him walking around his house and not feeling the absence of you as some impossible weight he couldn't bear.

"Y/N!" Your name sounds out behind you, but you keep walking, an instantaneous decision that pretending not to hear her might work.

Unsurprisingly, it doesn't.

Harry's assistant keeps chasing you down the hall she initially led you through, calling your name and eventually getting you to stop and turn around because, well, you can't keep pretending she's not there forever.

"I'm just finding a loo," you lie.

"There's one this way," she points over her shoulder, in the direction you both came from, "Harry said if you tried to leave I had to go with you, which, for my own dignity I'd really prefer not to have to do."

You find yourself scoffing, "Who said he's in charge of how long I stay?"

Her expression softens somewhat, "He just wants to see you after."

How dare he think he can control this still, you think.

You know she's not the person to be frustrated with. You should be frustrated with yourself first, for coming, and then with Harry for deciding he could orchestrate this … This whatever it was. Still, you find yourself biting out your reply, "He saw me from stage," you tell her bitterly.

"And he'll have seen that you're not there anymore," she replies patiently,, "It'll throw off his focus if he's worried you've gone home halfway through."

You fall into step beside her but can't give him the win, "Quite frankly, it's not my concern or responsibility anymore if his focus is thrown or not."

She wordlessly points out where the bathrooms are just in front of you. You're trying not to make eye contact with anyone who's in these backstage hallways. They feel like ghosts from a life that's not yours anymore.

The first time you met any of Harry's People you'd felt absolutely mortified. The whole thing felt awkward to you, meeting assistants and managers and creative directors. Putting faces and humans to jobs done for Harry. He was a lot of people's boss, and it made you uncomfortable because you'd not seen that side to him before. You knew things like how hot he liked his showers and what yogurt he liked on his muesli in the morning.

That first—and only—step into his professional world, was in a venue just like this one where Harry was filming a music video for a few days. The stage was set up like it was for live a show, and you overheard someone saying setting up for a shoot was more involved than for an actual performance. Harry wanted you to see what this part of his world looked like and despite them not fitting in either of the Friends or Family categories you'd laid out for People Allowed To Know About You, his "Team" were people Harry felt safe introducing to you. (NDAs were a powerful thing) He led you through the hallways by the hand and stuck his head into every room with a cheery, 'Hullo, just bringing Y/N around to meet everyone.'

You remember one person declaring they were happy to be meeting you. Harry was too young to be married to his job, they said with a relieved tone, That it was good he'd found his Someone. Harry beamed at that, looking down at you as if thinking, Yeah, I have found my Someone.

Now you stand back in the pit side of stage, and Harry looks down at you with a hesitation that makes you more uncomfortable than when you were watching him film that music video. His assistant has brought you back to where his team are standing, and you feel more than one set of eyes take stock of you returning, a shared glance between a manager and the girl shadowing you. A wide-eyed exchange that says, That was the last thing we needed. When Harry comes to the side of stage between songs, he's hunting for a bottle of water, but you can see he's come to that side because his eyes are focused on hunting for you.

When he sees you've returned, he slowly takes a sip of water, eyes not leaving yours. You feel like he's admonishing you in his head, seeing how weak you were, that you ran away after a little eye contact. There's a distaste there, you think, and as he's putting the cap back on the bottle, Harry opens his mouth like he's going to try to say something to you, but he stops. He frowns at his hands as he puts the bottle down and then turns away, bringing the microphone back up to his lips and slipping back into entertainer mode.

"In a lot of ways, I hate this next song," he starts slowly, speaking over the band as they begin to slow down the tempo of the night. A smoke machine whirls to life and pumps out a few big clouds, shrouding the stage behind Harry. "I really hate it."

He pauses. And your insides freeze in your chest. You're hanging off his every word, just like every other body in the room. Harry stands right on the front of the stage, toes almost touching the drop off. He's looking out at the audience and lets the microphone hang at his side. Makes no move to keep talking. Was he looking for someone out there, or was he running over what he was about to say in his head? Rehearsing it, making sure it was exactly what needed to be said.

Where you used to see thoughtfulness you now see calculation.

Give nothing away. Sell only the product. Push the song. Let people come to their own conclusions.

"This is a song about," he says carefully, a crack to his voice that sends adrenaline shooting straight down your legs, "About regretting that you've hurt someone. And about the helplessness of wishing you could make them forget what you said, but … Knowing you can't take it back."

You watched Harry trail around to the upright piano on stage and sit himself down on the stool. He stares at his hands hovering over the keys for a moment too long, but you're sure Harry's audience would let him take a hundred more. You see what perhaps they don't—the hesitation. You'd witnessed it enough to spot it, even across the stage in the dark from thirty feet away.

