#Me saying online that I can tell when media was written by a white woman

[lemongrass--tea]

Good morning and Happy Friday! You are an incredible artist! I've been browsing your work (on here and on Pillowfort!) and I am amazed by your mastery of anatomy and how you infuse character in each of your pieces.

First, I saw through the #sdv elliott tag how you were asking about drawing other fans' farmers. If you're still interested, I happily offer up mine! You can DM me for references if you so desire.

Second, I want to know more about Elliott and Connor. What's Connor's story? How did he and Elliott get together? What do they love best about each other?

And correct me if I'm wrong, but I've inferred from some of your art that he is a tengu, or at least a related entity. That's so neat! Tell me more about that. 😁👍

Hee hee heee this came out so long lmao I tried to be concise but I’ve written the epistle of Connor and Elliott lore😩

(And I would love to draw your farmer I’m gnawing at the bars of my enclosure like a rabid animal)

Connor is certainly similar to a tengu in the sense that what he’s based on is a similar mischievous spirit fae species type thing. I combined two Caribbean myths for him, chickcharnie and gaulin wife.

Linked some info on the two, but I’ll say the gaulin wife telling here isn’t the exact one that I remember, there’s this one telling that has a song in it that the wife sings “oh what a foolish man, he married the gaulin” BUT IVE BEEN LOOKING FOR WEEEEKS I can’t find it it might be lost media🥲. I also can’t remember the EXACT way that version went since I heard last it when I was like- 11 lmao. But the concept is pretty much what’s in this version.

SO that gets us to Connor, I wanted him to have the whole monster bird fae elements of the chickcharnie to have a reason to be feared or distrusted by his home town, but I also REALLY love herons (hence the gaulin bride) and the whole jingle from that tale. So I was like, what if everyone around them (mostly from Connor’s home life because bird man cryptid is par for the course in pelican town I think lmao) would think Elliott to be like, crazy for wanting to be with a fae. So they’re like a twist on the myth where instead of the man seeing this perfect spouse that turns out to be a trick, everyone else EXPECTS a trick but they’re just hopelessly in love.

I hope that makes sense

So Connor has 2 sisters, Cara his “twin” and Khipz their younger sister. If you’ve ever seen that writing prompt where a fae asks a mother to pick which is their real child vs the fae’s copy and she responds like “they’re both my children” that’s kind of what happens here. I think it fits considering chickcharnie are known for like, kidnapping and luring little kids into the pine forest, fun stuff, so a baby swap sounds about right.

The real twin was stillborn/terminally ill, but their mother has connections to the local fae through her family (grandpa from the actual canon) having a good relationship through the time they lived in the valley. So she begs for a way to save the kid, and they grant this favor by doing a little swap, they take the baby and give her Connor.

The father is not quite so tolerant to fae activity, so he DOES NOT vibe with Connor, pretty much seeing him as like not really theirs, but ofc Connor’s a baby he has no way to understand the hostility here. But he’s willing to let him pass as long as he’s able to keep up appearances. This man is all about reputation and appearance, he wants that white picket fence life, hes a major business man in their town he expects perfection. But the cultural context of the fae being dangerous and uncontrollable he does not want people to know that he’s connected to that. So they raise Connor to suppress his magic and such, he has to keep up appearances as fully human, perfect little identical copy of his twin (which includes being raised feminine since the original expectation was two girls so that’s what Connor’s default appearance was)

At a point though a kids going to start developing their own persona, so once he hits teen years he’s not really comfortable being constrained to copying Cara. He’s allowed to shift his presentation to his current male presentation, but it does kinda throw a wrench in his dad’s perception of him. Every disagreement and every personal decision is more and more strain as Connor’s less willing to conform, which raises his dad’s concerns about his nature as a fae. Not to mention he becomes more of a liability reputation wise because the harder he tries to control Connor the harder he pushes back, babe is prone to reckless behavior (but really in the childlike skipping class and launching a dirtbike off a ramp into a lake or something way), and their dad does NOT know how to handle it besides meeting that energy with anger especially if he’s roping his sisters into his antics.

ENTER STAGE RIGHT OUR BABYGIRL ELLIOTT

I love the concept of him being an ex-trust fund rich kid that left to pursue his own desires. So they meet in like 9th grade or so, when their parents are meeting to discuss whatever business deal they’ve got going on. And they hit it off so much cuz they’re both starting to explore being their own person and discontentment with expectations and conformity, but at this point Connor does not tell him that he is not human due to fear that he might have the same disdain that his own dad has, especially considering even his SISTERS don’t know. His mother’s been telling him all these years you can’t let anyone know, we don’t want anyone to get hurt right? It’s just not the right time, I imagine there’s an element of him fearing HIMSELF a fair amount, especially since he’s not in practice of taking his bird forms. All of his focus goes into keeping that side of himself suppressed.

But time passes and yknow young love, they’re close friends and romantic feelings start showing up, they end up sharing their first kiss and Connor is unable to stop himself from just letting all those inhibitions go. He suddenly sprouts little baby feathers and the starting nubs where his horns would grow in, tail wagging a mile a minute, but while Elliott’s taking this in because WHAT HAPPENED Connor’s dad finds them in whatever room they’d snuck off to and man is LIVID because as far as he’s concerned his biggest insecurity just got outed and being fresh to his investors son, what are they gonna think of him, so improper, how dare you. He gets dragged off to get berated and such and gets banned from being allowed anywhere near the company lest he cause more problems.

Elliott loses contact because like, neither of them have any means of contact and then he gets sent off to a boarding school to finish high school, and he brushes off the whole thing in his memory like maybe I was just hallucinating. Fae aren’t common around the city so he wouldn’t be too aware of that being an option.

Connor has the whole thing in the back of his mind like oh he probably freaked out and hates me now just like father dearest said he would, especially since Elliott never got the chance to react beyond the initial shock.

DECADE PASSES

I mentioned before in his last lore post that there’s more mounting hostility and eventually Connor decides to cut off completely, his mom gives him grandpas land so he moves to pelican town.

And like imagine his shock to see Elliott there, standing on that bridge, he’s internally freaking out then he turns and smiles at him with the opening line “oh you must be the new farmer everyone’s talking about, it’s a pleasure” and he politely kisses his knuckles and it’s like a complete parallel to their first kiss where he just loses it all over again. And like in that time he’s had other relationships other flings, and he thought he was in complete control because NEVER after that first time did he ever have a slip up again, then Elliott comes along and just KNOCKS EVERY WALL DOWN with a fleeting GREETING of all things.

Then there’s like this pause of realization from Elliott of oh my god it’s you.

I’m so unwell for them. Elliott gets his proper explanation of him and it’s like, the first time he’s not pressured to have to hide himself anymore, he thinks it’s **fascinating** and beautiful not something to be feared and reigned back. So they get to rekindle that long lost friendship and all those feelings come tumbling back into the equation.

They definitely build their relationship off emotional support and shared experience, two bros against the world frfr

[loverboy1717]

First, I have not seen it yet and if I end up being wrong I’ll eat my words and say so. So don’t come for me in the comments yeah?

Second, I’m sincerely wondering if the people who are saying Next Goal Wins is transphobic are saying it cus it actually is or because it was honest and portrayed transphobia in sport.

I’m wondering if these peeps have any understanding of how fucked up organized footie is? I wonder if they’ve ever seriously followed international soccer or know it well. Cus anybody who does would not expect there to be no conflict or shitty behavior towards an out queer player.

Im not saying it’s okay at all that it happens. Im just saying a world without gender identities being mishandled in soccer does not exist.The sport itself is beautiful. I started playing at four years old. I played competitively from ten all the way through senior year in high school and then quit when I came out and nobody wanted to change in front of me in the locker room anymore. (Being a cis white queer woman sucked. I can’t imagine how much worse it is/was for a player on the international stage as a gender non conforming person of color.) I found my way back in my mid twenties and still play in competative rec leagues at thirty one. This sport is something I could not live without. There are moments of sheer fucking joy and magic and catharsis and banter and shit housing and community. I truly feel kinship with other people who love this silly game as much as I do. But it can also be a trashcan fire of bullshit and hate. It isn’t fucking Ted Lasso my dudes.

And this movie is about FIFA qualifiers for a low af ranked team. It’s about a supremely underfunded and written off team made up of PoC. It follows a white head coach who is gonna come in and turn them around more for his own redemption than for the teams success. This was never gonna be a completely light hearted romp no matter how it was marketed. Fifa fucking sucks guys. The corporate side of soccer fucking sucks. The coaches trying to make names for themselves or don’t think they will have to pay for their actions fucking suck. That doesn’t mean there are not meaningful stories to tell about players.

What I’m trying to say is I’m curious to see if this is transphobia because it’s transphobia or if it is accurately depicting some transphobic bullshit that happened and people online are mad about that existing in a movie they wanted to be safe and gooey and silly. Basically, I remember when people said Jojo Rabit was antisemitic and it absolutely isn’t. So forgive me for taking some of the bad reviews with a grain of salt.

Like I said I’ll eat my words and own being wrong if I end up being wrong. I just don’t trust media literacy these days and am gonna wait to see for myself because I’ve been jazzed as fuck for this movie for months and months.

[association-of-freed-people]

Can you tell me more about this concept of Feds impersonating white supremacists? I’ve only heard about it from anti-statist circles here on tumblr. What does the federal government get out of doing this? Seems pretty amoral. I just am super tired of trying to figure out what is real vs what is a grift. Love your content tho, keep it up!

This is gonna be a long one.

The government creates foils that serve its agenda.

Most of my life “white supremacists” or neo-Nazis were an oddity that you’d hear about maybe once every five years or so.

They were always goofy pariahs that no one took seriously. There would be a march somewhere that would get some attention and they were always outnumbered and went away and life carried on.

It wasn’t until the 2016 election of trump that this contemporary construct was created.

In my opinion it was to distract from a chunk of trumps platform that was populist and had gained earth shaking traction. This was with respect to the US relationship with China and the transnational corporate entanglements associated with it.

MAGA was poking that relationship with a stick.

If you look at how trump won it was by flipping Pennsylvania, Ohio, Michigan and Wisconsin.

It was the rust belt, he flipped the labor vote by speaking directly to them.

MAGA was going to at least shine a light on 50 years of policy from the Nixon regime forward that resulted in the gutting of American industry, the destruction of the dollar, stagnant wages and massive trade deficits. That conversation was being drawn too close to the surface for very powerful interests.

I remember distinctly when the “racism” narrative began and the term “alt-right” went from internet slang for anyone not supporting GOP neocons or Democrats to Hitler in America.

It happened practically overnight and was predicated on two things; one was the creation of Richard Spencer as a political tail to wag the dog, with the second being the events that unfolded in Charlottesville during the summer of 2017 which solidified the pejorative.

Richard Spencer was a nobody prior to his creation by corporate media. I had never heard of him previously. One day out of the blue he was the face of Trump’s America.

I liken Spencer’s emergence to going out and finding a black Hebrew Israelite in whatever city, putting that guy on TV, and declaring him the face of Obama’s America. There’s no difference. That’s basically what happened. He was platformed into existence.

Then Charlottesville was organized with Spencer’s involvement in 2017 and a woman was run over and killed in the street fighting.

The primary organizer of Charlottesville was a guy named Jason Kessler. Interestingly Kessler had been an Occupy Wall Street protestor and Bernie bro who had attempted to turn those protests violent according to activists with knowledge.

Another notable event surrounding Spencer was the media giving him Pepe and Pepe subsequently being smeared and destroyed as a symbol of white supremacy.

The meme war had an intangible but very real impact on the 2016 election. It fascinated me that Pepe was assassinated in this manner after playing such a major role in the online political combat. It sounds nonsensical but there should be a book written about it.

The feds began cranking up the rhetoric about the domestic threat of white supremacists parallel to the media / academic push to label everything from math to merit as white supremacist. This drive led to a nonstop wave of fake hate crimes between 2017 & 2020 with Jussie being the most prominent.

The white supremacist narrative allows the security state to turn inward.

The corporate state sensed a bottom up threat when trump was elected. The threat was not from “white supremacists” but from a disaffected working class that had gotten the short end of the stick and been sold out for 50 years.

Calling everyone white supremacists made draconian policy easier to justify.

The problem is there really isn’t a threat from white supremacists (see wave of fake hate crimes) so one needs to be manufactured.

As the intersectional orthodoxy exerts it’s power it will label an increasingly broad swath of people white supremacists by changing the meanings of words and arbitrarily condemning value systems that conflict with it. This is the game. You’re being herded into a box and the state is preparing the auspices under which to persecute you if you resist it’s authoritarian policies or indoctrination practices.

Patriot Front probably serves the purpose of a honey pot in an effort to confirm the political threat, but also as a political amplifier of the supposed threat itself.

[bao3bei4]

fan language: the victorian imaginary and cnovel fandom

there’s this pinterest image i’ve seen circulating a lot in the past year i’ve been on fandom social media. it’s a drawn infographic of a, i guess, asian-looking woman holding a fan in different places relative to her face to show what the graphic helpfully calls “the language of the fan.”

people like sharing it. they like thinking about what nefarious ancient chinese hanky code shenanigans their favorite fan-toting character might get up to⁠—accidentally or on purpose. and what’s the problem with that?

the problem is that fan language isn’t chinese. it’s victorian. and even then, it’s not really quite victorian at all. 

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fans served a primarily utilitarian purpose throughout chinese history. of course, most of the surviving fans we see⁠—and the types of fans we tend to care about⁠—are closer to art pieces. but realistically speaking, the majority of fans were made of cheaper material for more mundane purposes. in china, just like all around the world, people fanned themselves. it got hot!

so here’s a big tipoff. it would be very difficult to use a fan if you had an elaborate language centered around fanning yourself.

you might argue that fine, everyday working people didn’t have a fan language. but wealthy people might have had one. the problem we encounter here is that fans weren’t really gendered. (caveat here that certain types of fans were more popular with women. however, those tended to be the round silk fans, ones that bear no resemblance to the folding fans in the graphic). no disrespect to the gnc old man fuckers in the crowd, but this language isn’t quite masc enough for a tool that someone’s dad might regularly use.

folding fans, we know, reached europe in the 17th century and gained immense popularity in the 18th. it was there that fans began to take on a gendered quality. ariel beaujot describes in their 2012 victorian fashion accessories how middle class women, in the midst of a top shortage, found themselves clutching fans in hopes of securing a husband.

she quotes an article from the illustrated london news, suggesting “women ‘not only’ used fans to ‘move the air and cool themselves but also to express their sentiments.’” general wisdom was that the movement of the fan was sufficiently expressive that it augmented a woman’s displays of emotion. and of course, the more english audiences became aware that it might do so, the more they might use their fans purposefully in that way.

notice, however, that this is no more codified than body language in general is. it turns out that “the language of the fan” was actually created by fan manufacturers at the turn of the 20th century⁠—hundreds of years after their arrival⁠ in europe—to sell more fans. i’m not even kidding right now. the story goes that it was louis duvelleroy of the maison duvelleroy who decided to include pamphlets on the language with each fan sold.

interestingly enough, beaujot suggests that it didn’t really matter what each particular fan sign meant. gentlemen could tell when they were being flirted with. as it happens, meaningful eye contact and a light flutter near the face may be a lingua franca.

so it seems then, the language of the fan is merely part of this victorian imaginary we collectively have today, which in turn itself was itself captivated by china.

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victorian references come up perhaps unexpectedly often in cnovel fandom, most often with regards to modesty.

it’s a bit of an awkward reference considering that chinese traditional fashion⁠—and the ambiguous time periods in which these novels are set⁠—far predate victorian england. it is even more awkward considering that victoria and her covered ankles did um. imperialize china.

but nonetheless, it is common. and to make a point about how ubiquitous it is, here is a link to the twitter search for “sqq victorian.” sqq is the fandom abbreviation for shen qingqiu, the main character of the scum villain’s self-saving system, by the way.

this is an awful lot of results for a search involving a chinese man who spends the entire novel in either real modern-day china or fantasy ancient china. that’s all i’m going to say on the matter, without referencing any specific tweet.

i think people are aware of the anachronism. and i think they don’t mind. even the most cursory research reveals that fan language is european and a revisionist fantasy. wikipedia can tell us this⁠—i checked!

but it doesn’t matter to me whether people are trying to make an internally consistent canon compliant claim, or whether they’re just free associating between fan facts they know. it is, instead, more interesting to me that people consistently refer to this particular bit of history. and that’s what i want to talk about today⁠—the relationship of fandom today to this two hundred odd year span of time in england (roughly stuart to victorian times) and england in that time period to its contemporaneous china.

things will slip a little here. victorian has expanded in timeframe, if only because random guys posting online do not care overly much for respect for the intricacies of british history. china has expanded in geographic location, if only because the english of the time themselves conflated china with all of asia.

in addition, note that i am critiquing a certain perspective on the topic. this is why i write about fan as white here⁠—not because all fans are white⁠—but because the tendencies i’m examining have a clear historical antecedent in whiteness that shapes how white fans encounter these novels.

i’m sure some fans of color participate in these practices. however i don’t really care about that. they are not its main perpetrators nor its main beneficiaries. so personally i am minding my own business on that front.

it’s instead important to me to illuminate the linkage between white as subject and chinese as object in history and in the present that i do argue that fannish products today are built upon.

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it’s not radical, or even new at all, for white audiences to consume⁠—or create their own versions of⁠—chinese art en masse. in many ways the white creators who appear to owe their whole style and aesthetic to their asian peers in turn are just the new chinoiserie.

this is not to say that white people can’t create asian-inspired art. but rather, i am asking you to sit with the discomfort that you may not like the artistic company you keep in the broader view of history, and to consider together what is to be done about that.

now, when i say the new chinoiserie, i first want to establish what the original one is. chinoiserie was a european artistic movement that appeared coincident with the rise in popularity of folding fans that i described above. this is not by coincidence; the european demand for asian imports and the eventual production of lookalikes is the movement itself. so: when we talk about fans, when we talk about china (porcelain), when we talk about tea in england⁠—we are talking about the legacy of chinoiserie.

there are a couple things i want to note here. while english people as a whole had a very tenuous knowledge of what china might be, their appetites for chinoiserie were roughly coincident with national relations with china. as the relationship between england and china moved from trade to out-and-out wars, chinoiserie declined in popularity until china had been safely subjugated once more by the end of the 19th century.

the second thing i want to note on the subject that contrary to what one might think at first, the appeal of chinoiserie was not that it was foreign. eugenia zuroski’s 2013 taste for china examines 18th century english literature and its descriptions of the according material culture with the lens that chinese imports might be formative to english identity, rather than antithetical to it.

beyond that bare thesis, i think it’s also worthwhile to extend her insight that material objects become animated by the literary viewpoints on them. this is true, both in a limited general sense as well as in the sense that english thinkers of the time self-consciously articulated this viewpoint. consider the quote from the illustrated london news above⁠—your fan, that object, says something about you. and not only that, but the objects you surround yourself with ought to.

it’s a bit circular, the idea that written material says that you should allow written material to shape your understanding of physical objects. but it’s both 1) what happened, and 2) integral, i think, to integrating a fannish perspective into the topic.