He's not sure about playing the song.

You think about contacting him by telepathy. Saying, I'll leave so you can go back to your show. You don't have to pretend I'm not here, I'll just go. Like I wanted to. Like I tried to.

But he plays it.

You've not heard it before, but the rest of the room has, and they sing along with him. You hear a couple of thousand people sing with your ex-boyfriend about him regretting the way he treated you. And you're almost able to talk yourself out of believing it's about you, you can nearly reason with yourself that it's kind of vague. Other than naming the cafe he'd sat in the car park of a hundred times waiting for you to return with a takeaway, it could be about anyone, really.

But he sings out a line and looks straight at you, and his eyes say it's yours. The song. The apology that's not been said yet.

I get the feeling that you'll never need me again.

His voice cracks again as he sings it. And the hurt part of you says it's just a vocal technique Harry's trained to call on at any time. It doesn't speak to anything other than a creative choice on his part. But the vulnerability is hard to ignore, the low hanging, remorseful unease in the room. He fumbles a string of notes on the piano as he sings and you're hit by the overwhelming need to make him stop.

Witnessing whatever he's currently feeling with this song is more uncomfortable than you've ever been, and a switch in you to protect him flicks on. You look around at his assistant, his manager, trying to see if there's even a hint of anyone else feeling like this moment needs an intervention, needs to be stopped.

The song ends. And you're glad.

Harry takes a few moments on stage to get ready with a guitar for the next song. He doesn't come over to your side of the stage for a drink, or to ask the roadies for anything. Instead, he flies straight into the next section of the set. Seemingly recovered from the heavy moment you felt as though you nearly drowned in. He'd never sung about you before.

Nothing remotely personal about your relationship ever left Harry's house.

And you find yourself wishing it would all just go back there.

+

The sixth lie was that he wouldn't break your heart.

Harry did though.

He broke your whole life.

So when he comes off stage at the end of his gig, there's little in you that wants to hang around. As soon as the lights go down and you see Harry's silhouette cross the back of the stage and hop down the stairs to the floor, your gut churns, and you wish you were one of the people in the rest of the venue. The ones now turning and slowly filing out of the building. Going back to their lives peacefully.

Instead, you're ushered behind the curtain again, into the small area that's immediately buzzing with life. You watch Harry as if he's moving in slow motion though. As soon as his boots hit the concrete floor somebody is tugging the suit jacket from his shoulders and swapping it for a grey hand towel that he uses to wipe down his face. His hand pushes his hair up over his head as he smiles at a handful of people, and then his eyes find yours. The smile drops, and he takes a steadying breath in.

"Y/N," he says loudly. Straight. Without expression. It's a statement, but also you sense a question there too. As if you might not turn out to be the person who was standing there. He holds your gaze over and through the people walking around and in front of him. He's handed a bottle of water and offered a second one which he takes, "Y/N," he says again, pulling his head back to beckon you over.

You roll your lips together when you've made it to the vacant space in front of him. Harry passes you the extra water bottle and cracks the lid off the one he keeps for himself. You grip yours with both hands but don't make any move to open it. Standing in front of him didn’t feel like you thought it would. It’s less of a kick I in the gut, and more a reinforcing of things that you’d figured out since being without him.

"Hi," he says hesitantly, briefly looking at someone behind your left shoulder. Then, you feel his eyes back on your face.

You speak to his forehead, not ready to have things inside you unlocked by eye contact, "Hello."

"This way," Harry says after a moment, running the towel down his sweaty face again.

He leads you down a hallway, wiping his face on the towel two more times as he walks. Harry continuously looks over his shoulder at you to make sure you're still following him, as if there was somewhere for you to hide in the concrete hallway. When he gets to his dressing room door, he kicks it open and holds his arm out to let you in first. The room smells like his cologne, a whiff of his final moments before going out on stage and a time portal back to mornings you'd spritz it on yourself before leaving the house, it was your scent then too. There was a small sofa and table, a long mirrored table with his laptop open next to a stack of papers, his screen saver bouncing back and white photos across the locked screen. His overnight bag and its contents were sprawled out over the floor in the corner next to where you can see his phone charging.

"You look good," is the first thing he says to you. Trying to pull your attention probably. Maybe hoping to get on the front foot charming you. You could tell him he looked good as well, particularly in the cream suit they had him in tonight, but you were sure there were no shortage of people who already had.

"Your show was good," you deflect away from the personal, eyes tracing the bottles in the corner of the table, "Great setlist."

"Needs a shakeup, if we're honest. Getting stale," Harry shrugs, and you see it in the mirrored wall. He's still standing by the closed door, watching you walk into the centre of the room and take stock of what's around you. "How have you been?"

"Fine."

Harry coughs uncomfortably, "Thanks for coming, wasn't sure you would."

"I wasn't sure either."

You sense Harry realising this conversation was going to be exactly as difficult as feared it might be, he nods his head and moves over to the sofa but doesn't sit down, "Did you want a seat?"

"I'll sit here," you perch yourself on the chair in front of his laptop, crossing one leg over the other and hitching your elbow at the back so you're facing Harry. Keeping the room between you.

Harry sits on the arm of the small, burgundy sofa, and tosses the towel onto the seat next to him, "Looked like you were a little upset there for a moment."

"My boots are new," you quip, kicking your top foot out towards him, "Blisters."

He sighs again, and you start to feel chastised, but there's a more substantial part of you that stubbornly bunkers on down to playing this role, taking power when you'd never had it with Harry before. He knew it wasn’t blisters that had emotion welling up in you during his set. But just the same it wasn’t his place anymore to be privy to your feelings. And you weren’t going to let him gallantly try to take it. You weren’t old friends who could pick up where you left off. You were broken lovers.

"I just thought we could do with talking," Harry says finally.

"You could have uninvited me, you know, I assumed—Well, it's not like I've been expecting to still attend any of your shows the last six months. This one didn't have to be different."

He almost looks hurt, "You live here."

"How was Italy, Harry?” you turn the conversation around abruptly because you didn't like where it was going, and he was starting to frustrate you. You didn’t need him pointing out you lived in this city alone now since he left. As if you didn’t know.

Where watching him on stage hit you with longing and heartbreak, memories you found yourself irrevocably attached to, being in the same room as him now is only making you see the real Harry. The one who's so good at rearranging the energy in the room to make you feel you need to give more of yourself. The one who's an expert at asking a leading question and relying on the other person to be vulnerable first, lead the charge out the gates.

The man who lied to hide you every day for nearly a year, even when it was hurting you more than protecting you. The hurt from him was worse than the invasion of your privacy would have be. The distrust you felt didn't counteract the security you were still afforded by anonymity. The way you felt you still had something to prove—something to earn from him—and that you just needed to earn the right to your place in Harry's life.

"I've missed you," he said finally, "Just …"

"You've been lonely?" You raise your eyebrows at him.

"What?" Harry's defences click into place, "No, it's not that—obviously yes, I've been lonely—but also I just—I miss you."

You start nodding, and your gaze drifts around the room, "Yeah, I … What exactly do you miss, Harry? Because—I mean, it was kind of shit, don't you think?"

"Shit?" he looks horrified, "What was shit?"

"Harry," you say simply, telling him to cut the bullshit with your expression. "Come on."

"I loved you," he declares loudly, proudly, “We had a great time together. I don't think it was kind of shit at all."

That's when you feel tears come to your eyes. Of course he didn't think it was shit. He still didn't see where the problem was. Couldn't see it. He would go right back to That Fight and keep going the way you had been if he could. Harry would keep living that life with you, he would have kept on going the same way. You'd still be the secret. A fight about a holiday would have resolved itself with compromise and make-up sex, and you would have gone right back to sneaking out of venues and pretending not to know him in crowded rooms.

Your lips turn up in a smile of sorts as your tears beg to fall but don't, "You haven't changed," you state with a small, incredulous laugh, "You've not figured it out. Nothing's changed," you repeat, shaking your head.

Harry's confusion is plain, and if he thought your tears were because you miss him there's something like a flicker of doubt, as if he's reading what's in front of him again and maybe getting a different story.

"You can't have a life with someone who doesn't want anyone to know you're in their life," you state simply.

And that was it, really. That was the nuts and bolts of it.

The secrecy eroded any meaning your relationship with Harry had. The doubt that cast. The burden on you to continually prove yourself, to audition for the role every day only to never graduate from understudy.

You watch Harry's throat constrict tightly as he thinks about the words that come from his mouth, "I loved you," he repeats, "I didn't want anything outside of us to fuck us up."

"You can't control the world that way, Harry," you're observing him carefully, "You definitely can't control people that way. I get why we started that way, but a year in, Harry? A year."

He looks at his feet, and it's the first bit of remorse you've ever seen him show over it.

"I know you loved me," you keep going, "But you can't use that as some bandaid for the lying, for the hurt that was. You can't erase the consequences because you thought you were protecting me or us or yourself. The truth doesn't cancel out the hurt of the lie."

Harry's still starring at his boots, "You could have said something."

You blink once.