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japanning is the name for the popular imitative lacquering that english craftspeople developed in domestic response to the demand for lacquerware imports. in the eighteenth century, japanning became an artform especially suited for young women. manuals were published on the subject, urging young women to learn how to paint furniture and other surfaces, encouraging them to rework the designs provided in the text.

it was considered a beneficial activity for them; zuroski describes how it was “associated with commerce and connoisseurship, practical skill and aesthetic judgment.” a skillful japanner, rather than simply obscuring what lay underneath the lacquer, displayed their superior judgment in how they chose to arrange these new canonical figures and effects in a tasteful way to bring out the best qualities of them.

zuroski quotes the first english-language manual on the subject, written in 1688, which explains how japanning allows one to:

alter and correct, take out a piece from one, add a fragment to the next, and make an entire garment compleat in all its parts, though tis wrought out of never so many disagreeing patterns.

this language evokes a very different, very modern practice. it is this english reworking of an asian artform that i think the parallels are most obvious.

white people, through their artistic investment in chinese material objects and aesthetics, integrated them into their own subjectivity. these practices came to say something about the people who participated in them, in a way that had little to do with the country itself. their relationship changed from being a “consumer” of chinese objects to becoming the proprietor of these new aesthetic signifiers.

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i want to talk about this through a few pairs of tensions on the subject that i think characterize common attitudes then and now.

first, consider the relationship between the self and the other: the chinese object as something that is very familiar to you, speaking to something about your own self vs. the chinese object as something that is fundamentally different from you and unknowable to you. 

consider: [insert character name] is just like me. he would no doubt like the same things i like, consume the same cultural products. we are the same in some meaningful way vs. the fast standard fic disclaimer that “i tried my best when writing this fic, but i’m a english-speaking westerner, and i’m just writing this for fun so...... [excuses and alterations the person has chosen to make in this light],” going hand-in-hand with a preoccupation with authenticity or even overreliance on the unpaid labor of chinese friends and acquaintances. 

consider: hugh honour when he quotes a man from the 1640s claiming “chinoiserie of this even more hybrid kind had become so far removed from genuine Chinese tradition that it was exported from India to China as a novelty to the Chinese themselves” 

these tensions coexist, and look how they have been resolved.

second, consider what we vest in objects themselves: beaujot explains how the fan became a sexualized, coquettish object in the hands of a british woman, but was used to great effect in gilbert and sullivan’s 1885 mikado to demonstrate the docility of asian women. 

consider: these characters became expressions of your sexual desires and fetishes, even as their 5’10 actors themselves are emasculated.

what is liberating for one necessitates the subjugation and fetishization of the other. 

third, consider reactions to the practice: enjoyment of chinese objects as a sign of your cosmopolitan palate vs “so what’s the hype about those ancient chinese gays” pop culture explainers that addressed the unconvinced mainstream.

consider: zuroski describes how both english consumers purchased china in droves, and contemporary publications reported on them. how: 

It was in the pages of these papers that the growing popularity of Chinese things in the early eighteenth century acquired the reputation of a “craze”; they portrayed china fanatics as flawed, fragile, and unreliable characters, and frequently cast chinoiserie itself in the same light.

referenda on fannish behavior serve as referenda on the objects of their devotion, and vice versa. as the difference between identity and fetish collapses, they come to be treated as one and the same by not just participants but their observers. 

at what point does mxtx fic cease to be chinese? 

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finally, it seems readily apparent that attitudes towards chinese objects may in fact have something to do with attitudes about china as a country. i do not want to suggest that these literary concerns are primarily motivated and begot by forces entirely divorced from the real mechanics of power. 

here, i want to bring in edward said, and his 1993 culture and imperialism. there, he explains how power and legitimacy go hand in hand. one is direct, and one is purely cultural. he originally wrote this in response to the outsize impact that british novelists have had in the maintenance of empire and throughout decolonization. literature, he argues, gives rise to powerful narratives that constrain our ability to think outside of them.

there’s a little bit of an inversion at play here. these are chinese novels, actually. but they’re being transformed by white narratives and artists. and just as i think the form of the novel is important to said’s critique, i think there’s something to be said about the form that fic takes and how it legitimates itself.

bound up in fandom is the idea that you have a right to create and transform as you please. it is a nice idea, but it is one that is directed towards a certain kind of asymmetry. that is, one where the author has all the power. this is the narrative we hear a lot in the history of fandom⁠—litigious authors and plucky fans, fanspaces always under attack from corporate sanitization.

meanwhile, said builds upon raymond schwab’s narrative of cultural exchange between european writers and cultural products outside the imperial core. said explains that fundamental to these two great borrowings (from greek classics and, in the so-called “oriental renaissance” of the late 18th, early 19th centuries from “india, china, japan, persia, and islam”) is asymmetry. 

he had argued prior, in orientalism, that any “cultural exchange” between “partners conscious of inequality” always results in the suffering of the people. and here, he describes how “texts by dead people were read, appreciated, and appropriated” without the presence of any actual living people in that tradition. 

i will not understate that there is a certain economic dynamic complicating this particular fannish asymmetry. mxtx has profited materially from the success of her works, most fans will not. also secondly, mxtx is um. not dead. LMAO.

but first, the international dynamic of extraction that said described is still present. i do not want to get overly into white attitudes towards china in this post, because i am already thoroughly derailed, but i do believe that they structure how white cnovel fandom encounters this texts.

at any rate, any profit she receives is overwhelmingly due to her domestic popularity, not her international popularity. (i say this because many of her international fans have never given her a cent. in fact, most of them have no real way to.) and moreover, as we talk about the structure of english-language fandom, what does it mean to create chinese cultural products without chinese people? 

as white people take ownership over their versions of stories, do we lose something? what narratives about engagement with cnovels might exist outside of the form of classic fandom?

i think a lot of people get the relationship between ideas (the superstructure) and production (the base) confused. oftentimes they will lob in response to criticism, that look! this fic, this fandom, these people are so niche, and so underrepresented in mainstream culture, that their effects are marginal. i am not arguing that anyone’s cql fic causes imperialism. (unless you’re really annoying. then it’s anyone’s game) 

i’m instead arguing something a little bit different. i think, given similar inputs, you tend to get similar outputs. i think we live in the world that imperialism built, and we have clear historical predecessors in terms of white appetites for creating, consuming, and transforming chinese objects. 

we have already seen, in the case of the fan language meme that began this post, that sometimes we even prefer this white chinoiserie. after all, isn’t it beautiful, too? 

i want to bring discomfort to this topic. i want to reject the paradigm of white subject and chinese object; in fact, here in this essay, i have tried to reverse it.

if you are taken aback by the comparisons i make here, how can you make meaningful changes to your fannish practice to address it? 

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some concluding thoughts on the matter, because i don’t like being misunderstood! 

i am not claiming white fans cannot create fanworks of cnovels or be inspired by asian art or artists. this essay is meant to elaborate on the historical connection between victorian england and cnovel characters and fandom that others have already popularized.

i don’t think people who make victorian jokes are inherently bad or racist. i am encouraging people to think about why we might make them and/or share them

the connections here are meant to be more provocative than strictly literal. (e.g. i don’t literally think writing fanfic is a 1-1 descendant of japanning). these connections are instead meant to 1) make visible the baggage that fans of color often approach fandom with and 2) recontextualize and defamiliarize fannish practice for the purposes of honest critique

please don’t turn this post into being about other different kinds of discourse, or into something that only one “kind” of fan does. please take my words at face value and consider them in good faith. i would really appreciate that.

please feel free to ask me to clarify any statements or supply more in-depth sources :) 

[sunflowervolvimp3]

changes (best friend!harry)

Warnings: language, nsfw content, drugs (marijuana) and alcohol

Pairing: best friend!Harry x reader

Word Count: 17k (holy shit)

A/N: So this started as two requests I had in my inbox that I got way too into and then it became this. this may be the longest stand-alone fic I’ve ever written, and it, like watermelon sugar, is dedicated to touching!!!! I spent so long on this so as always. feedback is appreciated. and if you like it, please reblog it!!! reblogging is the best way to show fic writers your appreciation <3

{masterlist}

Unless she’s reminded otherwise, Y/N always thinks of herself as a teenager.

This, of course, isn’t true. She turned twenty-six a month ago, works as a media producer for an online clothing company, and lives alone in a one bedroom apartment in London.  However, unless she physically has something in front of her to remind her of her real age and the passing of time, Y/N disregards this information.

Usually, the reminder is a bill in the mail, or a phone call to remind her that she needs to book an appointment with her doctor.  Usually, the reminder is an ache in her back, her glasses prescription getting worse, or realizing that she has no idea what her teenage cousins are talking about when she sees them at Christmas.  Usually, the reminder is enough to give her pause, but not enough to throw her for a loop.

This time, however, the reminder is her childhood best friend naked in her bathroom.

Y/N and Harry had been friends since they were in primary school, after Y/N had moved to London with her mother.  Their new house just happened to be next to Harry’s, and Anne and Y/N’s mother had quickly hit it off.  Anne had been quick to volunteer her son to be Y/N’s tour guide at school, and despite not being enthusiastic about each other in the beginning, the two began to grow closer by the end of Y/N’s first week there.  Within a month, the two were inseparable, and that didn’t change as they entered their teen years, started secondary school, and Harry left London to become a member of the most famous boyband in the world.  Just typical teen things.

However, despite their distance, Y/N and Harry had remained as close as ever.  They constantly texted, called, and video chatted with each other, and Y/N even joined Harry on tour a few times (with permission from her mother).  Although both of them had been worried when Harry left, their worries and fears never came to fruition.  Just as they balanced each other in personality, they balanced each other in lifestyle—when Y/N needed a break from high school and university, Harry brought her to shows, award ceremonies, and parties, and when Harry felt like his fame was overwhelming, Y/N sent him reminders of home, hosted countless movie nights for him, and told him story after story of university life.

They were so perfectly matched that, when they were younger, many people—and tabloids—suspected that they were dating.  Even their mothers had asked them, on occasion, if one of them had any interest in the other.  However, their answers were always the same.  Y/N and Harry were best friends, and nothing more.  Sure, they were touchy, affectionate, called each other pet names, and had even kissed on a few occasions during truth or dare at parties, but none of it actually meant anything.  Y/N had watched Harry grow from a cute kid to an awkward teen to a self-assured man, and her feelings for him had never changed, and an attraction to him had never developed.

Until now.

Harry’s facing away from her, his towel in his hand as he dries his chest.  His entire body glistens with water from the shower.  Y/N can’t stop herself from letting her eyes canvas over every inch of his smooth arms, toned back, down lower to his—

Her breath catches in her throat.  Yeah. His ass is toned, too, she thinks to herself, and only has another moment to think that she shouldn’t be looking before Harry glances over his shoulder, alarmed by the small sound she had made.

“Y/N—” His eyes widen a bit, but he doesn’t make an effort to cover himself with his towel very quickly.

Her eyes automatically follow his movement for a moment before she realizes what she’s about to see. “Sorry!” Y/N turns around quickly, her face heated. “Sorry, I—the door was unlocked, I didn’t realize you were—”

“It’s fine.” Harry fixes his towel around his waist. “Don’t worry about—”

Y/N leaves the bathroom before he can finish his sentence, walking to her bedroom quickly and shutting the door tightly behind her.

Harry, it seems, is today’s reminder that she’s no longer a teenager, because his body is that of a man.

It’s not like you haven’t seen him shirtless before, she tells herself, walking to her dresser to pick out a change of clothes.  Y/N’s seen him half naked countless times.  The whole world has seen Harry half naked countless times.  But she’s never seen him like that.

When did Harry grow up? Somehow, between movie nights and pool parties and going away to school, Y/N had failed to notice that her childhood best friend is no longer a child.  Harry had grown into his features, developed muscles in his arms and chest, tattooed designs all over his skin, and had become an incredibly attractive adult without her noticing.

Y/N pulls her pajamas off quickly, stopping to glance at herself in her full length mirror.  She, like Harry, is also no longer a child. She had grown into her features like he had, had gotten a few tattoos, made her share of mistakes, and became an adult the same way he did.  Neither her nor Harry’s growth had happened overnight.

As she runs her hand between her chest, down her stomach, brushing her hip, Y/N can’t help but wonder: has Harry noticed that they’ve grown up?  Does he still look at her and see the shy little girl, the developing teenager, or does he look at her and see a grown woman?  Is she the only one who’s been late to the party?

Y/N feels a flutter in the pit of her stomach.  Is it possible that, at some point, Harry looked at her and had the same realization that she had a moment ago?  That not only had she grown into a woman, but that she had grown into an attractive woman?

The sound of the bathroom door opening distracts Y/N from her thoughts, and she hurries to finish getting dressed.  Her shirt, she finds when she pulls it on, smells a bit like Harry’s cologne, as she had set it on the side of the bed that he slept on the night before.  She likes it more than she should.

After she’s dressed, she debates just staying in her bedroom to avoid facing Harry again for a bit longer. However, she can hear him working her coffee maker in the kitchen, and knows she can’t hide in her bedroom like a child.  She isn’t a child.

Neither is he, she thinks to herself as she touches her bedroom doorknob. Which is the problem.

Still, Y/N shakes herself from her thoughts and walks out to her kitchen.

Harry, now dressed in wide leg jeans and a plain white t-shirt, is leaning against her kitchen counter, a cup of coffee in his hand.  His hair is still wet from his shower, but other than that, he looks normal. Completely normal.

And yet, Y/N can’t manage to meet his eyes.

“Good morning.” Harry’s voice is low, a bit of amusement in it as he notices her demeanor. “How did you sleep?”

“Fine.” Y/N hates how tight her voice is as she grabs a mug from the kitchen cabinet. “I slept fine. Did you?”

Harry nods, his eyes still tracing her every move as her own eyes avoid him. “I did.  Woke up a bit early, though.  Thought I’d shower before brunch.”

Right.  Brunch.  They’re having brunch that day with a few old friends, at a place just down the street from Y/N’s apartment, which is why Harry had stayed over the night before.  Y/N was going to have to act normal around their other friends, which means she can’t avoid looking at him for much longer.

“I’m sorry.” She says as she pours a cup of coffee. “I am, I—I should’ve knocked.  I forgot you slept over, and—”

“It’s fine, Y/N.  I should’ve locked the door.” Harry says easily, the corner of his lips tugging up. “It’s not a big deal.  Besides, it’s not like you haven’t seen me naked before.”

At that comment, Y/N pauses. “Except…I haven’t seen you naked before?”

Harry shakes his head adamantly. “No.  You have. There’s no way we’ve been friends for almost twenty years, and you haven’t.”

“Harry, believe me. I’ve seen you in a lot of weird positions over the years, but I’ve never seen you completely nude.” Y/N feels her regular ease with him begin to return, just a little bit. “I would remember that.”

“Would you?” Harry cocks an eyebrow, his coffee cup half raised to his lips.

The bit of ease that returned disappears immediately. “I—” Y/N’s cheeks heat up again. “Shut up, you know what I meant.”

Harry tries to hide his laugh behind his coffee, but fails. “I’m just teasing you, love.  It’s fine, promise.  I don’t mind that you saw.  I’m very comfortable in my body.”

Y/N rolls her eyes. “Too comfortable, I think.”

“Is there such a thing as being too comfortable in your body?” Harry asks in a teasing voice, crossing his arms.

“When your best friend walks in on you naked and you don’t bother to cover yourself?” Despite the blush on her cheeks, Y/N manages to laugh. “Yes.  There is.”

“I don’t know…” Harry finishes his coffee and sets the mug in the kitchen sink. “It sounds like there’s issues with your comfort, not mine.”

Before Y/N can form a reply, Harry shoots her a smirk and walks out of the kitchen.

For the rest of the day, Y/N does her best not to think about that morning’s awkward encounter. Brunch with her friends is normal, and she just lets herself enjoy having Harry home, and catching up with everyone.  The afternoon also passes in an unremarkable way, as does that night.  Over the next few days, however, things begin to change.

Within two weeks, the atmosphere of the country has shifted.  There’s a virus that’s highly contagious and can be fatal, Y/N’s work tells her to work from home, and soon the entire country is being told to stay home to avoid catching Coronavirus.

And then Harry texts her two days later, without any warning or leeway for her to disagree.

I’m on the last flight back to London.  Pack a bag and bring some groceries to my place, so we can isolate together.  You’ll go crazy alone in your flat.

Y/N tries to reply that it’s not necessary, but her message doesn’t go through.  Harry’s already on the plane.  So she does what he says, and packs a bag of clothes, her work bag, some alcohol, and her favourite snacks, and drives over to his house.

Letting herself in with her key, Y/N begins to bring the house back to life.  She lights Harry’s candles and orders some dinner, as well as groceries for the next couple weeks.  She makes sure she gets his favourite foods, and the weird snacks that only he likes.  She calls her mum to tell her she’ll be with Harry, and Anne, to tell her the same thing. And then she waits.

When Harry finally walks through the front door, he looks more like the tired seventeen year old on his first tour than the grown man she had seen a few weeks ago.  The bags under his eyes are evidence of his jetlag and stress, his jacket is rumpled from the plane, his hair just as messy, and he looks like he could collapse the second the door closes behind him.

“H.” Y/N walks towards him and gives him a tight hug.  One hand goes to his back and the other to his hair, playing with it as she always does. “Are you alright?”

“Long flight.” Harry mutters in reply, eyes closed as he holds her tight. “Everyone’s going insane in the States.  I’m lucky I got a flight back to London.”

“Why did you?” Y/N pulls back, brushing his messy hair from his eyes. “You could’ve stayed in LA.”

“Yeah, but…” Harry shrugs a bit. “I knew you’d be alone.  And I wanted to be with you.”

Y/N can’t help the soft smile that creeps onto her face. “C’mon.  I have dinner ready.”

Harry barely makes it through dinner with his eyes open, but still insists on watching a movie after. Y/N tries to tell him that he should just go to sleep, but he won’t hear it.

“We can watch it in my bed, like we used to when we were little.” Harry gives her his best puppy dog eyes. “Please?”

Y/N shoves his shoulder. “You’re twenty-six.  Stop pouting to get what you want.”

“I’ll stop pouting when it stops working.”

Y/N laughs in spite of herself. “Fine, but shower first.  You smell like a plane.”

Of course, as predicted, Harry starts to drift to sleep within the first half hour of the movie. He slips down in the bed more and more, until his head is in Y/N’s lap completely.  Out of habit, Y/N begins to play with his damp curls, running her fingers through them at a steady pace as she watches the movie.

Harry’s breathing begins to even out as she does, and Y/N begins to pay more attention to him than the TV.  When they spend the night with each other, Y/N always falls asleep first.  It’s rare she gets to see him completely relaxed.

As much as she loves his green eyes, his eyelashes may be a close second.  They’re so long and dark that they almost make Y/N jealous.  And his cheeks…she brings one hand up to gently touch them.  They’re stubbled from his long day of travel, but the skin underneath feels soft. Despite having lost his baby fat years ago, there’s still a layer of tenderness in his body.

Y/N is so distracted by him that she doesn’t realize that she’s stopped playing with his hair, not until Harry speaks up.

“Why’d you stop?” His voice is groggy with exhaustion, lower, with a thicker accent.  His words slur together as well

“Hm?” Y/N hums in her throat in response. “I thought you were asleep.”

“Not really.” Harry’s eyes stay closed as he shifts his position a bit. “Will you play with my hair a bit longer?  Feels nice.”