"Fuck you," bursts out before you can stop it, and Harry's eyes snap up to yours, you laugh at his nerve and rise to your feet, "Fuck you, Harry. I couldn't have. I felt like I had to earn it. Like maybe I was one gold star away from getting there. And then when I did push it, you ended it."

"That's not—

"—It is," you insist, shaking your head at him, "You put all your insecurities and shortcomings on me and then had the nerve to tell me you loved me as if I was the defective cog in the wheel. As if you saying you loved me put all the onus on me spoiling it."

"I'm a private person—

You put your hand up to silence him, turning on your heel to face Harry as your pacing halts, "Stop. I don't … I don't care," you breathe out simply, "I really don't. Our relationship wasn't The One. It's one we'll both learn from for the ones that are coming. I hope you learn from it," you add quietly, "Because I have."

"Y/N," Harry says your name like it's an idea he's unsure of.

"That song wasn't about me, was it?" You ask because on stage he said it was about regretting hurting someone and there's been no hint of a 'sorry' from Harry since.

His brow creased, "It is. I am. I wanted you to hear me play it tonight. It's for you."

You smile, the idea that you've grown beyond this situation blooming inside you, "You've not said it."

"What?"

"You haven't said you're sorry," your head shakes again, a fresh wave of your new perfume—the one that's just yours—filling your nose, "You've said you missed me. And that I look good, but you've not said you're sorry. You can put an apology into the song on stage, but you can't admit you were wrong to the person you wrote the song about."

His shoulders sink, just the slightest amount, and you know that you've seen enough. You've said enough. He's not going to have an epiphany on this, not in this conversation with you. You've gone as far as you can with this. As far as you're willing to.

"I'm going to go," you take a step forward, "Thanks for the song, your voice sounded really nice on it."

And you walk passed him with just a final wave and the slightest touch to his shoulder. He doesn't move from his seated position, but his neck cranes and he watches you leave. Eyes hunting your back for answers, like the manuscript for what just happened might show up there. But it doesn't, and you slip out the door, the clip from your shoes fading from his hearing quicker than he wanted it to.

Your insides are shaking by the time you make it out onto the street. No part of you wants to turn back and look up at his name in lights again. You're done with seeing the best of everything in him. Harry's one of the shitty boyfriends you'll tell someone about one day in the future, and they'll call him a dickhead with anger dripping from their tongue, promising to never treat you the same way.

And they won't.

You'll both have bumped and bruised your way into each other's lives, and there'll be a satisfying click with them there wasn't with anyone else. You'll have journeyed through all the maybes and not-quites, and you'll land in that forever place with the person who wears the badge of Yours with a fervour nobody before them has.

And Harry … You'll go and be Nothing to Him.

+

My inbox is here

[cg29fics]

Pick and Mix Collection

A selection of Little Tracy fics for @gordonthegreatesttracy and @psychoseal

All can be found with other short stories in my Pick & Mix Collection on AO3 & FFNet: CreativeGirl29

School Reports. Aged 8.

Scott Tracy:

Scott is a bright young boy, who is extremely popular with all his classmates. He is always first to put himself forward for team challenges and is a natural team leader. However, Scott tends to be impulsive and rush into an activity or challenge, which on occasions as cost him a higher mark. Scott excels in English, Geography and Physical Education but tends to struggle in maths.

John Tracy:

John is a quiet, introspective and intelligent young man, who excels in Science, Maths, English and Information Technology. John as the potential to go far in life and could be moved up a grade if he was to apply himself to what he once referred to as the ‘boring subjects’ and stop correcting myself and my other colleagues when we are trying to teach.

Virgil Tracy:

Virgil is a lovely, thoughtful boy, who always listens in class, speaks when he is spoken to, and on occasions has gone out of his way to support other classmates when they are struggling. Virgil has a gift for art, music and history. He also recently earned top marks when we taught first-aid in his class. However, I would like to bring to your attention Virgil’s tendency to day dream when he is not taking part in one of his favourite subjects.

Gordon Tracy:

Gordon is a conundrum and seems to have two sides to him. On the one side, you have the sweet boy who will always be there for his friends, excels in physical education, especially swimming and did surprisingly well when we did our big baking day. However, the other side of Gordon has a habit of constantly chatting in class, despite being asked to be quiet and as unfortunately become known as the school clown. If Gordon were to apply himself in all his work instead of drawing pictures of himself as a fish, he could gain good marks in all his classes.

Alan Tracy:

Alan is a smart boy who as always got a smile on his face. When he is interested in a subject, or as been caught by an idea he is an absolute pleasure to teach. However, like his brother before him, he tends to chat in class, and on many occasions, has had his portable computer console confiscated when he has been found playing on it, instead of learning. Alan struggles in History but excels in science and maths. I would also like to bring to your attention Alan’s report on ‘Our Heroes.’ All the children in his class decided to write about a celebrity, sports personality or historical figure. Instead, Alan wrote a fantastic and touching report where he named his older brother John as his hero and who he would most like to be like when he grows up.

5 more fics beneath the cut

**

STAR BOY:

"John you've been told not to run in the house." His father complained, catching his 4-year-old son in his arms.

"I'm not John." John answered with a serious face.

"Oh, you're not?" Jeff remarked, observing the cape John had attempted to make out of his comfort blanket. "Well, I must say, you certainly look like my John!"

"Shush! Daddy." John whispered. No one can know my secret ident…" John paused, thinking about the word he was struggling to say. "Ident…"

Jeff smiled. "Identity."

John grinned. "Yeah, my secret identity."

"So, who are you then?" Jeff inquired curiously.

"I'm Star Boy." John shouted, as he managed to struggle free and started running around in circles.

Jeff let out a chuckle at his son's exuberance. "So, Star Boy. What powers do you have?"

"Fly in space." John cried with joy.

"And what's your current mission Jo… I mean Star Boy?"

John ground himself to a sudden halt. "Find baby Virgie!" He stated with a thoughtful look.

"Virgil." Jeff corrected. "And he's not missing, he's nice and safe in your mummy's tummy."

John stared at his dad in confusion. "But I heard you and mummy say that he was late, and then mummy said if he didn't turn up soon she would…"

"Okay, John." Jeff said cutting John off. He would have to have a word to Lucille about what John had overheard. He knew she would be mortified but John seemed to have exceptional hearing and they both knew that their boy was very bright for his age. Jeff held his arms out for his current youngest son. John happily ran into them, and let himself be pulled up onto his father's lap. "Now, Virgil is still safe in your mummy's tummy, the reason he's late is because your mum has made it so comfortable in there that he doesn't want to leave yet."

"But I want to find him, cause then I'll get to be big brother like Scotty." John frowned.

Jeff pulled John into a warm hug. "And you will be a brilliant big brother just like Scott." He assured him.

As Jeff held John tightly in his arms, a shout from his mother came from in the kitchen, followed by his oldest son running into the room.

"Daddy, Grandma said to tell you mummy's waters broken!" Scott panted.

Jeff pulled himself to his feet, keeping John firmly in one arm, and taking Scott's hand with the other. "Well, my Star Boy." Jeff said, looking at John with pride. "It looks like your mission was successful!"

"It was?" John asked with a puzzled expression.

Jeff beamed as he stood John next to Scott, who automatically took his little brother's hand in his. "Yes, you did!" He added, with a concerned look towards the kitchen as he heard his mother and Lucille call for him once more. "Looks like baby Virgil is on his way!"

Several hours later:

John grinned with joy, as with his mother's help, he held his new baby brother in his arms. "Hey, Virgie." He said softly. "I'm John, your big brother… And my secret is I'm also Star Boy." He whispered. "I helped find you today!" John looked at Virgil who gazed at him with his big eyes. "And my next mission is to be your big brother." He said with a contented sigh.

**

4 little brothers.

12 year old Scott Tracy stretched out in his bed, enjoying the warmth from is duvet on a cold winters night. Yes, this was his time. His time to relax after a full on day spent with 4 hyper younger brothers. His time to bask in the peace and quiet his room provided…

… THUNDERCLAP … the pouring rain began hammering at his window …

Scott sighed, threw back his blanket and began counting "5, 4, 3, 2, 1…"

… THUNDERCLAP … 4 scared little brothers rushed into his room …

"Come on then, jump in."

… THUNDERCLAP… 4 scared little brothers scurried noisily into the bed.

Pulling the blanket over them all Scott smiled when he felt each of them snuggle up to him. 'Forget the peace and quiet,' he thought to himself. He would prefer to have his 4 brothers any day!

**

First Day.

“Don’t want too…” Alan whined, clinging desperately onto his father’s trousers.

“But you have to,” Jeff returned, trying to loosen his son’s grip.

“Why?”

“Because…” Jeff paused, then exhaled, he had no answer for his baby. Honestly, he was out of his depth, normally this was Lucille’s job, but she wasn’t here like she had been for his other boys… He glanced at his four sons standing close by, none of them had wanted to miss this moment, none of them wanted Alan to feel like he was missing out on something, even though they knew that he was. After all, it shouldn’t be them doing this, it should be their mother. They’d all had her here for their first day, but Alan wouldn’t… And even though he hadn’t said anything they could see it in his eyes that he knew he was different from all of the other kids who were being dropped off by their moms.