The movie credits roll in the background as Y/N does what he says.  Harry sighs contently, relaxing back into her again.

Y/N turns the TV off, so the only light in the room comes from the moon through the open curtains. It shines over half of Harry’s face, catching the ends of his eyelashes.  Somehow, the moonlight makes his cheeks and lips even more pink.  

“You’re really pretty, y’know that?” Y/N says it absentmindedly, her fingers still combing through Harry’s curls.

“Thanks.” He has just enough energy to mumble a response. “’M, not as pretty as you, though.”

Y/N’s stomach flutters when he says it, so quiet that she’s not even certain she heard him correctly. “Liar.”

“’S true.” Harry’s reply is even less audible than before. “So pretty.”

If Harry was awake and more present in the conversation, Y/N might tease him.  She might try to make him blush, or roll his eyes, or laugh. Maybe, just maybe, she’d even ask him to elaborate, just enough that she could figure out what the fluttering in her stomach means.

But Harry is hardly awake right now.  And it wouldn’t be fair.

“Go to sleep, H,” is all Y/N says, shifting to lay down a bit more without pausing the movement of her fingers.

…

It takes Harry a few days to readjust to London time.  While Y/N spends her weekdays working from the kitchen table, Harry naps and fiddles with his guitar and journal.  While she can tell he’s working on something, Y/N can also tell that he’s not making much process.

A week after coming back from LA, Harry half stomps into the kitchen during the afternoon, frustration clear on his face as he opens the fridge and grabs an apple.  He bites into it angrily and leans against the counter, the irritation still on his face.

Y/N glances at him from behind her laptop. “Everything alright?”

Harry gives half a shrug. “Trying to write.”

“And how’s that going?”

“Fucking sucks.” Harry takes another bite of the apple. “I thought I’d feel more inspired, being at home and not having deadlines, but I can’t get anything out.  Not anything good, anyways.”

“I know the feeling.” Y/N sighs as she closes her laptop. “There’s been a huge surge in online orders, and my boss wants me to create more promo material, but it’s hard to focus on anything right now.”

Harry nods and glances out the window. “Doesn’t help that it’s a beautiful day, but we can’t go out.”

“We can go out.  We just can’t leave the property.” Y/N replies. “You have a giant backyard.  Why don’t you use it?”

“Yeah.  Maybe I’ll go for a swim.” Harry takes another bite of his apple. “You want to come?”

Y/N laughs a bit. “Unlike you, H, I have a real nine to five job.  I’m on the clock for another two hours.”

“After, then.” Harry tosses his apple core in the compost and gives her a grin. “I hope you packed that yellow bikini.”

Y/N crumples a piece of scrap paper in her hand and throws it at him. “Piss off.”

Y/N did, in fact, pack her yellow bikini.  However, when she’s changing from her clothes into a swimsuit, she chooses her blue bikini instead, just to have a bit of agency.  Every instinct in her is telling her to wear what Harry said to, and it’s a little concerning.  She’s never cared about dressing for him before, and she isn’t prepared to start.

Despite the different colour, Harry still grins from the edge of the pool when he sees her walk out. “Look at you.  Should’ve put you in the Watermelon Sugar music video.”

“Shut up.” Y/N sits on the edge of the pool, dangling her lets in the water.  Harry rests his head on his arms, his cheeky grin still on his face as he looks up at her.

“I’m serious.” He says innocently. “It was a fun day.  You really would’ve liked it.”

“Of course you thought it was fun; you had a bunch of beautiful girls fawning over you and feeding you fruit.” Y/N rolls her eyes from behind her sunglasses. “You’re such a narcissist.”

“All musicians are narcissists, love.  At least, the best ones are.” Harry’s grin grows as he pushes away from the ledge. “Are you going to just sit there and look pretty, or are you actually going to swim?”

“I’m going to tan.” Y/N leans her head back, enjoying the feeling of the warm sun.

Harry shakes his head. “No, sorry.  The pool is for swimming only.”

“Says who?”

“Says me.”

In hindsight, Y/N should’ve known what Harry was about to do.  She’s been friends with him long enough that she knows how his brain works. However, Y/N is enjoying the sun so much that she lets her guard down for one moment, and that one moment is all Harry needs.

She feels his hands grip her legs, and before she can stop him, he pulls her into the pool.  Her entire body submerges, and when she finally rises, gasping for air, the only thing she can hear is Harry’s snickering.

“You’re such an ass!” Y/N hits his shoulder hard, not caring about leaving a mark on him. “That’s not funny!”

“The pool is for swimming only.  I told you.” Harry can’t stop laughing long enough to make it through his sentence clearly. “Them’s the rules.”

“Them’s the rules.” Y/N repeats in a mocking voice, hitting him one more time. “You’re the worst.”

“Maybe, but you’re stuck with me.” Harry runs a hand through his wet hair. “At least until quarantine is done.”

“I should’ve stayed alone in my apartment.” Y/N mutters, tossing her wet sunglasses on the pool ledge. “Would’ve been so much more peaceful.”

“And boring.” Harry points out. “And you wouldn’t get to take relaxing swims like this!”

“Right.  Relaxing.” Y/N splashes him playfully. “Jerk.”

Harry just grins at you.

…

“Want one?”

Y/N glances at Harry as he packs loose marijuana into a wrapper, concentration clear on his face as he rolls it.

“You learn how to roll those in LA?” Y/N asks, taking a sip of her wine.

Harry chuckles lightly, his skin illuminated by the fire burning in front of them and the moon above them. “Yeah.  I’m not very good, though.  Usually I have somebody else to roll them for me.”

“So high maintenance.”

Another low laugh rolls out of Harry’s mouth. “Ha.  High maintenance.”

Y/N rolls her eyes, but an endearing smile is on her face. “It’s still illegal in the U.K., you know.”

“I doubt the police are going to break social distancing rules to arrest me for it.” Harry’s tongue pokes out of his mouth as he tries his best to roll the joint tightly.

Y/N watches as Harry brings the wrapper to his mouth, licking it lightly.  To her dismay, her attraction to Harry had yet to fade, and spending every moment of the day together wasn’t helping.

“I’m not an eighteen year old girl on your tour bus anymore, Harry.” Y/N raises her wine glass. “I drink red wine now.  I’m sophisticated.”

Harry snorts, his eyes flickering to her before looking back down at the joint. “Sophisticated, right. Like you didn’t do body shots off the bartender at your birthday party this year.”

Y/N’s cheeks burn. “Birthdays don’t count.”

“Neither did tour buses, and neither does my backyard in the middle of a pandemic.” Harry seals the joint as best he can. “You may have a fancy job now, but you’re still my Y/N.”

His Y/N.  That phrase ignites the now familiar flutter in her stomach and, over the last few days, her core.  Something about Harry identifying her as his drives Y/N insane, even if it’s nothing new.

“And what exactly does your Y/N do?” She manages to say after a moment.

“She doesn’t take shit from anyone.  She gets drunk fast and high faster.  She’s always down for a laugh.  And, although she won’t admit it, she has a tendency to make bad decisions that she tries to suppress, but can’t always manage to do so.” Harry sparks his lighter and sticks the joint between his lips, lighting it and puffing it quickly.

“Then you should know that your Y/N can’t have a joint of her own.” Y/N steals the joint from Harry’s lips, taking a few puffs of her own from it before handing it back.

The smoke curls in her lungs, forcing a few coughs from her.

“Alright?” Harry asks, concern in his eyes.

Y/N nods, her hand pressed to her chest like she can stop the burn. “Yeah.  Just haven’t done that in a while.”

“You always cough so much. It would be cute if it wasn’t so bloody concerning.” Harry says casually, lifting the joint to his lips and inhaling.

Y/N watches as he exhales smoke slowly.  She wonders if she looks as attractive as he does when she blows out smoke.

Harry grins at her with just the corner of his mouth, like there’s a secret tugging at the edge of his lips.

Y/N really doubts it.

“Here.” Harry places the joint between her lips. “Inhale slowly.”

Y/N does as he says, doing her best to keep from coughing until the joint and his hand is away from her face.  Her eyes burn a bit, both from the smoke and the oncoming high that’s starting to twist through her body.

“That’s a good girl.” Harry praises her before leaning back, placing the joint back between his own lips. “You’ve gotten better at that.  Thought you were going to pass out the first time we smoked, remember?”

“I remember I almost did.” Y/N giggles to herself as she settles down into the couch more. “I coughed so much that I thought I was going to die on that tour bus.”

“Niall was certain you had.” Harry laughs too, and Y/N known they’re both playing back the same memory. “Wasn’t quite sure how we were going to explain that one to Paul.  Neither was I, honestly.”

“You don’t give me enough credit.” Despite the feeling coming over her, YN still takes another sip of her wine. “I was fine.”

Harry nods as he finishes the joint, setting the butt down into his ash tray. “Still…we had some fun nights on the bus when you were there.”

“That was a fun summer.” Y/N agrees, her eyes fixed on the fire before them. “Lots of good memories.”

As Y/N watches the fire, Harry watches her.  He lets another moment or two pass before speaking again.

“When you were on tour with us that summer…” He rubs his lips absentmindedly. “You and Niall.  Did you two ever…?”

“What?  Fuck?” The weed and the alcohol take away the careful tone of Y/N’s regular speech, leaving honesty and bluntness behind.

Harry laughs once. “I was going to say date, but yeah.  I guess so.”

“We didn’t date. We fooled around a few times.” Y/N shrugs, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “He was fun.  But we both knew it wasn’t anything serious, just something to do while I was on tour with you.”

Harry nods a bit, reaching for his own drink and taking a sip.  Y/N watches the movement with heavy lidded eyes.  His arm muscles flex underneath his tattooed skin when he moves, and the way his fingers wrap around his glass is fascinating to her.

“I figured he would have told you.” Y/N pulls her sweater around her tighter.  Now that the sun has set completely, a chill has appeared. “You guys always talked about girls together.”

“No, he didn’t tell me. And I didn’t ask.” Harry keeps his glass in his hand, looking down at it with an unreadable expression. “I thought you might tell me, but you didn’t, either.”

The substances in Y/N’s system are clouding her mind, but she does her best to focus on Harry’s words. As a way to ground herself, she pulls her sweater away from her body, hoping that the cold air will help.

“I’m sorry.” She says slowly, like it takes all her effort to get the words out. “I didn’t mean to…hurt your feelings.”

“You didn’t.”

“Oh.” Confusion fogs Y/N’s mind. “Then…why is it bothering you?”

“It’s not bothering me.” Harry denies, finishing off his drink. “I was just wondering why.  You usually tell me everything.  You always have.”

Y/N bites her lip. “I don’t tell you about every person I sleep with.”

Harry hums low in the back of his throat, but offers no other response.

After a few minutes, Y/N stands up. “I think I’m going to head to bed.”

Twisting his empty glass around in his hands, Harry nods. “Alright.  I’ll be up in a little bit.”

“You know, you have a guest room.” Y/N pauses, fiddling with the bottom of her sweater.  Her skin feels unsettled, and the fabric against it isn’t helping. “I should probably start using it.  Social distancing, and all that.”

Harry looks up at her, a stubborn look reflecting in his eyes. “No.  I sleep better with you beside me.”

When Harry finally comes up to bed an hour later, Y/N is still awake, eyes closed, with her back away from the door and head toward the wall.  She doesn’t turn over when she hears the door creak open, and instead just listens to the rustling sounds of Harry changing, going to the bathroom, washing his hands, and returning to the bedroom.

Y/N feels his weight on the bed, but doesn’t hear him slide in next to her.  Instead, she does her best to stay completely relaxed when she feels his fingers brush against her hairline, pushing back a few loose strands.

Staying completely relaxed, it turns out, is easier thought than done.  The moment Harry touches her, Y/N feels the nerves in her face burst to life. It’s like electricity, like nothing she’s ever felt before from any previous touches from Harry.  Behind her closed eyes, Y/N feels her head spinning, but she’s certain it must be the weed and the alcohol in her system.

Finally, the sheets are pulled back, and Harry gets under the covers.  He pulls Y/N back against him, and Y/N can feel the hot skin of his chest pressed against her shoulders.  Harry takes a moment to adjust before sighing, almost in content, and then he presses a gentle kiss to the back of her shoulder.

The tender action leaves Y/N speechless.  The action itself isn’t new; they had always been very physically affectionate with each other.  But there’s something about the moment that Y/N can’t quite place a finger on. Perhaps she would be able to if she was sober, or less tired, but with her brain in its current state, the words she needs are lost, and she’s certain she won’t remember the feeling in the morning.

Harry inhales deeply, his nose buried in her hair, and sighs again.  Y/N can feel him relaxing back against her, but his arms stay wrapped around her tightly.  It’s a comforting embrace, and makes it easy for Y/N’s mind to finally quiet and drift off.

…

“You’re still working?”

Y/N looks up from her laptop to see Harry standing above her, sweaty from his workout.  His hair is tied up in a little ponytail on top of his head, and he has a towel wrapped around his shoulders that he uses to wipe sweat from his face.  His body is literally glistening in the sunlight, and Y/N suddenly finds it very hard to focus on her work.

“I am.” She says finally, closing the lid of her laptop and stretching out on the beach chair. “Or I was. I’m done for today.”

“Good.” Harry sits down on the chair next to her. “I’m going to have a shower, but I was thinking we should try baking something later.”

Y/N raises an eyebrow. “Why?”

“Because I want cupcakes, and homemade are way better than store bought.” Harry says easily, stealing Y/N’s water and taking a gulp from it.

Y/N watches his throat move as he swallows the water, how his Adam’s apple bobs, how he licks his lips when he finally pulls the glass away from his mouth.

Y/N’s own mouth suddenly feels very dry.

“Alright, yeah.” Y/N nods weakly. “We can bake something later.  It’ll be fun.”

…

“It’ll be fun.” Y/N shakes her head in disbelief. “God, I can’t believe I said that.”

“It was fun!” Harry argues, holding up a red velvet cupcake. “And we did it!”

“And we made a mess.” Y/N gestures to the kitchen around them, which looks like a warzone.  Flour, powdered sugar, and cocoa powder cover every counter surface.  There are broken eggshells on the counter, splatters of batter everywhere, and both Y/N and Harry have dyed red hands from food colouring.

“It could be worse.” Harry shrugs, clearly untroubled. “C’mon.  Try a cupcake.”

Y/N reaches for one, but Harry simply lifts the one in his hand to her mouth.  She locks eyes with him as she takes a bite, the icing smearing across her top lip.

Y/N chews slowly and swallows hard. “Yeah.  They’re good.”

Harry extends a hand, and his finger runs along her lip, collecting the icing.  He pops it into his mouth, sucking for a moment before humming in agreement. “Yeah.  Sweet.”

The cupcakes, it turns out, pair well with watermelon cocktails, and soon Y/N and Harry are sitting on the couch, takeout and cupcakes in front of them and drinks in their hands as they giggle and talk.  They’re intoxicated, but not just from the alcohol in the strong drinks that Harry makes.

“Honestly, working from home isn’t ideal, but it’s not that bad.” Y/N pops a bite of food into her mouth, chewing thoughtfully. “Definitely not the worst part of quarantine.”

“Yeah?” Harry leans back on the couch. “What’s the worst part?”

Y/N shrugs. “It sucks being away from people, cooped up inside.”

Harry nods, but his face looks wistful. “I miss sex.”

Y/N laughs, but she nods in agreement as well. “Fuck, I know.  I miss sex so much.”

“It’s nice, you know? A good way to burn some energy…always sleep so well after…” Harry sighs, taking a sip of his drink between his phrases. “I feel like I’m back on a tour bus again, with no one around but my hand.”

A giggle escapes Y/N’s mouth. “How tragic.” She also takes a sip of her drink, and tries to stop herself from making a face.  Harry really does make them strong. “I just miss touching.  I haven’t been this touch starved since I was seventeen.”

Harry makes a scoffing noise in the back of his throat. “We touch.”

“That’s different.” Y/N finishes her drink. “That’s friendly touching.  It’s not what I meant.”

“What did you mean, then?” Harry challenges her, a glint in his eyes that Y/N’s come to recognize as a sign of trouble.

She refuses to take the bait. “You know what I meant.”

“I don’t.” Harry says it innocently, and he reaches forward to take her glass from her. “How about I get us some refills while you think of how to say it?”

Y/N lets him take the glass (she loves his drinks, despite how strong they are), but shakes her head. “Stop being an ass.  You know exactly what I meant.”

A low laugh rolls out of Harry as he walks to the built-in bar he has in the lounge.  He begins to recreate the drinks, muddling this, adding a splash of that.  If Harry wasn’t already a rock star, she’d suggest he become a mixologist.

“Maybe I do know what you meant.” Harry shakes the cocktail shaker with ease before straining the liquid out over their glasses, which he’s filled with fresh ice. “But I want to hear you say it.”

Y/N runs a hand through her hair.  She feels warm from the alcohol, and the lit candles around them aren’t helping.  The food and cupcakes sit on the table, all but forgotten in their new conversation. “Say what?”

Harry’s lips pull up in a smirk, but his eyes show something else.  He walks back over and hands her the drink before taking a seat next to her again. “The kind of touching you miss.”

Their fingers touch as Y/N takes the glass from him, and suddenly the warmth of the room feels ten times hotter. “You want me to say it?”

Harry lifts his glass to his lips, but keeps his eyes on her. “I do.”

“I…” Y/N takes a sip of the drink (which is stronger than the one before) and then presses the cold glass to her cheek. “I miss touching.  Intimate touching.  And…being touched intimately.”  

Harry inhales deeply, stretching out his shoulders before responding. “Yeah.  I miss that too.  Holding hands, touching someone’s stomach, chest, legs…having them play with my hair…”

“I play with your hair.” Y/N says defensively, a crease appearing between her eyebrows.

Harry laughs once. “Right, but like you said…that’s different.”

Y/N clears her throat. “Right.”

Harry takes a long sip from his drink. “’S still nice, though.” Harry adds after a moment, licking his lips. “I love when you play with my hair.  You know that.”

Nodding softly, Y/N begins to trail a finger over the rim of her glass.  Whenever she begins to get tipsy, she begins to fidget more, and feel freer in her actions.  And when Y/N glances back at Harry, she can tell he recognizes the sign as well.

“What about you?” He asks, bringing her back from her thoughts. “What do you miss having people do?”

Y/N drinks again, pulling her knees to her chest as she leans against the couch’s armrest. “I miss…having my hair played with, too.  That’s always nice.  I miss having my fingers played with…neck kisses…I like when people, like, rub my arms or thighs, just absentmindedly…” She leans her head against her arm. “Your turn.”

“My turn?” Harry rubs his nose lightly, and Y/N can tell he’s feeling the alcohol, too. “What’s my turn?”

“Tell me what else you like.” Y/N smiles softly, a small laugh just barely bubbling out from her. “We’ve never actually talked about it, H.  Isn’t that strange?”

Harry turns to face her more, pausing to think for a moment. “I suppose we’ve never been specific before, yeah.” He taps his thumb against his H ring. “I like being in control, usually. Telling them what to do, where to touch me…” His eyes get a faraway look in them. “But sometimes it’s nice to give up control.  Have someone else…”

“Decide.” Y/N finishes his sentence for him when he trails off. “Yeah.  I’m more like that, I think.  I usually let someone else decide.  But I like the in-between, too.  Like…both exploring each other.”