“Because,” Scott said, stepping forwards, “you will get to make some cool new friends.”

“I will?”

“Yes,” John replied, “and you can play with some neat toys.”

“And when I was here,” Gordon added, “they had some awesome toy dolphins, and a submarine…”

Alan scrunched up his tiny nose.

Gordon grinned. “They also had some cars and toy rockets!”

“Wow!” Alan exclaimed.

“You can also draw and paint,” Virgil informed him.

“Without getting told off for using your paints?”

“As long as you share with your classmates,” Virgil said with a big smile, “then you can use whatever you want… And maybe you could bring me a picture back of your favourite toy?”

Alan nodded enthusiastically, then looked up to his dad. “I’m ready to go now daddy!”

Jeff knelt down so his eyes were level with Alan’s. “Have a brilliant day son.”

Alan beamed, loosened his grip, then immediately ran towards his teacher.

Standing, Jeff reached out and brought his four other boys into a warm hold. Knowing that whenever he was out of his depth then his amazing sons would always have his back.

**

The Beast

It was dark. Only a few rays of sunlight managing to penetrate the lair he had entered. He had been warned on numerous occasions about the beast that inhabited this area and was known to attack when woken, but he had not believed. Yes, he had seen it on many occasions, but all of those times it had been funny, friendly and caring. Surely, just because it was woken early it wouldn't attack. Especially since it was him.

He creeped closer. Currently it was lying on its stomach, eyes were tightly shut, and bizarre noises were emitting from it. Finally, reaching his destination he leant towards it, his hand reaching out, but then a sudden snort from the thing in front of him was released causing him to jump back. Maybe it wasn't best to disturb it? Maybe Gordon was right, and the beast did attack if provoked this early? Although his brother was known to make things up. This probably was just one of his jokes and the usual encounter would be received. He had to be brave and find out the truth. Straightening himself up, he stepped forwards, and placed his hand confidently on the shoulder in front of him…

"Virg…"

No movement, no signs of him waking, so he tried again…

"Virgie?"

This time a groan emitted from his brother, then once again he grew quiet…

"Virgie," he pushed harder on his shoulder, "please wake up."

A yawn, and a pair of bleary eyes opened, grumpy and nothing like the kind-hearted peaceful ones he was used to… He moved backwards… Maybe this was a mistake… But then there eyes met, and a soft gentle smile illuminated the features of his brother.

"Hey Alligator, what's up?"

"Nothing," Alan replied with a little snigger at the nickname.

Virgil regarded the three-year-old in front of him. "Nothing, really?"

"Well, Gordy said you were a beast in the morning, but I didn't believe him, so he said I should come and see for myself."

"Did he indeed?"

Alan nodded his head.

"Well, I'm not a beast."

"Knew it!" Alan cheered happily.

"But," Virgil looked at his clock, "when I am woken this early, I am known to turn into a bear."

Alan gasped in shock.

"And you know what bears do, right?"

Alan scrunched up his little nose and shuck his head…

"Well, they are known to attack."

"Really?"

"Yes, with…" Virgil paused for dramatic effect… "tickles!"

A fit of giggles erupted from Alan when Virgil pounced, flung him over his shoulder, then onto the bed where he began tickling him madly.

**

Baby Talk

"Hi, I'm Scott, I'm four years old, I love aeroplanes and jumping off the couch. Although mummy and daddy tell me off for that one. My best friend became a big brother to a little sister last year, he's really good at it, and I want to be the same. So, I will always cuddle you, care for you, and when you get bigger I will help you to learn all of the things I found hard. I promise that I will be the best big brother you could ask for…" He leaned in and kissed his mother's tummy, feeling a kick back in response… "Love you too!"

[rocohen20]

Pod Fic: 1988

I like to listen to podfics a lot. And I’m prone to listen to the long ass ones. This post consist of my ablosute favourite Patrick Kane/Jonathan Toews podfics. Most of those I have downloaded to my phone and I listened to them too many times, to the point that whole lines pop in my mind from time to time, with the exact way the nerator said them. Every story there is really is the best. I hope you’d enjoy it. 

-[Podfic of] This Love Is Be and End All, by exmanhater, 22:17 minutes

[The written work has been deleted]

Because of an blackhawks book club competition, Jonny goes to the local library and there he meets librarin Patrick.

-[Podfic of] For they are rain upon the binding dust of earth, by exmanhater, 23:39 minutes

[Original written work: For they are rain upon the binding dust of earth, by ingenius, 3,966 words]  

Times when Patrick cried during sex. I really like their relationship in this.