“What do you mean?” Harry cocks his head to the side curiously.

Y/N shrugs loosely, her finger still tracing her glass. “’S hard to explain.”

Harry’s voice is low when he replies, almost like he’s somewhere else. “Try.”

“Well…” Y/N takes a drink before setting her glass down. “It’s like…do you remember your first time?”

Harry blinks, surprised at the question, but nods. “Yeah.  I do.”

“And remember how nervous you were?”

“Yeah.”

“And like…” Y/N plays with her fingers as she ponders her next words. “You were nervous, yeah, but there was also this excitement in you.  Kind of like…a breathlessness.  And you looked at the other person and knew they…”

Harry closes his eyes for a moment. “Felt the same.”

“Yeah.” Y/N tucks her hair behind her ears. “And just, like, being comfortable with them, and knowing you could both explore, and ask questions, and you were both together…” Y/N feels heat rise to her cheeks as she trails off. “I don’t know.  I feel like that’s rare, but I—it’s nice.  I like it.”

“Yeah.” Harry rubs his thumb over his lip as he shifts his position on the couch. “It’s nice, yeah. Rare, usually.  But nice.”

“I think it’s rare, because, like—” The alcohol makes it harder for Y/N to gather her thoughts, but also harder to sensor them. “I don’t know, I feel like when I was younger, and hadn’t had sex yet, I took more time with, like, finding the right person? Like I wanted it to be with someone who loved me for the first time, and someone I was comfortable with, and it was. And then after, the love part didn’t matter so much for me.” Y/N glances at Harry, who seems to be hanging on her every word. “Which, like, was fine.  What mattered to me the most was that whoever I had sex with respected me. And they did, so that was…good. But it’s different.” Y/N rubs her arms. “I don’t know if that makes sense…”

“It does.” Harry assures her, placing a light hand on her knee.  He begins to rub small circles. “Keep going.”

“I just think that, like, that in-between, breathless, exploring each other kind of thing…the comfort…that’s rare because it only really happens with someone you love.” Y/N murmurs. “At least, that’s how it is for me.  And I haven’t really been in love much in my life.”

“I’ve been in love probably too much.” Harry admits, his hand still on Y/N’s knee. “Too much to be good for me.”

Y/N shakes her head adamantly. “No, H.  That’s good. That’s…brave.  You’re not afraid of how you feel.  Most people are.”

“Maybe.” Harry finishes his drink again with one long gulp.  

Y/N watches as he does, seeing a little drip of liquid slip from the corner of his mouth.  She can’t stop herself from leaning forward and wiping it away with her thumb, feeling the stubble of Harry’s chin scratch against her.

Harry watches her with hooded eyes as she leans back to her previous position.  His hand slips a bit higher, from her knee to her lower thigh, but she doesn’t say anything.

“Who have you been in love with?” He asks.  His words are slurred a bit, and his accent seems thicker.

“My first boyfriend, Parker. You remember him.” Y/N sighs, closing her eyes as she herself remembers. “And…Christian, from university.  We were together for two years.  That’s it, I think.”

Despite the alcohol, Harry’s face still shows some surprise. “Really?  No one else?  No one since Christian?”

Y/N shrugs. “I’ve dated, yeah, and had relationships, but…I don’t know.  I didn’t love any of them.  I was…infatuated.  But I never…it was intense, but like—intense like a spark.  Nothing prolonged.”

Harry hums in response. “Thought you were going to say Niall for a moment.  He was pretty torn up when you went back to school after that summer.”

Y/N’s face mimics Harry’s surprise from a moment ago. “Was he?”

“Yeah.  Moped around a bit, spent time by himself, on his phone every two minutes…” Harry’s expression shows the difficulty it’s taking him to think back eight years while drunk. “I knew it was because you left.  Thought you two had an…agreement, or something.”

“An agreement?” A giggle escapes Y/N. “This isn’t a Jane Austen book, Harry.  We didn’t have an agreement.” Once she gets her laughter out, she sighs. “He was that upset?”

“Yeah.” Harry scratches the back of his neck. “So I thought…he must be in love with you.  And you were…”

“No, I wasn’t.” Y/N says softly. “He was so upset that you thought he was in love with me?”

“Yeah.”

Y/N bites her lip. “Was he more upset than you?”

Harry takes a moment to reply, looking at her with a serious expression.  His lips are so red, and his eyes are so green, and both of them are so drunk that neither of them can sense the meaning behind what they’re saying.

“No.” Harry finally responds. “He wasn’t.”

…

“Good morning.”

“Shhh.” Y/N covers her eyes with her arm. “Don’t yell in my ear.”

“I whispered.” Harry counters, but his voice is a bit quieter this time. “Do you have a headache?”

“I didn’t know something flavoured with watermelon could make me feel so shitty.” Y/N groans a bit, shifting on the bed without opening her eyes. “What did you do to me?”

When Harry laughs, it’s not audible, but Y/N can feel it through his chest pressed against her side.

“How are you completely fine right now?” She asks, rubbing her eyes.

“I’m used to it.  I’ve always been way better with hangovers than you.” Harry presses a small kiss to her shoulder before getting up. “How does breakfast in bed sound?”

“Normally amazing, but I can’t eat right now.” Y/N mutters. “How about coffee in bed?”

“Sure.” Harry smiles a bit. “You look cute like this.”

“Shut up.”

Harry returns ten minutes later with a tray of coffee, toast, and eggs, of which he manages to coax Y/N to take a few bites.  She doesn’t really want it, but she knows it’s easier to do as he says instead of arguing.

“How about we have a movie day today?” Harry suggests after breakfast. “In bed, since it seems like you won’t be moving anytime soon.”

“And who’s fault is that?” Y/N glares at him from the top of her coffee cup.

Harry raises his hands in defense. “Hey, I didn’t make you drink.  You chose to.”

“I know, but it’s easier to blame you.”

Harry rolls his eyes. “Is that why you’ve been doing it for twenty years?”

“Exactly.”

Harry carefully lifts the empty tray to the ground before holding up the remote. “You can pick the movies.”

Y/N bites her lip. “If we watch Titanic, will you make fun of me when I cry?”

“Of course not.  I’ll even cry with you out of solidarity.”

“Alright.” Y/N settles back into the blankets. “Put it on, then.”

It’s easy for them to be like this, Y/N thinks, as Harry pulls her into his arms when the movie starts. It’s always been so natural for them to be physical and affectionate with each other.  They’ve never acted any other way.

Except this doesn’t feel like any other way.

Yes, Y/N has watched countless movies while cuddling in bed with Harry.  But has he ever whispered in her ear like that before?  Has he ever rubbed her sides so carefully before? Has he ever let his lips rest on the bare skin of her shoulder, almost at the base of her neck?

Y/N can’t recall. However, she’s certain that if he had, it hasn’t felt so electric.

“Look at them.  Look at how Jack watches her.” Harry murmurs his words directly in Y/N’s ear as they watch Jack draw Rose.  Y/N can feel his lips brushing against her, and the heat of his breath and tone of his voice makes her shiver.

“She’s very pretty.” Y/N nods, shifting in Harry’s arms.  She likes how warm he feels.

“I suppose, but that’s not what I meant.” Harry traces shapes on her arm. “I meant look at how he looks at her.  Do you think they have the kind of love you talked about last night?”

Y/N glances over her shoulder at him, surprised he remembers their conversation. “I think so.  Do you?”

“Yeah.” Harry says in a low voice.  He says no more, so Y/N turns back to face the television.

They continue to watch in silence, gripping each other a bit tighter as the Titanic begins to sink. As they watch a mother reading to her two young children in bed, Y/N begins to lose her composure, like always. Tears well in her eyes, and she lets out a quiet hitched breath, a single sniffle.

“It’s alright, love.” Harry’s hands move to her stomach, holding her tighter to comfort her. “Don’t cry.”

Y/N can hear the tears in his voice, just as they’re in her own. “Can’t help it.  This part and the band and the old couple in bed—they always get me.”

“I know.” Harry rubs his thumb along your side.

Y/N reaches behind her without turning around, threading her fingers through Harry’s messy curls.  She plays with them absentmindedly as she watches, and tries to ignore how right it feels to be close to him like this.  She wonders if he notices it, too.

Harry presses a chaste kiss to her shoulder.

…

The day they hit the one month mark of quarantine, Harry sits across from Y/N at breakfast with a determined look on his face.

“I have a proposition for you.”

Y/N glances up at him, her attention barely shifting from her book. “A proposition?”

“Yeah.”

“What kind of proposition?” Y/N tilts her head to the side.  What she first thought was just determination on Harry’s face, she realizes, is actually determination and mischief, and she knows it won’t end well.

“I haven’t had a tattoo in a while.” Harry steals a strawberry from Y/N’s plate. “And I have a machine here, so I was thinking you could give me one.”

Y/N stares at Harry incredulously as he pops the strawberry in his mouth. “Are you out of your mind?”

“Probably.”

“I’m a terrible artist, Harry.  You know that.” Y/N shakes her head. “And even if I wasn’t, I have no idea how to tattoo someone!”

“You can watch a YouTube tutorial, or read a WikiHow.” Harry sighs loudly. “I’m so bored in isolation!”

“What do you even want tattooed?” Y/N eyes the intricate tattoos on his arms suspiciously. “I doubt I could do something like your ship.”

“Something simple.” He shrugs. “Probably lettering.”

“Probably?” Y/N says suspiciously.

“That’s why I want you to do it.  I want it in your handwriting.”

Harry’s tone is easy, but it makes her breathing shallow.

“You do?”

“Yeah.  I was thinking of something to remind me of this time, because of how weird it is.”

Despite her increased heartbeat, Y/N laughs. “What, do you want me to tattoo COVID-19 on you?”

“No.  Be a little more creative than that.” Harry scoffs.

“Why do I have to be creative?”

“Because I want you to decide what I get.”

Y/N’s eyes widen. “You’re not serious.”

“I am!  Why is that so hard to believe?” Harry asks. “I trust you. And you’re good with words.”

“No.  Absolutely not.”

…

“Make sure my drink has two shots in it.” Y/N calls to Harry as she looks over the tattoo supplies on the living room table.

Harry laughs. “I’m not sure I want my tattoo artist to be drunk.”

“The only way I’ll even be your tattoo artist is if I’m drunk.” She counters. “I still think this is an awful idea.”

Harry hands Y/N a tall glass with a light pink liquid in it. “Drink this, and you’ll change your mind.”

Y/N takes the glass and takes a large gulp, not focusing on the taste of the mixers, but the liquid courage behind them.

Harry grins, lifting his own glass. “Cheers.”

“Shut up and sit down.” Y/N mutters.  She ties her hair back before grabbing the disinfectant wipes. “Where do you want this?”

“My upper inner arm. I already shaved it for you.” Harry smirks as he points to the area, which is easily exposed in his loose tank top.

“And you’re sure I can write it with pen?” Y/N asks nervously as she disinfects the area.

“Mhmm.” Harry leans back comfortably in his chair. “What did you decide on?”

“It’s a secret.” Y/N uncaps the pen, getting closer to him.

“So I can’t know until after it’s on me permanently?”

“Is that a problem?” Y/N asks innocently. “I thought you trusted me?”

Harry chuckles. “I did say that, didn’t I?”

“Also that I’m good with words.” Y/N makes sure Harry’s head is turned away before she carefully writes the phrase she chose.  Then she snaps on gloves and starts the machine like she watched in videos early that day.

“You’re fine, love.” Harry assures her, seeing the nervous look on her face. “It’s a small tattoo. It’ll only take a few minutes.”

“Quiet.” Y/N mutters. “I need to focus.”

True to Harry’s word, the small tattoo only takes a few minutes to finish.  When it’s done, Y/N gives it one final wipe before setting the machine down and taking off her gloves.

“Alright.” She picks up her glass and drains it completely. “You can look.”

Harry peers at his arm, curiosity clear on his face.  There, in Y/N’s loopy handwriting is the phrase “touch me.”

“It looks so fucking good, Y/N.” Harry grins at her. “You did amazing!”

“I didn’t fuck it up?” She asks, chewing on her lip anxiously. “Is it alright?”

“You did a lovely job.” Harry smiles. “Wrap it for me?”

Y/N does as he asks, carefully wrapping the fresh tattoo in plastic wrap and taping it to his arm. “I think I’ll accept my tip in the form of another drink.”

Harry snickers. “Coming right up.”

Two drinks later, they’re both back in the honest and loose headspace that they’ve grown familiar with. It’s not enough that they’re unaware of their actions, but both Y/N and Harry know that their lips are looser because of the liquor in their systems.

They’ve migrated to the bedroom to get comfier, but took a few items from the bar with them.  It’s with these items that Harry tops up Y/N’s glass again as he speaks.

“So tell me…” He sets the cocktail shaker on his bedside table. “Why ‘touch me’?”

“You said you wanted something to remind you of isolation.” Y/N takes a long sip of her drink. “And that’s what we both miss the most, right?  Being touched?”

Harry nods slowly, his rings clinking against his glass. “Yeah.  I’m probably going to go straight to the bars after this is all done.  Find someone there.”

He laughs lightly, showing that what he says it half a joke, but Y/N sighs wistfully and shakes her head in disagreement. “I won’t.”

“You won’t?” Harry is surprised, his laughter fading. “Why not?”

Her shrug almost causes her to spill her drink on the bed. “I don’t know.” Y/N sighs again. “I don’t really—I’m not a hookup fan.  Not right now, at least.  It’s not what I…want.”

“What do you want, then?” Harry finishes his drink, but sets the glass down instead of refilling it. “If not sex?”

“I want sex.” Y/N says defensively. “But I want—I don’t want it to be someone random.  I want sex, but I want to be…intimate.  Like, I want to know that person cares about me, and I care about them.”

Harry licks the last of his drink from his lips. “Like that breathless feeling?”

“No.  It would be nice, but no.  That takes time.��� Y/N brushes her hair behind her ear. “Just…someone who cares.  I don’t want a quick fuck, I just—”

“You want to be touched. Intimately touched.” Harry takes the empty glass from Y/N’s hand and sets it down on the table next to the bed.

Y/N nods gently, her limbs feeling loose. “Yeah.  Intimately touched.”

“You know, I could…” Harry trails off, pursing his lips. “We could…do that.”

The alcohol makes Y/N slow to recognize the meaning of his words. “What?”

“I’ve noticed you…the way you look at me, it’s…different than it was.” Harry says carefully, his eyes gauging her reaction. “For the last few weeks.  And I—I know that I’m…attracted to you, too.”

“We…” Y/N struggles to think of what to say as she finally registers what’s happening. “We’re friends.”

“I know, but that doesn’t mean I can’t see you as attractive.” Harry looks down at his hands. “Don’t you…?  I mean…”

“I—yeah.  I think you’re—” Y/N laughs a bit nervously. “You’re attractive, H, you know that.  We’ve just never…discussed it.”

“I’m not saying we have to fuck, or—we don’t have to do anything.” Harry straightens his shoulders and looks you in the eye. “Just—when we touch, it’s mild.  If you want to be touched intimately, we could…”

“Like, a hand job?” Y/N says slowly, her words blunt with confusion.

Harry goes a bit red, but he shakes his head quickly. “No, Christ, that’s not what I meant, I—just—can I show you?”

“Um,” Y/N swallows hard. “Sure.”

“Okay.” Harry nods slightly, taking carefully measured breaths. “If this feels weird, or anything seems wrong, just tell me to stop, alright?”

Y/N replies faintly. “Alright.”

Nodding again, Harry moves closer on the bed, sitting on his knees so he can get closer to Y/N, who sits cross-legged.  His hands rest lightly on her bare thighs, and his rings are a cool contrast to his warm skin.

Harry begins to rub his hands up and down her thighs slowly.  His movements are measured, and he watches Y/N’s reaction carefully for a sign of her disliking his actions.  However, what he finds is a nervous but interested girl staring back at him.

“Like this.  Like, what you like.” Harry says lowly.  His hands move more to her inner thighs, but they don’t creep higher. “And…”

“And…?” Y/N asks, her heart rate increasing even more.

Harry moves one hand to the hem of Y/N’s tank top, pushing it up a bit so his hand can rest on her waist. He rubs over her warm skin, marvelling in how smooth and soft it is to his touch.  His fingers graze the lace of her bra, but he goes no higher.

“How—how’s that?” Harry asks quietly.

“It’s, um, it’s good.” Y/N replies as she struggles to keep her voice normal. “Yeah.  Good.  But, um, can you…” Harry’s movements pause at her words, and Y/N feels her cheeks get even warmer. “Maybe touch my, uh, my neck.  If you’d like.”

Harry nods, and the hand on her thigh moves to her neck.  He traces his fingers across her shoulder and over her collarbone, delighting in feeling the curves of her body.  Y/N’s breath hitches when his fingers travel up her neck, and Harry swears he can feel her pulse increase under his fingers.

Y/N’s not sure if it’s the fact that she’s touch starved from self isolating that makes Harry’s touches feel so good, or if it’s the fact that it’s Harry touching her, but she doesn’t dwell on it.  Instead, she closes her eyes and tilts her head back, allowing him better access.

She feels Harry’s breath before she feels his lips, but she’s still surprised when she feels him begin to sponge light kisses across her neck.

“H…”

“Is this alright?” He asks the question right below her ear, and yet she can barely hear him because he’s so quiet.

“Yes.” Y/N breathes. “Yeah.”

“Good.” Harry returns to pressing light kisses to her skin, his hands still rubbing over her sides and hips.

For the first time since seeing Harry naked in her bathroom, Y/N can’t deny or explain away her attraction to him.  She can’t convince herself that she doesn’t want him to touch her, because she does, and she can’t tell herself that she doesn’t need him, because she does. Every fibre of her being is telling her that she needs Harry, and she needs him now.  Her heart is pounding, her skin is on fire, and her core feels like she’d going to explode if he doesn’t do something.  And yet, Y/N can’t tell him to touch her more.  She’s frozen, mind blank, and she can only register what Harry is doing at the moment as what she wants.

Harry continues to kiss her neck, never lingering too long in one spot, never sucking too hard. Every kiss is gentle and chaste, except the few rare ones that include the tip of his tongue running over her skin.

After what feels like an eternity, Harry pulls away from her neck, face flushed.  Despite his hands still on her body, Y/N makes an involuntary sound in the back of her throat.

“Is that better?” He asks lowly, rubbing his thumb against your hip.

“I—kind of.” Y/N says softly.  If anything, she thinks, it’s worse.  She needs to satisfy the burn inside her, but she doesn’t know how.

“Good.” Harry replies, but he doesn’t take his hands off her.

Y/N’s own hands have been sitting at her sides as his moved over her body, but she raises one now, as hesitant as Harry was.  She extends it towards his arm, but pauses with her fingers right over his skin.

“Is it okay if I…?”

The corner of Harry’s lips lifts up, just barely. “Yeah, love.  Go ahead.”

Harry’s skin is warm beneath her touch.  Y/N traces the outline of his mermaid tattoo carefully before moving onto others.  She loves how his arm curves under her touch, how he stays still and lets her explore.  She appreciates it, thinking that if Harry made any sudden movements, she’d force herself to pull away.

Soon, her fingers move from tracing his tattoos to tracing the lines of his muscles.  She moves down his forearm to his hand, running her fingers over the veins that show through his tan skin, over his knuckles, down the tips of his calloused fingers and back.  

Harry sucks in a breath, and Y/N’s trance flickers for a moment as her eyes move to his face to see what’s wrong.

“Sorry, just—surprised me.” Harry says, voice low yet sheepish.  He nods down to his thigh, where Y/N realizes her own hand is resting.

“Oh—” She moves to pull her hand away, but Harry places his own on top.

“It’s fine.” He says quickly. “Keep going.”

Y/N bites her lip as she turns her attention back to his arm.  Her fingers move slowly and carefully back up his forearm to his upper arm. She traces over his tattoos while she rubs her thumb gently against the muscle, and stops her fingers at the edge of his t-shirt sleeve.  With a quick glance at Harry, she pushes the sleeve up, tucking it up on his shoulder so she can run her fingers over his ship tattoo, which is one of her favourites.

“Feels nice.” Harry murmurs, his eyes following her movements.

Y/N glances back at his face, taking in his appearance.  His lips are red from the time he spent kissing her neck, and his cheeks are still flushed.  His eyes are darker than usual, and she’s not certain if it’s the candlelight or something else causing it.  There’s a light sheen of sweat on his forehead, with a few loose curls hanging down. Out of reflex, Y/N reaches up and pushes his hair back out of his eyes.

Before she can return her hand to his arm, Harry captures it in his own.  Y/N watches as he brings it to his lips, inhaling as her wrist passes underneath his nose.  Although she’s not sure why, there’s something about seeing how much smaller her hand is in Harry’s that delights her.

Harry presses a soft kiss to her wrist, following it up with another on her palm.  Y/N’s eyelids flutter at the tender sensation.

“It’s my turn to touch you.” She says softly, her voice strained.

Harry hums in reply. “I know.” He kisses your wrist once more before looking at you. “I’ll help.”

Lifting his hand from his thigh (your hand, which was underneath, stays where it is), he pulls up his shirt just enough that he can sneak your hand underneath.  He rests it on his lower chest, and even though his shirt is still partially covering him, Y/N knows she’s touching his butterfly tattoo.

“I like to be touched here.” Harry says in the same low voice.

“Okay.” Y/N bites her lip, her head swimming with alcohol and the smell of the candles and Harry’s cologne and Harry. “It…would be easier without your shirt.”

Without breaking eye contact, save for the moment fabric covers him, Harry pulls his shirt over his head and tosses it to the side. “Better?”

Y/N’s eyes drift down to his tanned stomach.  His body is familiar and a stranger to her all at once.  She knows his tattoos, scars, every mark on his skin from a distance, but seeing it like this—touching it like this—makes her feel like she’s never truly seen him before.

“Better.” She manages to say, her hand brushing across his ribs.

Y/N spends a while exploring the planes of his stomach, the contours of his body.  When she gets to his v-lines, and runs her fingers over the ferns tattooed there, Harry shivers a bit, his hand gripping her knee tighter.

Y/N massages his thigh gently. “Alright?”

“Yeah.” Harry clears his throat. “I’m good.”

“Okay.” Y/N nods, but moves her hand further up again, over his chest and over his collar bones.  She takes a moment to trace the lines of his neck, feel the beat if his pulse underneath her fingers, and then tangles her fingers in his hair.  She uses the leverage to tilt his head back a bit, and presses her lips to the base of his neck.

Harry’s cologne smells better up close, and Y/N adores the heat of his skin on her sensitive lips. She presses small kisses over the curve of his neck, pausing over his jugular.  Her tongue darts out and she carefully licks along it before ending the motion with a kiss.

“Christ…” Harry exhales slowly, the tips of his fingers digging into her knee slightly.

Y/N knows they’re crossing the threshold of just touching each other for the sake of touching.  She can feel herself dripping in her panties, and when her eyes flicker down, she can see the outline of Harry’s half hard cock in his shorts.  Together, they’ve reached the border of friends helping each other out, and she’s certain that she wants to cross it with him.  However, she’s not sure if they should.

Pulling back enough to look Harry in the eyes, Y/N clears her throat. “H, we—what are we doing?”

Harry waits a moment to answer. “I…I don’t know.  I have no fucking clue.”

“This isn’t friendly anymore.” Y/N’s voice drops to a whisper. “It’s not just—it’s intimate, yeah, but it’s more…” Her eyes move to the outline of his hardening cock once more before looking back up at his face. “It’s more.”

“Yeah.  It’s more.” Harry moves his hand further up her thigh again, rubbing slow circles. “But I don’t want to stop.”

Y/N sucks in a breath. “You don’t?”

“It’s been so long since…” Harry trails off, his gaze drifting down to your lips before returning to your eyes. “And it’s you.  I’ve always wondered if—we—”

“I’ve wondered, too.” Y/N admits, her voice filled with nerves.  Are they really discussing this? “Especially since that day, in the bathroom—”

“I wondered if you looked then.” Harry’s voice drops lower (which Y/N didn’t think was possible). “I thought about it later that day.  I—fuck, I wanted you to look.”

A small noise escapes the back of Y/N’s throat. “This—we’ve been drinking, and—it’s the alcohol, H. Neither of us is thinking straight.”

“This isn’t the alcohol talking.  I’ve thought about—when we’re in the pool, when we cuddle, when we flirt, I—I can’t help it.” Harry closes his eyes for a brief moment, like he’s collecting himself. “I need you.  And I think…I think you need me too.”

“I do.  I need you.” Y/N touches his stubbled jaw with careful fingers. “But we’re friends.  This is going to change that.”

“We don’t know that.” Harry leans into her touch. “You said before that you wanted someone you’re comfortable with, something intimate, something breathless.  You and I are comfortable, and intimate, and—I don’t know.  All I know for sure is that I want you.”

Y/N isn’t sure if he means he wants her in a purely physical way or something more, and while she knows she should clarify that, all she can focus on is his voice and the way it’s going straight to her core.

“I want you, too.” She says simply.

Harry brings his hand to Y/N’s hip. “Can I kiss you?”

Y/N nods.  She’s not sure she’s capable of giving a verbal response.

Harry takes it upon himself to lean closer, his fingertips digging into Y/N’s skin in a way she adores. He pauses, hovering just above her lips for a moment, as if to give her time to pull away.  Instead, Y/N just waits in anticipation, delighting in the feeling of his breath running over her skin.

When he kisses her, Y/N tastes alcohol, mint, and what she swears is her own heart in the back of her throat.

Any previous kisses she’s shared with Harry have been half kisses, given in teenage games of truth or dare and in a friend’s parent’s basement.  Those kisses were safe, guarded, and an obligation.  This kiss is the exact opposite.

Although it starts chaste, it quickly grows more passionate.  Y/N can’t stop herself from tugging on Harry’s hair more than she imagines Harry can stop himself from rucking up the hem of her tank top.  His fingers dip under the band of her lace bralette as she nips at his lip, tugging slightly, delighted when a strangled sound echoes from the back of his throat.

Within minutes, Y/N’s allowed Harry to pull her to straddle his lap, his hands grabbing at her hips with a neediness she’s never seen him exhibit before.  Of course, she feels the same way, and she lets her hand run down his chest over and over, using her nails a little more each time.  Although there’s no one around to see, no party to return to, nowhere to go, Y/N wants to leave a mark.  She wants anyone who sees his chest to know that he belongs to her.

Harry breaks away from her, lips red, eyes frenzied, and breathing heavy. “Can I—?” His hands tug on the hem of her top, tugging in question.

Y/N lifts her arms in response, letting him pull it off and toss it to the side.  Harry moves back in to kiss her again, but she keeps her arms up, giving him a long look.

“You’re not done.” She says simply.

He understands right away, and his fingers find the band of her bralette again.  This time, however, he removes it slower, almost as if the removal is ritual itself, and his hands are less frantic when they return to your skin.

Harry looks at Y/Nu with wide eyes, and she understands the meaning in them: this is so much more than just touching, and so much more than two friends using each other for mutual pleasure.  With every touch, they further cross a line, and neither of them can stop.  

With this realization, Harry’s movements become more cautious.  His hands come to rest on her sides, his thumbs just brushing the side of her breast.

“You’re fine.” Y/N assures him in a soothing voice. “Keep going.”

“Are you fine?” He counters, his voice an equal mix of concern and need.

“H.” Y/N takes his hands in her own and places them over her breasts. “Like that.  Touch me like that.”

Harry sucks in a short breath as she manipulates his hands, showing him how to rub her and touch her. After a few moments, she lets her hands move to his neck, pulling him in for another kiss.

Y/N begins to grind against him, desperate for a bit of friction.  Their kisses are soon accented with their moans as they each pull the other closer in lust and need.

Still, underneath the physical desires, there’s a current running between them.  Y/N knows it’s been there for the last few weeks, humming quietly in the back of her mind, but being here, now, with Harry touching her, it’s come alive like an electric fence.  She can’t turn it off, and she doesn’t want to.  She doesn’t want to in the slightest.

Harry begins to kiss down her neck like before, but this time his kisses are anything but chaste. When he reaches her breast, he kisses around them before taking one of her nipples into his mouth.

“Oh fuck—” Y/N arches her back, fingers tangling in his hair to pull him closer. “Harry…”

He hums against her, and his spare hand rubs her back like he does when they get ready to sleep.  Usually, the motion is calming, but right now, Y/N feels anything but calm.

Harry continues until he’s satisfied with his work, and then he kisses his way to her other breast, wrapping his lips against her other nipple.  He spends just as much time on that one, letting his teeth graze it ever so slightly before soothing the action with his tongue.

When he pulls back, there’s a little line of spit connecting Harry’s mouth to her nipple, and Y/N whimpers at the sight.

“H…” She runs her finger through the line before gripping his chin with her thumb and forefinger.  The need inside her builds, as does her fondness for the man in front of her. “God…”

Harry tweaks her hard nipple with his finger, gentle enough so as not to hurt her, but enough to make a gasp fall from her mouth.  He offers no response in the form of words, but the hungry look in his eyes has only increased.

“Let me…” Y/N climbs off of his lap, gently pushing him to lay back on the bed. “Yeah?”

Harry runs a hand through his messy curls, nodding quickly. “You want that?”

“Yeah.” Y/N nods too, pressing a wet kiss to his swollen lips. “So bad.  Yeah.”

Her hands move to the waistband of his shorts, and Harry lifts his hips off the bed.  Y/N tugs down his boxers in the same movement, and tosses both articles of clothing to the side before looking back at him.

Harry’s cock is just as beautiful as she remembers it being the morning she accidentally walked in on him. Even more so, she thinks, because now he’s hard, and the head is the most appetizing shade of pink, with drops of precum pearling at the top.  When Y/N wraps her hand around his girth, she adores the heat that she feels.  

“So pretty…” She says the words almost to herself, and strokes him lightly to get used to the feeling of him in her hand. “I just want to…”

Y/N leans down and flicks her tongue over his tip, collecting the precum gathered there.  In return, a strangled moan leaves Harry’s throat as his arm moves to cover his eyes for a moment.

Y/N presses a kiss to the head of his cock before she continues licking, reveling in the sounds Harry makes.  She had no doubt, with a voice as angelic as his, that his moans and whines and whimpers would be just as beautiful.

When she wraps her lips around the head and sucks, she feels Harry’s hand move to her hair.  She looks up at him without lifting off of his cock, staring him in the eye as she takes more and more of him into her mouth.

“Fuck—” Another moan leaves Harry’s lips, more strained than the last. “That’s it…” He tugs on her hair, but doesn’t push her down.  Even when lost in pleasure, he’s careful with her.

Y/N loves him for it.

Pacing herself, she takes more and more of him into her mouth until her nose is pressed to the base of his stomach, brushing against his (neatly trimmed) pubic hair.  She stays down for just a moment before pulling up completely to breathe, but keeps her hand on him, stroking him slowly.

“You look so good.” Harry mutters, running his hands over her hair in a soothing motion. “I imagined it, but didn’t think…so much better…”

Y/N moves to push her head back down, but Harry stops her, bringing her up for a kiss instead.

“I want to taste you, now.” He tells her, laying her down on the pillows. “Is that alright?”

Y/N nods desperately, feeling even more heat rush to her core and pool there. “Mhmm.”

Harry kisses his way down her body again, slipping his fingers into the waistband of her shorts. He leaves her panties on as he pulls the shorts down, and lets out a low groan at the sight of her pink Calvin Klein panties, and more specifically, the dark pink spot that’s apparent on them.

“You’re soaked…” He presses a kiss to her sensitive inner thigh before brushing a finger over the wet spot.

Y/N jumps a bit, making a sound in the back of her throat. “Harry!”

“Sorry.” He kisses her thigh again. “I’m sorry.  Just relax, yeah?  It’s just me. I got you.”

Harry continues to kiss along her inner thighs, moving closer and closer to the thin cloth covering her center.  When he presses his first kiss to the fabric, Y/N grasps the sheets in her hands.

“God…” She whispers, fists clenched.

Harry reaches up and takes one of her hands, placing it in his hair wordlessly before kissing over her again, his tongue peaking out just a bit.

The torture continues for what feels like forever, with Harry teasing her over the soaked fabric of her panties.  Finally, Y/N sighs in relief as she feels his hands grip the fabric, and she lifts her hips eagerly as he tugs the article of clothing down.

The first thing she feels is his hot breath hitting her core, which is enough to make her legs reflexively close with pleasure.  Harry’s hand grips her leg, pushing them back open as he takes in the sight of her dripping cunt before him.

“Fuck…” He inhales deeply, committing her scent to memory. “Your pussy is so gorgeous.”

Y/N whimpers at his words and tugs on his curls. “Please, H…I need you.”

“Need me?” Harry asks in a husky voice, his finger touching her outer lips just barely.

“Yes!” Y/N whines, not caring how she sounds. “Never needed anything more…”

Harry runs his finger over her slit, collecting the wetness dripping from her.  YN moans loudly at the contact, not fully relieved but grateful for the light touch.

“So fucking wet.” Harry’s voice sounds not completely his own. “Fuck, Y/N, how are you so wet?”

Y/N feels heat rush to her cheeks, and she mumbles her reply in what’s almost an embarrassed voice. “You know exactly how.”

“Don’t even know what to do first.” Harry ignores her reply, lost in his own world as he continues stroking her slit. “Just want…”

He presses into her without warning, and Y/N arches her back off the bed as Harry’s finger slips into her cunt.  His cold rings touch the top of her entrance as Harry pauses inside her, his eyes heavy with lust.

“And so tight.” He moans, biting his lip hard enough to leave a mark. “Oh my God…”

He curves his finger inside her, wanting to feel every inch of her that he can.  Y/N continues to whimper above him.

“More.” She begs him, pushing back against his finger. “I can take more, Harry, please.”

Harry easily slips enough finger in, repeating his motion as she pushes back on him.  However, the pressure building inside Y/N disappears abruptly as his fingers do, and she’s just about to get angry at him when she feels his tongue replace his fingers.

“Fuck!” She exclaims loudly, her eyes closing as she throws her head back. “Harry—!”

Harry moves his tongue in and out of her, loving the taste of her juices in his mouth.  He moves further up to her clit, licking and sucking over the sensitive bundle of nerves as Y/N writhes above him.

“Taste so good.” He growls from between her thighs. “Fuck, Y/N…you’re going to cum for me, yeah?” He asks as he reaches up and grips her hands in his, interlocking their fingers. “Tell me you’re going to cum for me.”

Another strangled moan leaves Y/N’s mouth as he speaks. “I-I’m so close, Harry. Keep going, please.”

“Tell me.” He demands, licking over her clit again. “Tell me you’re going to cum for me.”

Y/N grinds against his tongue as she grips his hands tighter. “I’m going—fuck—I’m going to cum for you, H.  I’m going—”

Harry sucks hard on her clit, and Y/N throws her head back as an orgasm hits her harder than ever before.  Her thighs clench shut, trapping Harry’s head between them, but he just continues to lap at the juices flowing from her cunt while making the most obscene sounds Y/N has ever heard.

Harry doesn’t pull back until Y/N unclenches her thighs, and before he does, he presses one last kiss to her clit, making her flinch.  

Y/N is so exhausted she can barely open her eyes.  Once she does, however, and sees Harry, she feels all the exhaustion fade.

Harry’s lips are, somehow, even more red than before, and his whole chin is slick with her wetness.  He keeps licking his lips, like he can’t get enough of the taste, and Y/N feels like her whole body is on fire.

“Harry…” She whispers, squeezing his hand again.  She doesn’t know what else to say.

Harry lifts himself over her body, which is still shaking from her orgasm, and kisses her gently.  She can taste herself on his mouth, and she adores it.

“You taste so fucking good.” He murmurs, pressing his sweaty forehead against hers. “Like candy.”

Y/N swallows hard. “I haven’t—no one’s done that in a long time.”

“I’ll be glad to do it again.” Harry replies, brushing her hair back. “But right now…all I want to do is make love to you.” He looks at her with sincere eyes. “Will you let me?”

The tenderness of him asking almost brings tears to her eyes, and Y/N nods, her hands coming up to cup his rosy cheeks. “Yeah, H.  I’m…” She bites her lip as she realizes the truth of her words. “I’m yours.  Always.”

Harry inhales sharply before kissing her softly, his hands stroking her hair in a comforting fashion again. “How do you want to…?”

“I want you on top.” Y/N replies, touching his swallow tattoos. “I-I want to feel you.  Feel your weight.  Feel you close.”

With a nod, Harry positions himself over her, spreading her legs wide enough that his body can fit between.  He holds himself up with one hand and uses the other to guide his cock to Y/N’s folds, just brushing the head over them.  He’s teasing himself just as much as her.

“Harry…” Y/N leans her head back at the sensation. “Please, H…”

“I don’t—wait—” Harry pauses his movements, and Y/N can see on his face the strength and discipline it takes for him to do so. “I—a condom—”

“I’m clean, and I have an IUD.” Y/N assures him, running her hand along his shoulders. “Are you?”

Harry nods. “Yeah, I am, but—are you sure?”

As Y/N looks into his eyes, the love and concern and want written all over them, she knows she’s never been more sure of anything in her life. “I want to feel you, without anything in between.  I—” She takes a deep breath and presses a kiss to his jaw. “Yeah.  I’m sure.”

Harry presses a kiss to her forehead, and the tender action makes Y/N close her eyes as she revels in the feeling.  A moment later, Harry moves down again and puts his forehead against hers as he pushes into her.

The moment he enters her, Y/N feels a fullness she’s never experienced before.  Not only is Harry stretching her cunt in a way that feels euphoric, but she feels complete.  He’s as close to her as he’s ever been, his breath is mingling with hers, his body weight is held over her carefully, and Y/N thinks she could die in the pleasure of this moment happily.

“Y/N…baby…” The pet name seems to fall easily from Harry’s lips as he bottoms out, holding himself still to adjust to the feeling. “Oh my God…”

Y/N digs her fingernails into Harry’s shoulders, pressing kisses to his lips between gasps for breath. “Move, H, please.”

Harry begins to thrust his hips, setting a slow but deep pace before gradually speeding up.  While part of Y/N wishes he would thrust as fast as he can, a deeper part of her is grateful that Harry is taking his time with her.  This feeling, now that she has it, is better than anything she’d ever felt before, and Y/N doesn’t want it to end anytime soon.