-[Podfic] fight or run, you're just getting older, by AshesandGhost, 28:36 minutes

[The written work is not available]

Beta Patrick imprinted on human Jonny as his alpha within the first week of meeting him. The story is about him trying to cope with that.

-5 things everyone really didn't need to know about kaner and tazer's sex life, thanks by grim_lupine [Podfic] , by Rhea314 (Rhea), 37:33 minutes

[The written work is not available]

the team finds way too much about Patrick and Jonathan’s sex life.

-a light-handed approach to regulation by hazel [Podfic], by Rhea314 (Rhea), 03:37:19 hours

[Original written work: a light-handed approach to regulation, by hazel, 34,078 words]

Alpha Patrick is drafted to the team with Omega Jonny. It leads to a lot of false assumptions. 

-[Podfic] Highly Sticked, by marianas, 21:38 minutes

[Original written work: Highly Sticked, by orphan_account, 3,984 words]

Patrick wants to measure the team’s packages, but mainly he wants to measure Jonny’s.

-It's a Love Story, Baby, Just Say Yes by Svmadelyn [Podfic], by Rhea314 (Rhea), 03:33:21 hours

[Original written work: It's a Love Story, Baby, Just Say Yes, by svmadelyn, 34,053 words]

Patrick kane has feeling for Jonny, he tries to fuck them away.

-Like Other Girls, by smoulderandbraids, 01:33:30 hours

[Original written work: Like Other Girls, by BlackEyedGirl, 14,212 words]

This amazing fic is about pat and her relationship with the media and the team. I really recommand listening to the podfic version. Special guests: girl!Sidney Crosby, girl!Tyler Seguin.

There is also a fanart for this fic that I think is fabulous: Like Other Girls art, by essouffle

-[Podfic of] Savoy Truffle, by thisissirius, 47:02 minutes

[Original written work is not available. There is another Podfic version that I did not listened to it, if you are interested]

Patrick goes back to baking after madison, Jonny found his secret and enjoyed it since.

-Say It With Flowers by Hazel [Podfic], by Rhea314 (Rhea), 47:33 minutes

[Original written work: say it with flowers , by hazel, 6,741 words]

Patrick can speak to flowers. 

-Scattered Pieces of My Mind [Podfic] , by speakingwosound (sev313), 02:28:16 hours

[Original written work: Scattered Pieces of My Mind, by orphan_account, 22,581 words]

 after a gay sex tape scandal Patrick gets traded to the Pittsburgh Penguins.

- [Podfic] Tour de Force, by marianas, 02:09:26 hours

[Original written work is not available]

Patrick writes a book during the offseason after the madison incident. This book became a smashing hit. I love this story so much, and what I liked the most about it is the writing process of Patrick.

-yet we will make him run [PODFIC], by Opalsong, 04:14:06 hours

[Orignal written work is not available]

Lit major Patrick kane befriends the captain of The Chicago Blackhawks. This fic is amazing, I love this story so much and I heard the whole fic so many times.

-Keep You On My Arm [PODFIC], by bessyboo, 39:17 minutes

[Original written work: Keep You On My Arm, by rsadelle, 6,732 words]

The team started to go to gay bars. Jonathan keeps pretending to be Patrick’s boyfriend.

-Drawing Lines In The Palm of Your Hand [PODFIC], by Opalsong, 02:21:03 hours

[Original written work is not available anymore] 

The story follows genderqueer Pat. This story was really interesting. 

-Shot right through with a bolt of blue by mermaid [podfic], by Rhea314 (Rhea), 05:32:04 hours

[Original written work: Shot right through with a bolt of blue, by mermaid, 54,722 words]

When Jonny is a little kid he discovered that he could shoot fire out of his eyes, ever since he tried to bury it deep inside.

-Our Family or Whatever by Rsadelle [Podfic], by Rhea314 (Rhea), 09:56 minutes

[Original written work: Our Family or Whatever , by rsadelle, 1,550 words]

Jonny finds out that Patrick is a dad, and he helps him with the child

-we like to get our kicks in this one way [PODFIC], by Opalsong, 04:16:15 hours

[Orignal written work: we like to get our kicks in this one way, by nebulia, 21,929 words (5 works)]

This is a collection of stories from girls of the NHL. The first few parts are about Patrick/Jonny.

-[Podfic of] According to Plan, by exmanhater, 14:41 minutes

[Original written work: According to Plan , by rsadelle, 2,546 words]

Patrick needs to speak to Jonny about their life plan.

-[Podfic] chicago is so two years ago, by AshesandGhost, 46:26 minutes

[Original written work: chicago is so two years ago, by Fireblasts, 8,839 words]

Jonahan and Patrick both adopted a dog at the same day, and named it after the other. That leads to freaky stuff.