Harry kisses Y/N again as he moves inside her.  Although they’re as close as they’ve ever been, each of them keeps pulling the other closer.  As Harry thrusts deeper, Y/N pulls more of his weight down on her.  As Y/N scratches her nails down his back, Harry kisses her jaw. Neither of them can process exactly what they’re doing, but neither of them can stop.  Each touch is tender, each kiss is passionate, and each moment brings them closer together in so many more ways than just physical.

They don’t speak except for the occasional whisper from Y/N for Harry to move faster, or the occasional moan of Y/N’s name falling from Harry’s lips. The only constant sounds in the room are of the slickness between Y/N’s thighs as Harry moves between them, the sound of his skin meeting hers, both of them panting and moaning, and a few whispers of “please” that are barely audible.  Despite the lack of speech, however, the two are in constant communication.  Kissing, biting, scratching, and squeezing have become the vocabulary of their new language.  When Harry looks into Y/N’s wet eyes, he knows that she feels something running through the very depths of her being.  When Y/N feels Harry tuck his head between her neck and her shoulder as he whimpers, she knows that he trusts her to comfort him and hold him there.

Soon, Y/N feels the waves of pleasure begin to build, and she knows that when they finally break, they’ll pull her under. “H, I—fuck—I—” She can’t manage to form the sentence she needs to.

Harry, however, can tell exactly what she’s going to say. “Please.” He pants, adoring how she buries her head into his shoulder. “Please, love, cum for me…” He kisses over the shell of her ear as he thrusts deeper. “Need you.”

Y/N whimpers, biting down on Harry’s shoulder as her orgasm rolls over her. Harry feels her walls tighten around his cock, but he doesn’t slow down, and he works her through her climax until she whines in his ear.

“So good, H…” Y/N can barely find the strength to whisper the phrase.

Hearing her sound so fucked out, feeling her cunt squeezing him, and seeing the euphoria on her face is enough to bring Harry to the edge.  He slows his thrusts, about to pull out, but Y/N presses on his back to keep him close.

Harry groans as a shiver rolls through his body. “I’m about to cum, Y/N—”

“Stay inside me.” She pleads, pressing the pads of her fingers between his shoulder blades. “I-I’m yours, Harry, I told you.  Yours.”

Y/N looks up at him with such trusting and vulnerable eyes that Harry can’t make himself argue with her.  He nods instead, his thrusts increasing in speed again until he feels himself reach the edge of pleasure.  

As he freefalls into Y/N, his hips stutter, and he presses deep inside her while her name falls from his lips over and over again.  He can’t think of anything else to say.  He can’t think of anything else worth saying.

When Harry finally manages to pull himself together enough to pull out, Y/N instantly feels the emptiness inside her.  She wishes he would stay, but knows that it’s not practical, and instead just relishes in the feeling of his cum dripping from her entrance.  It’s like he’s claimed her as his, left a physical mark of himself, and Y/N doesn’t have the strength to stop herself from loving it.

They lay in silence for a few moments, trying to catch their breath and regain a sense of where they are.  Both Harry and Y/N are sweaty, exhausted, and covered in each other in more ways than one.  The wrap on Harry’s tattoo has slipped from his arm.  Somewhere in their pleasure, Y/N has lost an earring.  And yet, the only thing each of them cares about is looking at the other.

Out of instinct, Harry pulls Y/N’s shivering body into his, wrapping his arms around her tightly.  He can’t imagine she’s cold, and Y/N can’t bring herself to tell him she’s shivering because of the feeling of being so close to him, but neither of them denies the other of the affectionate gesture.

Y/N loses track of how long they lay there until Harry breaks the silence.

“I—” His voice cracks, and he clears it quickly before trying again. “I’ll get you a cloth to—to clean you up.”

Y/N nods, and Harry gently untangles himself from her before going to the bathroom.  Y/N can hear the running of water, and turns her head to see what he’s doing, but when she spots his naked silhouette, she closes her eyes.  Despite what they just did, there’s a shyness in her still when she sees him completely stripped.

Her eyes stay closed, and she only detects his return from feeling his weight return to the bed.  He places a gentle hand on her trembling knee, pulling her open ever so slightly.

“’M just cleaning you up.” Harry says in a quiet tone. “Is that okay?”

Y/N nods again.  She’s not certain she has enough strength to say anything.

Harry wipes between her legs with a gentle touch, watching how she flinches at the slightest of pressure. “I’m sorry.” He says sincerely, kissing her knee tenderly before continuing. “You’re sensitive, I know.  Almost done.”

Once he finishes wiping away the cum dripping out of her (his cum dripping out of her), Harry tosses the cloth onto his pile of clothes on the ground, deciding it can be dealt with later.  His most pressing concern at the moment is Y/N.

He lays back down on his side so he can face her, and pushes a lock of hair away from her closed eyes.

“Y/N.” Harry murmurs, hand resting on her waist carefully. “Talk to me. Are you okay?”

“Yeah.” Her voice is rough when she answers, and Harry can hear the echo of her moans in her words. “I-I’m fine, H.  Just…tired.”

“Do you…” Harry bites his lip. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Y/N gives a slight shake of her head. “Maybe—maybe tomorrow, yeah?” She does her best to open one eye, but quickly shuts it again when she sees how Harry is looking at her. “Can’t right now.”

“Okay.” Harry lays his arm over her side as he moves closer. “Tomorrow.”

Y/N presses her head into his shoulder and commits the scent of his skin to memory.

…

The first thing Y/N registers when she wakes up is the feeling of someone touching her hair.

She doesn’t need to open her eyes to know it’s Harry.  Of course it’s Harry.  It’s always been Harry.  In every way.

Y/N sighs and readjusts her position in bed, moving a bit closer to Harry.  She shivers once from the cold, still naked from last night’s activities, and that’s the only hint Harry needs before he pulls the sheet up around her more.

“Are you awake?” He asks softly, careful in case she’s still lost deep in sleep.

Y/N moves her head in a passable nodding motion, and her voice is thick with sleep when she answers. “Mhmm.  Barely.”

A low chuckle escapes from Harry’s mouth, and the next thing Y/N feels are his warm lips against her cheek. “How are you feeling?”

“A little hungover.  A little sore.” Y/N finally opens her eyes as she speaks, and almost wishes she hadn’t.

Harry’s hair is a mess from both sex and sleep, messy and wild and haphazardly pushed out of his eyes. His cheeks are flushed, and his neck and chest are covered in marks from both Y/N’s lips and fingers.  She knows that if he turned over, his back would be the same, and it embarrasses her and delights her at the same time.  He looks completely fucked and content, and more relaxed than she’s seen him in ages.

Y/N wonders if she looks the same.  If she looks as pretty.

“Sorry.” Harry says, his tone a bit sheepish.

“It’s not your fault.” Y/N replies, shrugging a bit.

“Well…it is, actually.  I made your drinks.  And I…” He trails off, brushing his fingers down her bare hip to her thigh.

“Yeah.” Y/N feels her face get warm. “I guess it is your fault.”

Harry laughs lightly, but it fades away as he looks into her eyes. “We, uh…we should probably talk about what happened.”

Y/N purses her lips. “Yeah. We should.”

“So…first question, I guess.” Harry props his head up on his arm, but keeps running his fingers over Y/N’s hip gently. “Do you regret it?”

Y/N sits up a bit more in bed, clutching the sheet to her bare chest. “No.  I don’t.  Do you?”

“No.” Harry replies instantly. “I don’t regret it.”

“Okay.” Y/N is so aware of Harry’s eyes on her as she thinks of her question. “Did…did you enjoy it?”

A snort falls from Harry’s mouth, and he shakes his head incredulously. “Christ, Y/N, of course I enjoyed it.  It felt—you felt like heaven.”

Y/N flushes at the comment. “I’ve never…I’ve always made my partners wear condoms.  So that was a first for me.”

Harry’s fingers pause over her hip, but only for a moment.  It looks as though he’s deciding whether or not he should comment on that, but changes his mind at the last moment. “Did you enjoy it?” He asks instead, echoing your question.

“I did.”

“You said you were mine.”

Y/N swallows hard. This conversation is less incriminating than making love to him last night, but it seems infinitely more powerful. Probably because they’re both sober, she thinks.

“That—” She clears her throat. “That’s not a question.”

Harry sighs, but there’s an endeared smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “You said you were mine. Did you mean that?”

Y/N can’t look him in the eyes, so she looks down instead.  Harry’s hand lies between them, and she intertwines their fingers, playing with his rings as she carefully formulates her answer. “I’ve—I’ve always been yours, H.  Ever since we were kids, I’ve belonged to you.” She runs a finger over his H ring. “Even when you were gone.”

Harry frowns a bit at the tone of her voice. “I’ve been yours too, Y/N.  I belong to you just as much as you belong to me.”

“You’ve always been further out of reach.” Y/N pulls her hand from his, until their fingertips are just barely touching. “Always just…a little out of reach.”

Harry intertwines their fingers again. “I’m not out of reach.  Not right now.  And I’ve never—if you ever called me and said you needed me, I would’ve been on the first flight back home to you.  I would’ve dropped everything for you, Y/N.  I still would, and I always will.”

Tears prick Y/N’s eyes, and although she hurries to close them, one slips out.  Harry catches it on his finger before it can run off her cheek, and when she looks at him again, there’s a concerned look on his face.

“C’mere.” Harry mumbles, pulling Y/N into a tight hug.  He rubs her back like he always does, and the motion is so comforting that she almost forgets the vulnerable position they’re both in. “You’re my girl.  You’re always going to be my girl.” He murmurs in her ear, voice low and soothing. “Always.  Don’t you know that?”

Y/N nods, not trusting her voice at the moment.

“If this is too much for you…” Harry traces his fingers between her shoulder blades.  Y/N thinks he’s tracing words, like they used to as children, but she can’t tell what words he may be tracing. “I understand. We can just—we can pretend it didn’t happen.”

“I—” Y/N shakes her head, looking up at Harry. “I don’t want to do that.”

“Then what do you want, Y/N?” Harry asks, his tone as pleading as it was last night. “All I’ve ever tried to do is give you what you want, and usually I’m pretty good at telling what that is, but right now, I’m lost.  I don’t want things to go back to how they were, but I don’t—I can’t lose you, so just—if you just tell me what you want, I’ll do it.  I’ll make it work.  I promise that I won’t be mad, or hurt, or anything.”

Y/N sits up as best she can, her fingers combing through Harry’s messy curls on reflex, as she always does it when he gets upset. “I can’t pretend that I don’t want you, H.  I do.  I need you.  I told you that last night.”

“But you’re crying.” Harry cups her wet cheek gently, rubbing his thumb along her cheekbone. “I hate that.”

Y/N leans into his touch. “It just feels…strange.” She says after a moment. “All of this.  I spent so long trying to stop myself from thinking of you like this, and now that I am, I feel like—like it’s wrong.”

Harry tugs on his bottom lip with his teeth. “Does it feel wrong?”

His low voice makes her shiver. “No.  It feels right.  Really right.”

“I feel like…” Harry’s eyes flicker between Y/N’s own eyes and their intertwined hands. “I feel like we’re both dancing around saying it.”

Y/N sucks in a breath. “Saying what?”

“Saying…” Harry leans in and presses a soft kiss to her lips. “Saying that we’re in love with each other.”

Y/N feels breathless at the words coming from his mouth. “You’re in love with me?”

“Are you not in love with me?” He replies, moving so he’s leaning over her more. “We’ve said I love you so many times before.”

“That’s a different kind of love.” Y/N mumbles, touching the chain dangling from Harry’s neck.

“But we were both meaning something different when we were saying it.  At least, I was.” Harry inhales deeply, like he’s centering himself. “I’ve known…for a while, but I’ve felt it for longer than I’ve known it. And I thought that you might…”

“I think I do.” Y/N whispers. “But saying it feels so—so permanent.  Like we can’t go back to being friends if it blows up in our faces.”

Harry traces a finger down Y/N’s cheek, her neck, between her breasts, to her side, touching just below her ribs. “Maybe we can’t.  But I don’t think we’ll want to, Y/N.  I think we’re perfect for each other.”

Y/N’s heart pounds in her chest. “Yeah?”

���Yeah.” Harry nods. “This last month, it’s been like we’ve been…playing house, or something.  I’ve loved it.  I keep hearing from friends saying that they’re so sick of the person they’re living with, so tired of them, but I’ve never felt that way about you, and I don’t think I ever will.  I’ll never get sick of you.”

Y/N laughs a bit. “That’s romantic.”

“Shut up.” Harry can’t help but smile slightly. “It is romantic.”

“Yeah.  It is.” Y/N says softly, her hand rubbing over Harry’s tattooed arm. “You’re really in love with me?”

Harry nods. “I am.”

“Huh.” Y/N bites her lip. “So I guess we’ve been lying to our moms, haven’t we?”

Harry laughs loudly, collapsing on the bed next to Y/N. “Jesus, can you not mention our mums when we’re naked in bed?”

“I’m just saying!  We’ve been saying for years that you’re not in love with me, and it’s all been a lie.”

“What about when they ask if you’re in love with me?” Harry’s tone is joking, but there’s a hint of nervousness in the back of his voice. “Has that been a lie, too?”

Y/N’s heart pounds as she nods. “Yeah.  We’ll have to get them something really good for Mother’s Day this year to help make up for it.”

A grin spreads over Harry’s face, almost triumphant, as he leans down to kiss her. “Agreed.” He moves to cage himself over Y/N. “But I want to hear you say it.”

“Say what?”

“I want to hear you say that you’re in love with me.” Harry’s grin turns into a smirk.

Y/N flushes as she shakes her head. “You say it first.”

“I’ve already admitted it!”

“So have I!”

“Not as well as I have!”

“Oh, so it’s a competition now?” Y/N scoffs. “What a wonderful start to our relationship.”

“I’m just saying, Y/N, admitting it is the first step to—”

“Are you seriously going to say that to get me to say that I love you?”

“Just—”

“You’re so irritating—”

“I’m irritating?  You—”

“You’re the worst!”

“And yet you’re in my bed with no clothes on!”

“Okay.  Nope.  Relationship over.” Y/N pushes Harry off of her and wraps the sheet around herself as she gets out of bed. “You blew it, Styles.”

“Y/N.” Laughter falls from Harry’s lips as he leans over the edge of the bed. “Love.  Come back to bed.”

“I think a minute and thirty-seven seconds may be the record for the world’s shortest relationship.” Y/N searches her bag for some clean clothes.

“Come here!”

“Another world record for Harry Styles.” Y/N calls to him without turning around. “You must be so proud—”

Her words are cut off in a shriek as Harry picks her up, throwing her over his shoulder as he brings her back to his bed.

“Harry!” She yells, hitting his arm. “Put me down!”

Harry tosses her on the bed, gentle enough so as not to hurt her, and cages himself over her sheet-covered body.  He’s still completely bare. “Take it back.”

Y/N rolls her eyes. “Fine. We’re still together.  One less record for you.”

“Good.  Now…” Harry brushes a finger over her lips. “Say you’re in love with me.”

Y/N’s laughter fades a bit as the nerves set back in. “I…”

“Please, Y/N?” Harry murmurs, leaning down to kiss her neck. “Please say it.”

“I’m—” Y/N sucks in a quick breath, and all of her protest leaves her body as she exhales. “I’m in love with you, Harry.”

She can feel Harry’s lips forming a grin against her neck. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Y/N tugs on his hair gently, just enough so she can pull his head back to look in his eyes. “Now you say it.”

“Y/N.” Harry says her name like it’s something precious. “I’m in love with you.”

A flush of pleasure crawls up Y/N’s spine at his words, but she does her best to keep her tone light-hearted. “So are you calling our moms, or am I?”

“I’ll do it.” Harry reaches for his phone on the bedside table. “And I’ll be sure to mention how it took us getting drunk and having sex to realize—”

“Harry!”

“Don’t worry, I’ll tell your mum we used a condom—”

“I’ll kill you, Styles, and I’ll make it look like an accident.” Y/N shoves his shoulder hard.

Harry grins at her. “Now that’s romantic.”

[dylanobrienisbatman]

Omg give us ur rant abt hating d*rklina as a ship.. im petty

Okay Anon, so i saw this the other day and I wasn't in the right headspace to answer but i am now!

So to start off, I am firmly in the ship and let ship category. You like a ship, i don't care. That doesn't mean i won't rag on the ship itself but I don't send hate, I don't really engage with shippers from ships I don't like, and I am liberal with the block button and the blacklist feature. Cultivate your tumblr/online experience, y'all. You don't owe anyone on this hellsite (or any other) a damn thing.

However, I REALLY do hate d*rklina as a ship, and I have a big problem with the way the shippers talk about it, so I hope you were being serious about wanting a rant because here it goes.

As for the ship itself, i feel like the reasons I dislike it are pretty obvious and standard. It's abusive. He is her abuser. He manipulates her. He spends months grooming her and gaslighting her, intentionally trying to get her under his control so that when he literally enslaves her it will go over easier. He never actually loved her, he wanted to use her for her power. It's not complicated, it's not really 'up for debate', that is the way its written, and the author has explained that that was the intended interpretation of her work. I mean he literally sexually assaults her in the second book, and straight up tells her he's going to kill everyone she loves so that she has no choice but to fall to him because she is completely alone in the world. He threatens to skin her alive in the second book when they're on the boat, he has no problem torturing her to get Mal to do what he wants. That's not love. He does not love her. It's pretty black and white, its explicitly written as an abusive relationship. The point was to show how easily powerful men can manipulate and abuse young naive women who don't know any better and try to see the best in people. Alina 'fell' for the version of Darkles Sparkles that he intentionally created to try to control her. Nothing he told her was true, from his backstory, to them both being 'the only one like [each other]' (hello, baghra), to using Genya to convince Alina that Mal had abandoned her, everything he did was manipulation so that he could get her under his control. It is not a romance, it is not 'a ship war', d*rklina is not written as romantic. He is her abuser. Full stop.

There is also the point about him being just a generally horrible person all around. He's not morally grey. He just isn't. He sold an 11 year old into sex slavery, forced her to stay in that situation so he could use her, and then mutilated her when she defied him. He also groomed and abused Zoya, because he saw that she was exceptionally powerful and wanted to use her the way he wanted to use Alina. He enslaved Alina. He blinded and mutilated his own mother. He is a genocidal maniac. He shows no remorse, he doesn't care about anyone but himself and his own power. He is not the type of character that should be romantically shipped with anyone. If you like him, that's absolutely fine! One of my fave characters ever is Kai Parker from TVD. Dude was a straight up psychopath. He tried to kill multiple pairs of toddlers. He brutally murdered his pregnant sister AT HER WEDDING. He is a HORRIBLE person. But I think he's a brilliant character. But do I think he's a good guy, do I want him anywhere near any characters in that show in a romantic way (ehem b*nkai)? Absolutely fucking not. Being a fan of a villain character is fine, but fucking own that shit. Villains can be SUCH good characters, but they're still villains. Erasing the bad they've done so you can justify putting them in situations where they WILL harm the people around them because you can't level with yourself about the bad things they've done doesn't make you 'woke', it just makes you look like you don't understand the media you're consuming.

Which leads me to why I have such a problem with the way D*rklina shippers engage with the ship. They simultaneously wanna say "oh we know it's toxic/bad/abusive/etc., that's why we like it!" and then also they try to claim that it should be endgame, they romanticize scenes where he is abusing her (and by romanticize I mean they literally try to frame his abuse as romantic, not like "oh yeah my ship is interacting!!". those are different things. You can be excited about ship interactions without trying to say that things he is doing to her are actually romantic), they try to argue that he is morally grey/misunderstood/etc., and they straight up try to lie and say he's not her abuser.

If you wanna ship an abusive ship, own it. Be straight up about why you like it. It's okay to be into dark shit, y'all. It does NOT make you a bad person to be into dark shit. But this idea that fiction doesn't impact real life, and that people can't call the ship out for what it is is a problem is a very troubling trend in fandom. Nobody is saying you can't ship it, do what you want. But this idea that these people are 'oppressed' because fans of the show/book continue to point out the facts about the way the story was written and how the relationship is actually presented is fucking insane. Someone saying that D*rklina is abusive is not calling you out, they are stating a fact. It's the story as it was presented. You trying to say it's not makes it look like you have no reading comprehension. And this idea that 'well i'll be on the lookout for evil shadow wizards in real life lol' is such horse shit too. His shadow wizard powers aren't the issue. He is a powerful man who grooms and abuses young women. You're telling me you lived through the Me Too movement and you wanna act like thats not a real threat that young women face every day? You're telling me that you can't see that the actual real life connection you're supposed to be making here? Okay, well you should maybe deal with that and come back to me, because that's an issue.

Fiction is meant to teach us lessons. Darkles is meant to teach us something. He is meant to show us that sometimes, powerful men lie to, manipulate, groom, and abuse young women, and we should be aware of that. The story is about a young woman who is sucked into an abusive situation, and then she breaks free and in the end she is able to defeat her abuser. That is a really powerful story, and one that millions of real life women can relate too. To pretend that that story doesn't have real life connections makes you look insensitive and frankly, kind of cruel.

So basically, in the end, my biggest issue is that D*rklina shippers love to spout this nonsense about 'knowing' it's bad and that he's a villain, and 'that's why they like him', and then turn around and try to say that he's not actually the villain, he's not actually bad, and the things he does to Alina that are abuse are actually romantic and sweet. You wanna ship an abusive ship, you do you, but lets not pretend it's anything other than what it is, but romanticizing and normalizing abuse tactics so you can feel, what? morally superior? Cool? edgy and different? That has real life impacts. You are normalizing abuse. Real people will engage with that rhetoric, and it will make it difficult for them to see abuse when it happens to them or the people around them because they believe its romantic or normal to be treated that way.

You wanna be a villain stan? You wanna ship dark ships? Good on ya, but fucking own your shit, y'all.

[i-did]

A guide for proper terminology for Nicky Hemmick:

Written by me, a Mexican-American.

Latin American: someone from Latin America, this includes Mexico but not Spain. Latin America is multi ethnic, and not just Spanish speaking, the non Spanish speaking countries of Latin America are Brazil, Belize, Suriname, Guyana, French Guiana, and the Falkland Islands.

Latino: decent from Latin America, similar to saying Latin American, but can include people born in America of Latin American decent. People don't really say "Latin American American," they say Latino American. (Latina = woman, and Latine = neutral but not commonly used, often typed Latin@s online for shorthand to include both). Latin American countries are very diverse, some are dominantly black/Afro-Latino.

Afro-Latino: Afro-Latin Americans are dominantly from African decent, some Latin American countries are majorly black/Afro-Latino. when used outside of Latin America it can mean someone who’s mixed black and Latino. 

Latinx: "gender neutral" term for Latino, but probably made by white people because .... Spanish words don't end in x, and x isn't pronounced that way in Spanish, for example the name Xitlali (sometimes spelled Zitlali and other variations, but pronounced like an S). Honestly say Latino/Latinos or Latin@s, and in online queer spaces Latine/Latines.

Chicano: Latin American decent but born in America.

Hispanic: related to Spain, colonized by Spain, so this includes Spain but not Brazil, which is a Latin American country.

Mexican: a person from Mexico living in America, for example Nicky's mom, but often also casually used to mean Mexican Americans (or Latino/Chicanos in general).

Mexican American: Latin American decent born into America. Unlike chicano, it is associated more with the idea of assimilation into white America, but not always.

Mexicano: what Mexicans call themselves in Mexico (feminine is Mexicana).

TexMex: people who were living in Mexico, and then America bought/stole the land and said "this is also America now, you can leave or stay" and they stayed. They became Americans, Texas Mexican American culture is different than for example SoCal Mexican American culture because of this, (but still more in common with each other than not).

Anglo: someone who is non Latino, usually in reference to someone who lives in the America's that were colonized by British people and English is the standard spoken language, ex/ North Americans and Canadians who aren't Latino. Usually in reference to white people but not always. If someone is Asian American and constantly purposefully mispronounces my name, instead of being like "🙄white people" I can be like "🙄 Anglos" (or I could say gringo, which is not as nice of a term for anglo). I honestly don’t know if I can call a spaniard anglo, but I assume not, since they're not Anglo-Saxon, which is where the term comes from.

despite what the media represents, not all Latino’s are Mexican! although the two terms are often used interchangeably when they’re really not. there are 32 other countries besides Mexico in Latin America.

Mexican is technically a nationality, but because of colonialism it’s not that simple. Race dynamics work differently in different countries. Most Mexicanos are not connected with their mixed indigenous ancestors, while some still are, like the Maya. It is something that has been taken from us and has evolved into its own thing. Some Mexicanos are lighter than others, sometimes by being more related to the Spanish than the indigenous. Mexico has a huge problem with colorism and class divide as well as overall racial tension.

Mexico is also not only "white/more Spanish" "more brown" and "fully indigenous, culturally and ethnically", there are afro-latinos (like mentioned before), and also Asian latinos, specifically a large amount of Chinese immigrants from when China became communist, middle eastern latinos, etc. Latin America has immigrants too! 

I have a friend who is fully Korean but grew up in Guatemala, I have another friend from Brazil who is 100% of polish and Ashkenazi decent, her grandparents having escaped to Brazil during WWII, but she and her parents grew up and spent their whole lives in Brazil, they are Latin Americans. 

List of things Nicky's mom Maria is:

Mexican, Mexicana, Latina, Latin American, 'Hispanic' but like.... outdated term and usually when people use this they just mean Latin@.

List of things Nicky is:

Mexican-American, Latino, "Mexican" in the broad sense of the word.

Describing Nicky or his mother as "looking hispanic" doesn't really make sense because he takes after his mother who is described as very dark and therefore less Spanish decent and more indigenous decent, she's from a Spanish speaking country so... its not technically wrong, but Nicky is from and English speaking one and doesn't speak Spanish, so it doesn't really make sense.

He isn't Chicano and neither is she, she wasn't born in America and Nicky doesn't identify as Chicano or in general much with his mothers culture beyond visible features. He is never mentioned to make Mexican food, listen to Latin American music, or other aspects of Latino culture in general. He chose to go to Germany instead of Spain or Latin America, and he talked Aaron out of taking Spanish in exchange for German so Nicky could help him with his homework, (meaning he doesn't know Spanish, which many Mexican Americans don't know).

saying Nicky “looked Mexican” or “looked brown” isn’t a bad thing, Neil in the books says he’s two shades too dark to be considered tan, so... stop tip-toeing around it and call him brown instead of tan. It’s not a bad thing to be brown, and It’s not a bad thing to be Mexican. maybe I’m just from somewhere with a lot of Mexican-Americans, but when I look at people I can tell they’re not Anglos, or I think to myself “oh another Mexican” or at least “brown person” vs when I see a white person I think “white person.” I’m not face blind, I know that different races exist and look different and can see such trends in real people in the same way that when I look at a little girl I go “oh a little girl” not “what sex is this weird hairless animal, what is this alien”.

these concepts are a lot more complicated in practice, I get told often I don’t “look Mexican” but so does one of my cousins who’s afro latino and plays professional basketball in Mexico. Gender is fake but the majority of people we see are still falling into two categories on sight, it’s how we’re socially trained. 

I'm also not an encyclopedia, if you think I made a mistake let me know and I'll check it out. A lot of this was just off the top of my head and words I just learned from.... existing, I didn't exactly look them all up in the dictionary.

Also if you’re writing Nicky, don’t be afraid to get a sensitivity reader, @sensitivityreaders is a good resource for this, and so is @writingwithcolor

[stuhde]

After taking some time off to cry, understand, and speak with myself. I decided to write something out expressing my thoughts and feelings about everything going on in this country. It’s long, powerful, and provactive but I need to get my voice out. Like, comment, share, have discussions with me when i finish my social media cleanse, but I will not stand silent in times of injustice. 

After seeing and reading the murder of George Floyd at the hands of the police, I was quick to delete all my social media apps and hide away from the “uwu Black lives matter posts,” the underserving claps white celebrities get from doing the bare minimum, and just witnessing the continuous realities of injustice that take place in this country.

As a first-generation Sudanese American, I was nothing but confused and lost in the midst of a growing movement, particularly George Floyd’s murder hitting home the most because the police who were arresting Floyd was responding to a call from an Arab American-owned store. With intersecting identities of being black, Muslim, and Arab, witnessing the anti-blackness rhetoric spew from my religious and ethnic communities clash with my racial identity stirred tension and fear in what it means to be a black Arab Muslim in this country and what my place is in the Black Lives Matter Movement. I often found myself asking, “what is my duty to the black community?”, “Am I too Arab to be black, or am I too black to be Arab?” And “what is my privilege in identifying as Arab and a non-hijabi Muslim?” Black Arabs like me often experience issues with invisible intersectionality, people often forcing us to “take sides” or strongly reside with one of our identities when it sees fit (refer to how people responded to the Ahmed Mohamed clock incident).

But I have come to the conclusion that my blackness is comprised of being a woman, Muslim, and Arab - not separately and that’s what makes this unique. Black Arabs are often finding themselves at the struggle of fighting against racial injustice because of our skin color and against the xenophobic and Islamaphobic rhetorics that have only increased since the beginning of the Trump campaign. However, you all have a duty not to ignore the experiences of black Muslim immigrants in this country, like Yassin Mohammed - he was murdered by police in Georgia earlier this month. Say his name and remember him.

Yassin like me is a Sudanese American - black, Arab, and Muslim but he wasn’t reported or written as such. The media called him a “Muslim man” and yet, our Muslim community remained silent. Why? Because it only brings to light the deep and historical roots of racism that are instilled in our community and we need to address it. Muslim and Arab Americans have a duty to stand with our black brothers and sisters in times of injustice. They were there for us in supporting Palestinian liberation and with us against the Muslim ban - now it is our turn. Listen to Black Americans and Black civil rights groups about their unique experiences and learn how we can best support our collective struggle against injustice. You have a duty to educate yourself and tackle anti-blackness in our community. As quoted in Surah An-Nisa [4:135], “be persistently standing firm in justice, even if it be against yourselves or parents and relatives” - support your local CAIR organization and others like the Arab American Action Network and the Muslim Anti-Racism Collaborative, who are all standing with the Black Lives Matter movement and doing their best to bring all our communities together to end all forms of racism, discrimination, and injustice.

For my fellow Sudanese, this is our fight too. While we must recognize the centuries-long of cruelty and pain the African-American community has endured since forcefully coming to this country and understanding that their pain is different from ours, we share the same skin and we will go through the same thing they are going through. I can tell you personally, from even the youngest age that I have always been afraid of the police. Why? Because I witnessed the disproportionate amount of cruelty and violence with which people who look like me are treated with.

While our older Sudanese community members will try hard to erase our blackness simply because we have drops of Arab blood, at a tragic reality we have all experienced and witnessed discrimination and racism at the hands of law enforcement. This is hard because we have a complicated relationship with race on the fault line of racial consciousness because our country is on the border between Arab and black Africa. However it is, we are BLACK and we need to have conversations about race in our community. We as Sudanese people are not doing enough to eradicate racism and prejudice that exists in our community as well as our Muslim, Arab, and general US society. The next phase in the revolution is to recognize that these issues exist in our Muslim community, come together with black Americans and African-Americans, and create change to take down these systemic institutions that were never designed to protect black and brown folk.

I will continue to do my social media cleanse, but I welcome those who wish to discuss what my views and opinions are more with me - should you agree or disagree. People who care will know how to reach me. In this time, I am reading, learning, and liberating myself to make a change and I can only ask you to do the same. There are so much power and knowledge invested in books:

How to be an Anti-Racist by Dr. Ibram X. Kendi

Stamped: Racism, Antiracism, and You by Dr. by Ibram X Kendi and Jason Reynolds

Why I'm No Longer Talking to White People About Race by Reni Eddo-Lodge

Between the World and Me by Ta-Nehisi Coates

Freedom Is a Constant Struggle: Ferguson, Palestine, and the Foundations of a Movement by Angela Y. Davis (HIGHLY recommend to my Muslim and/or Arab folk)

The Autobiography of Malcolm X by Alex Haley and Malcolm X

The New Jim Crow: Mass Incarceration in the Age of Colorblindness Michelle Alexander

A People's History of the United States by Howard Zinn

The Fire Next Time by James Baldwin

In Search of Our Mothers' Gardens by Alice Walker

Just Mercy: A Story of Justice and Redemption by Bryan Stevenson

Resources for my black Muslims, courtesy of my University’s Muslim Student Association:

The Muslim Anti-Racist Collaborative - deconstructing anti-Blackness within the Muslim community Believers Bail Out - re-imagining the prison and police systems through Islamic perspectives Sapelo Square - an online forum that places Black Muslims at the center: Reconstructed Magazine - a creative magazine and conversation space led by Black, Shia, and queer Muslims The Black American Muslim - space for Black American Muslims to share testimonials and resources on faith, history, and power Justice For Muslims Collective - an organization reimagining a world where radical inclusion leads to collective liberation for Muslim communities and beyond Kayla Renée Wheeler, Ph.D. - Islamic Studies Professor who created the BlackIslam syllabus Amina Wadud, Ph.D. - African-American scholar on gender and race in Islam. Learn more about her through her interviews here Su’ad Abdul Khabeer, Ph.D. - Scholar-Artist-Activist & Author of Muslim Cool Islamophobia is Racist Syllabus - resources to understand empire, anti-Muslim racism, and ideology

For my black friends, I hope you are well and I hope you are safe. I am with you all the way through in our fight for liberation and human rights. Take care of yourself first before anyone else and if you need a minute or more before protesting and educating those around you, take your time, you need it. All the love x

[marvelousstevetony]

So this is kind of a random prompt, but sick Steve doing an interview and trying not to sneeze. However, he ends up having a fit and is really embarrassed by it, maybe his first public sneeze like that?

When he gets home, Tony tries to take Steve’s phone because he doesn’t want Steve to see the new trending hashtag on Twitter which is “GodBlessAmerica” and some people trying to be funny about it, maybe posting the video with patriotic music edited in. Maybe Steve does find out and Tony shows Steve a sneeze compilation of himself online or something that people did relating to Tony’s sneeze to help him feel less embarrassed/make him laugh?

This is such a sweet concept! And nothing like anything I’ve written before, I don’t think, so I hope this is okay. Please accept 4k of shy, sick Steve and Tony being the sweetest... as usual :)

Steve presses his knuckle to his nose for the 100th time today. The cold he had caught a few days ago seems to have hit its peak, because ever since he woke up this morning, his nose has had that warm, buzzing feeling to it that just never fades.

“You ready, Steve?” Tony asks and puts a steadying hand on the small of the taller man’s back.

“Y-yeah,” Steve manages and sniffles when his nose quivers. “Ready to get it over with,” he amends and Tony offers him a sympathetic smile.

“Last one for today.”

Steve nods and sighs deeply. “Last one,” he echoes

———

Steve wants to pay attention, he really does. Tony is speaking, and Steve loves listening to his boyfriend’s voice, even if all he’s doing is making quips and witty remarks at the interviewers’ questions. Okay, especially when he’s making quips and witty remarks at the interviewers’ questions.

But he just doesn’t have the energy today. He feels his eyes threatening to slip shut at any minute, and he probably would have drifted off at some point if it wasn’t for the slight tingle in the back of his nose.

He swipes his index finger against his septum, then holds it there when he’s afraid the tickle will blossom into something more. It doesn’t though, and instead he exhales slowly and gives his head a brief shake.

It happens another three times. The tickle is right on the verge of turning into sneezes, but Steve is famously stubborn, and by the power of sheer will and all the focus he can muster, he fights it off.

That is until he is startled by someone nudging his shoulder. “Steve.”

His head snaps up to see Natasha cocking her head at him. He looks around, confused, then smiles sheepishly when he notices a blonde reporter who’s looking at him with an expectant expression. “Sorry,” he says, clearing his throat, cheeks turning pink, “Could you repeat that?”

She smiles overly sweetly at him, and Steve tries not to think about how much he hates these things, hates how arranged and phony they are.

“Of course. Captain, you’ve been the leader of the Avengers since its origin...”

The blonde woman continues speaking, but Steve just hears her voice trail off into silence. He keeps his eyes on her, though, for as long as he can before his vision begins to blur as well. He clenches his jaw and holds his breath, trying to resist the urge to rub at his nose to stop the building itch from blooming.

He can see her lips moving through the tears that are accumulating in his eyes, but he hears nothing but white noise and then his own sudden, desperate gasp.

In the very last second, he manages to bring his fist to his face and move a little back in his seat to turn away from the crowd.

“ng’tCHh! h-H’tsngshh!”

The first sneeze is almost completely silent, but stifling it just sends a throb through his nose, and although he tries his hardest he can’t fully hold back the second one.

When he turns back, everyone has gone silent. A few people, including Natasha who’s next to him, as well as the reporter, bless him, and he feels the heat creep up his neck.

“Sorry, uh, excuse me,” he says and touches his nose gingerly, then rubs his neck. “You were saying?”

“Right,” the blonde continues. “As the leader of the Avengers, do you feel more responsible—“

“huh’TCHushh! uhhCHUSH!” A second round of sneezes catches him off guard, and he barely gets a chance to catch them in the  crook of his elbow, body jerking with the sneezes.

Next to him, Natasha squeezes his knee and whispers a blessing that Steve ignores as he quickly turns back to the reporter, acting as if nothing had happened. The flush spreading all over his face from embarrassment didn’t signal the same thing, though.

The reporter smiles tightly before continuing. “—do you feel more responsible for all the damage your team has caused?”

“The purpose of the Avengers is to make the world a safer place. With our job, we try to save as many lives as possible. Unfortunately— snf! Unfortunately, that doesn’t m-mean everybody,” Steve says and touches his nose quickly when he feels a slight tickle beginning to form. “I strongly believe that without the Avengers’ interference the number of casualties would have been significantly higher—“

“What our good Captain here means to say is that without us, you’d all be toast,” Tony suddenly cuts in, earning laughter from the audience and flashes the crowd of reporters a blinding smile. Then, while the chuckles die down, Tony glances quickly over at Steve and smiles again, but it’s softer and way more real. “Okay, next question,” Tony says, turning back to the reporters.

Steve can’t help but let out a sigh of relief when the next question is directed to Natasha, happy that the attention is on anyone but him.