-[Podfic of] Write Our Names On the Wall, by exmanhater, 01:31:55 hours 

[Original written work: Write Our Names On the Wall, by twentysomething, 15,995 words]  

always a girl Patrick and Jonathan start to sleep together. It’s eventually leads to feelings.

-[Podfic of] The Limited Circle, by exmanhater, 34:09 minutes

[Original work is not available anymore]

Jonny is an introvert, Patrick doesn’t mind that at all. The intimacy there is really good.

-[Podfic of] Space Kaner, by exmanhater, 18:05 minutes

[Original written work is not available anymore]

Star Trek! AU. You don’t need to know anything about Star Trek. The story is really funny and light-hearted.

-[Podfic] You Give Love a Bad Name, by AshesandGhost, 20:59 minutes

[Original written work is not available anymore]

Jonny is a sex-column consulted. He have a crush for the worker in his go-to sex shop.

-[Podfic of] Dealing with Dragons (Hockey RPF Style), by exmanhater, 13:20 minutes

 [Original written work: Dealing with Dragons AU, by orphan_account]

When Patrick needs to marry he runs away and started to live with a dragon. This story is humorous and fun.

-[Podfic of] something old, something new, by exmanhater, 01:51:24 hours

[Original written work: something old, something new, by longtime_lurker, 19,419 words]

Always a girl! Patty takes teammate Jonny to her sister’s wedding to save face. 

-[Podfic of] our song is the way you laugh, by exmanhater, 59:06 minutes

[Original written work: our song is the way you laugh, by orphan_account, 9,951 words]

In order to get up on Sharpy, Jonny convinces Patrick to fake a relationship with him.

-[Podfic of] Racy, by exmanhater, 31:50 minutes

[Original written work: Racy, by Lenore, 5,245 words]

After an ill-advised decision of drunk Patrick, he can’t look in Jonny’s direction without thinking of that said decision.

-[Podfic of] three hundred sandwiches, by exmanhater, 01:25:18 hours

[Original written work is not available anymore]

Patrick is making three hundred sandwiches for Jonny, maybe then he would get his man. 

-[Podfic of] Somewhere Only We Know, by exmanhater, 02:17:00 hours

[Original written work: Somewhere Only We Know, by jezziejay, 21,705 words]

Patrick is having an existential criris on his 28 birthday. I love the feelings in this story and the pacing.

-[Podfic of] Kiss and Ride on the CTA, by exmanhater, 52:39 minutes

[Original written work is not available anymore]

Patrick hates the regular guy he sees on his mornin comute. Ben Smith took it upon himself to change it. 

-[Podfic of] the days are young, by exmanhater, 42:49 minutes

[Original written work is not available anymore]

After the 2010 Olympic Patrick feels like Jonny is hiding something from him, he tries to figure out what.

 -[Podfic of] The slowest spark is a breather, by exmanhater, 13:05 minutes

[Original written work is not available anymore]

When Patrick was in the bathroom Sharpy dicked around in his phone contacts. This leads to an embarrassing situation.

-[Podfic of] Orbital Resonance, by exmanhater, 07:39:08 hours

[Original written work: Orbital Resonance, by joyfulseeker & thefourofswords, 80,825 words]

Patrick and Jonny started to have threesomes with different girls. This leads to feelings and more.

-[Podfic] I've Got A Feeling (I Hope You're Feeling It Too), by RsCreighton, 01:43:36 hours

[Original written work: I've Got A Feeling (I Hope You're Feeling It Too), by textbookchoices, 14,746 words]

Patrick wants to be in Jonny’s pack when they grew up. In order to do that he would have to be a beta. This story is so good and emotional.

-[Podfic] Black Lettering, by RsCreighton, 01:09:18 hours

[Original written work: Black Lettering, by textbookchoices, 10,472 words]

name-on-the-wrist soulmate au.

-[Podfic of] Sign it with your heart, by exmanhater, 56:22 minutes

[The original written work is not available for now]

High school AU where nerd Patrick started to tutor Jock Jonny.

-[Podfic of] you ruined everything in the best way, by exmanhater, 01:30:23 hours

[Original written work: you ruined everything in the best way, by thisissirius, 14,663 words]

When Brendon is de-aged into a kid it’s up to Patrick and Jonny to take care of him. This leads to different decisions.

 -[Podfic of] call it magic, by exmanhater, 59:22 minutes

[Original written work: call it magic, by thundersquall, 10,640 words]

Patrick is turned into a faerie.

GOOD LISTENING TO EVERYONE!