He ducks his head to rub his nose against his knuckles and give a few quiet coughs. When he looks back up, he catches Tony looking at him with a concerned expression, cocking his head to the side.

You okay? he reads Tony’s lips. He nods weakly and smiles shyly back. He then averts his gaze from Tony, knowing that if there’s one thing that could distract him from keeping himself together, it would be Tony.

The rest of the press conference is a blur, really. Steve avoids answering anymore questions thanks to Tony and Natasha quickly taking over whenever he was supposed to answer. Instead, he sits back in his chair, pinching off a tickle every once in a while.

When Steve walks off the stage, Tony is waiting for him by the door, placing a hand on the small of Steve’s back when they walk through. “You alright?” he asks quietly.

Steve is about to nod, open his mouth a say that he is, but he ends up sighing instead. “I don’t know... I made a complete fool out of myself out there,” he says and bites his lip nervously.

“No you didn’t. No one’s going to think anything of it, Steve,” Tony reassures and kisses Steve’s shoulder when Steve looks dubiously at him. “C’mon, let’s grab something to eat and then head home. There’s this diner a couple of blocks away. It’s small, but there’s a table seated away from all the rest. We can sit in private...”

“Sounds perfect.”

———

Like Tony said, the diner is small, but it’s cosy and warm and Steve welcomes anything that makes him feel less like he’s turning into a human popsicle again. Steve scoots into the small booth, and Tony sits on the opposite side of the table.

It’s Tony who orders, a sandwich for each of them and a bowl of chicken noodle soup for Steve as well.

“Soup too?” Steve asks, his voice grateful and eyes soft.

“Sick person essential,” Tony shrugs and reaches over the table to grab both of Steve’s hands in his own, brushing a thumb over Steve’s knuckles. “Bless you?” he asks when Steve lets go with one hand and opts for few napkins from the box on the table.

Steve nods, eyes fluttering shut, and pulls his other hand away as well to cup the napkin firmly over his nose and mouth.

“heh’CHmmphh! utschmphh!” The sound of the sneezes is muffled by the napkins, but the way Steve’s body shudders is indication of just how strong they were and how tired he must be.

“Bless you, honey,” Tony says again. “You look about ready to drop. I’ll text Happy, tell him to pick us up here in 30,” he adds when Steve shrugs shyly.

He pulls his phone out, but something in his expression changes. His brows furrow and his lips turn into a thin, tense line.

“Everything okay?” Steve ask worriedly.

“What? Oh. Oh, yeah, all good,” Tony says dismissively and slides his phone back into his pocket. “Look, food’s here!”

———

“How about a phone-free night?” Tony suggests as they enter the penthouse and smiles a little tighter than the way he usually beams at Steve; the way his eyes crinkle at the corners and his nose scrunches up. Steve knows Tony’s smiles too well to be fooled by this oddly fabricated one, immediately growing suspicious.

“Uhh, sure,” Steve says hesitantly, wrinkling his forehead. “Why the no-phone rule, though?”

“No reason,” Tony shrugs a little too quickly, then draws in a deep breath and exhales slowly. Taking a step closer to Steve, he reaches for Steve’s hand and brings it to his lips, pressing a kiss to his knuckles. “Just don’t want any distractions tonight... no work, no social media. Just you and me and a box of tissues for your sniffles.”

Tony says the last bit in a low, fond voice that makes Steve’s heart clench with fondness and his cheek go a dusty shade of red, speculation suddenly all forgotten.

“Yeah?” Steve ask a little shyly, biting his lower lip and looks at Tony through his his lashes.

“Yeah,” Tony confirms. “And a cup of tea as well, that’ll feel good on your throat.” He lifts his hand to lace his fingers through Steve’s hair, and Steve melts into the touch, closing his eyes contentedly.

“You’re too good to me,” Steve murmurs, exhaustion seeping into his voice as he nuzzles his head against Tony’s hand like a cat seeking attention from its owner.

“Nothing could ever be too good for you, darling. Now, off to the shower,” Tony says firmly, but his tone is still gentle. Steve nods, and he starts to walk towards the bathroom, but Tony stops him. “Wait!” he exclaims. “Your phone.”

Steve looks down at his pocket where his phone sticks out, then pulls it out and hands it to Tony with a sigh and a shake of his head. “You’re ridiculous,” Steve chuckles.

“Mhm... you love it,” Tony says confidently and smirks as Steve rolls his eyes in a playful manner. “Now. Hop to it, Captain.”

———

Steve doesn’t even think about not having his phone on the bedside table when they snuggle up in bed. The warm steam from the shower had broken loose some of the congestion in his head, but now he’s sniffling uncontrollably, and even blowing his nose half a dozen times does nothing to stop his runny nose. It’s tiring, and he’s so ready to just doze off against Tony when he joins him under the covers with a fresh box of Kleenex and a cup of hot tea with lemon and honey.

“Thanks, snf!” Steve says and takes a sip of his tea. It does feel heavenly, like Tony said it would, calming the scratchiness he’s felt in his throat all day.

“You’re welcome, baby.” Tony kisses the top of Steve’s head and lays an arm over his shoulders, inviting Steve to cuddle in close while he scrolls through their watchlist on Netflix.

By the time they’ve picked a movie, Steve has finished his tea and is resting in head on Tony’s chest, already half-sleep. Tony still has his arm wrapped protectively around the larger man, and his cheek has come to lean against Steve’s forehead. It’s comfortable and safe, and even though it’s somewhat new to them, being together and all, it feels familiar, like it’s always been this way.

Within 10 minutes of the movie, Steve is snoring softly from trying to breathe through his stuffy nose, and Tony is not far behind him. His own eyes have slipped shut, and he asked Jarvis to turn off the lights as soon as Steve’s breaths had evened out so he could let himself fall asleep.

———

They eat breakfast in the communal kitchen the next morning, making easy conversation over two plates of scrambled eggs and turkey bacon, coffee for Tony, and ginger tea for Steve.

He’s feeling a little better today, less like his head is stuffed with cotton and more like there’s just a faint sort of pressure on his sinuses. His throat feels better, too, and Steve thinks it must be the combination of a good night’s sleep and all the tea Tony’s made him drink over the last couple of days since he started coming down with his cold.

He’s still very sniffly, though, and he sneezes about seven or eight times from the time they wake up ‘till they’ve eaten their breakfast, Tony blessing him each time, sometimes following up with a sweet term of endearment or a quick kiss pressed to his cheek or hand.

They’re about to load the dishwater when Clint enters the kitchen, seemingly in a good mood, if the way his face is lit up is anything to go by. “Morning, lovebirds,” he says as he pours himself some coffee from the pot. “You feeling any better today, Cap?” he asks and takes a sip from the mug.

“I am, thanks,” Steve says, happy that Clint cared to ask. He quickly furrows his brows, though, because how would Clint know he had been sick? “How do you— weren’t you on a mission this past week?” Steve asks confusedly. He hadn’t been at the press conference yesterday, and he’d already been gone for a few days when Steve started coming down with his cold.

“I was, yeah. Came back late last night.”

That just makes Steve even more confused. “Then— then how did you know I’ve been sick?”

Clint frowns at him, looking just as confused as Steve feels. “Haven’t you...” he trails off, seemingly stumped. “You’re all over-“

“All over our group chat,” Tony cuts in hurriedly, interrupting Clint. “I made a text chain to let the team know you were under the weather. ‘Be nice to Steve, he’s sick’ and that sort of stuff,” he laughs nervously, glancing between Steve, whose expression has softened slightly, and Clint who’s still gaping at him.

Tony widens his eyes and cock his head at Clint when Steve goes back to filling the dishwater, mouthing get out now that Steve’s not looking.

Clint catches on, or at least he gets the impression he should just leave, because he quickly turns on his heels, mug in hand and exits the room. “Well, have a nice day,” he calls over his shoulder when he walks through the door.

“That was... odd, don’t you think?” Steve says, closing the dishwater and leaning against the counter.

Tony shrugs. “It’s Barton,” he says simply, as if that would explain the strange encounter. It makes enough sense to Steve, at least, because he just mirrors Tony and shrugs as well.

“I guess you’re right. Do you still have my phone, by the way? I should check my emails,” he says, looking around the kitchen to see if Tony put in somewhere in here.

Tony stills for a second before stammering out a, “N-no! No... I think it’s in the living room, but, uh, maybe you should take a day off,” he splutters, suddenly looking uncomfortable. “You know, just to make sure you’re not working yourself too hard when you’re sick.”

Steve smiles at Tony’s concern. “I’m feeling a lot better, thanks to you, so I think I’ll be good to look through a couple emails.”

Tony swallows around nothing, then clears his throat. “Okay,” he mumbles. “If you’re sure. Just... maybe you should stay off social media today. I think it’s best to give yourself a break from all that, especially when you’re still just getting better.” Tony winces at how illogical that sounded, and Steve picks up on it, too, because the frown on his face has returned and he look just as perplexed as before, if not more.

After a couple of seconds of uneasy silence, Steve sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Tony, what is going on? Why is everyone acting to weird?” He might be a pretty face and all, but Steve isn’t stupid. He can tell when something’s off, even if he subconsciously tries to ignore it.

Tony holds his breath for a moment, then exhales defeatedly and pulls out his phone. “You’re gonna hate this,” he mutters under his breath and hands the device to Steve, who takes a look at the screen.

Aww, poor Steve, he looks so tired and cute when he’s all sick and sneezy #GodBlessAmerica

I never thought I’d call a sneeze hot, but damn, the way cap flexed his bicep when he sneezed was h a w t!! #GodBlessAmerica

I thought he couldn’t get sick anymore? #GodBlessAmerica

Okay, but captain america sneezing is actually adorable #GodBlessAmerica

Steve lets out a noise that sounded like a mix between a frustrated groan and a pained whimper. So apparently he’s now a number one trending topic on Twitter… great.

He slides the phone onto the kitchen counter, the screen facing downwards so he couldn’t see Tony’s Twitter-feed. Burrowing his face in his hands, he sighs fretfully. “Why?” he mumbles, the sound muffled by his palms. “Why? This is the most embarrassing thing I’ve ever experienced.”

When he emerges from hiding his face, he pouts, then sniffles when a warm, tingling sensation starts at the back of his nose. He scrunches up his entire face in an attempt to fight off the sneeze, but it’s useless.

Tony looks at him fondly and pats his back when he raises his arm to catch a rush of sneezes.

“huh’UTSSchhh! ehhIIShhoo! uhTSC’uhh!“

He keeps his nose and mouth covered for a few seconds, waiting to see if the lingering itch will actually turn into anything more than that. It doesn’t, not right away at least, and instead he just snuffles into the soft material of his hoodie. “Ugh... sorry, I’mb such a mbess.”

The sneezes seem to have re-established the congestion, and Steve fumbles with the tissue box that’s in the countertop, pulling out a couple.

“Bless you,” Tony says warmly. “You’re just a little sick, honey.”

“A sick mess, then,” Steve says into the tissue, and he looks a little bashful when he has to blow his nose, turning away from Tony.

Tony leans in to press a kiss to Steve’s shoulder before reaching around him to grab his phone. Unlocking it, he reopens Twitter and starts scrolling. He doesn’t get to read more than a few tweets before Steve’s large hand covers the screen.

“Don’t look at that,” he whines. “It’s horrible.” Steve knows he sounds petulant and childish, but he’s too annoyed to care.

Tony chuckles, though, which makes him even more annoyed, and Steve huffs, not understanding why Tony is suddenly laughing at him. When Tony catches Steve’s glare, he just smiles.

“They’re not so bad,” Tony shrugs. Steve rolls his eyes and start to pull away. “Hey, they could’ve been a lot worse. Most of these are either just people being concerned or saying how cute you look, which I wholeheartedly agree with.”

Steve hesitantly removes his hand and peeks over Tony’s shoulder as he continues going through the trending topic.

Most them are actually quite sweet, Steve has to admit, and he even finds himself smiling at a few of them.

“See, that’s cute,” Tony says, pointing to a tweet that reads,

I hope our precious bean remembers to take care of himself and get plenty of rest and drink lots of tea. @tonystark pls give @captsteverogers all the cuddles! #GodBlessAmerica

Steve hums, the corners of his mouth quirking upwards as he nuzzles his nose into Tony’s hair. Then a video pops into view, and Tony scrolls past it, but Steve is curious and asks Tony to go back up.

“What’s that?” he points to the video.

Tony taps on it, and footage of Steve at the press conference yesterday pops up. The camera is zoomed in on him, and Steve immediately recognizes the scene.

At first it’s just the nose rubbing and consistent throat-clearing, but 20 seconds into the video, though, a familiar melody starts playing in the background, and Steve sighs. He’s so tired of hearing Star Spangled Man being played in any situation let alone this one. The rest of the recording basically just shows all of Steve’s sneezes, the almost-sneezes, and coughs with the underlying music, and that’s really all Steve remembers, because he wants to pretend he never saw that video as soon as it’s over.

“I know I was just starting to accept this but I take it back. This is horrible,” Steve groans. He tries to take the phone out of Tonys hand, and he would probably delete the Twitter-app if he got the chance to do so.

Tony clutches it to his chest, though, and shakes his head at Steve. “Look, I know you think this sucks, I thought so, too, the first time. But come on, Steve, it’s funny,” he claims, smiling while saying it. “Besides, look at all your fans! They adore you, they just want to make sure you’re okay.”

“What do you mean you thought so too?”

“Uh, sorry—?” Tony blinks at Steve, brow furrowed.

“You said you thought it sucked the first time too. What did you mean by that?”

Tony exhales, laughs a little, at turns to look into Steve’s eyes. “You think none of my sneezes have been caught on camera?” He asks, raising his eyebrows.

Steve doesn’t know how to answer. He just looks blankly at Tony, like he’s still not quite sure what Tony’s trying to say.

“There are numerous compilation videos of me sneezing on the internet,” the brunette explains. “Interviews, press conferences, talk shows, even just videos of me walking down the street. But that’s what you get for being a public figure. They sometimes catch you at the worst moments. God, the amount of content they must have of me sneezing through all of allergy season would be truly astonishing—“

Steve chuckles a little, tightening his arms around Tony.

“— and yeah, it’s a little embarrassing at first, but looking back on it, it’s actually quite funny.”

“I really don’t see how you can find that funny, babe,” Steve says, smiling and shaking his head at Tony.

Tony seems to take that as a challenge and quickly goes to YouTube, typing something into the search bar.

“Tony, I don’t—“ Steve doesn’t accept the phone when Tony tries to hand it to him.

“Come on, Steve, just watch it.”

Steve sighs and takes the phone. The video is about 2 and a half minutes long and just like Tony had said, there’re videos of him sneezing in a variety of different settings: some at a talk show Steve can’t remember the name of, some at a some sort of conference, a couple of Tony walking through Central Park. There is even one of him right after a battle, still wearing the Iron Man armour but with his helmet off.

“They’re different now,” Steve comments when the video ends.

“Sorry?” Tony says, not understanding what Steve meant. “What’s different?”

Steve’s lips quirk upwards. “Your sneezes. They’re different. Now you always lean away from however you’re talking to, and you always excuse yourself beforehand...” Steve smiles bashfully, realizing he knows all these small details about Tony that are so obscure but so clear in Steve’s mind.

Tony smiles too, probably realizing the same thing. “That kinda sounds like someone I know... I think you’re rubbing off on me, Rogers,” he says and stands on his tiptoes to reach Steve’s cheek with his lips.

Steve leans into the soft touch of warmth and returns the gesture with a kiss to Tony’s forehead.

“I kinda get what you meant about it being cute when I sneeze, though” Steve mumbles into Tony’s hair after a few moments of silence.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah... You looked adorable in that video, with your face all scrunched up like that.”

That makes Tony laugh, makes his eyes gleam and crinkle slightly at the corners. Then Tony’s eyes draw away from Steve’s and move further down his face until his gaze reaches the pink tip of Steve’s nose. With a mischievous look, he leans up to place a delicate peck right on the centre of it. His lips barely touch Steve before his nose twitches and he has to duck his head into his shoulder.

“hehhIIssh! tchSH!”

Wasting no time, Tony takes Steve’s face in both of his hands, pulling him down into a deep, eager kiss before mumbling against Steve’s lips, “God bless America.”

[nautiscarader]

Year of the cow, or how I stopped worrying and loved the meme (BBRae)

Beast Boy's and Raven's relationship is truly one of the most subtle and emotional ones I have seen. There are lots of fantastically written fics which dive deep into characterisation and their nuanced, complicated emotions, showing complex colours of the spectrum of love.

Unfortunately, you have made a mistake clicking on one of my fics.

This is a birthday present for my buddy, ZekkKiray, and it revolves around a meme which I really found irritating... And I wondered how other characters might have reacted to it. Happy birthday, man!

yes, still half hour till midnight in my time zone, made it.

BBRae, 4k, E, (Ao3)

==========

As the Sun slowly hid on the horizon, Jump City, just like every city and town in the world, was slowly preparing for a glorious celebration. People were ready to welcome the new year with dances, parties and optimism encouraged by copious amounts of alcohol.

But not everyone was interested in partying and throwing caution to the wind. Five superheroes traversed the town's rooftops, watching over many celebrations, and ideal breeding grounds for crime, big or small.

Robin, Starfire, Cyborg, Raven and Beast Boy set out to patrol the city, to ensure that this momentous occasion won't be disturbed by any wrong-doer...

And quite quickly decided to join the party. Well, some of them. Robin sighed when he realised that his team has disbanded to join the crowd of onlookers, cheering and applauding the band on the colorful stage, that would soon be replaced by another group, hired just to play one or two hits for some quick cash.

Raven stayed to the side as well, keeping her eye not only at her friends, but the crowd, though her attention was suddenly caught by the dancers on the stage. Three women, dressed in black-and-white horned costumes, performing a synchronised dance, much to the delight of the audience.

- Er, and what exactly is that? Some sort of fad...?

- Oh, no, friend Raven! - Starfire was eager to explain - Robin has told me it's a Chinese calendar! And the Chinese have chosen an animal to represents each year, and...

- Oh, yeah, right. - Raven interrupted her - And lemme guess, this year's a cow?

- Ox, technically. - Robin chimed in - And it's not even started yet, it's based on a lunar one, so it will be somewhere in February.

Raven looked at the women in their silly costumes, dancing and playfully jiggling their fake udders and cow-bells to the beat of the music.

- Meh, whatever, it's gonna be over soon. Oh, by the way, this guys was pickpocketing. - Raven spoke nonchalantly, her shadow coiling around a burly man's throat.

By January fourth, however, Raven was seeing cows everywhere. Television, billboards, the internet... especially the internet. She felt as if it was a single-themed Halloween party that somehow stretched to a week.

And the boys weren't helping. While Robin remained reasonably level-headed, Cyborg and Beast Boy were having times of their lives, enjoying every single appearance of the costumes in real life, or in any media.

The worst thing was, Raven wasn't even sure why the fad irritated her so much. There were much more asinine things out there. But something about that fad was driving her nuts.

At the very least, there was Starfire, who sometimes was able to understand her.... or so Raven thought until she returned one day from the market with plastic cow-horns on her head a bell around her neck.

Raven groaned at the sight of his friend and stormed out of the common room, pushing away few streamers, still lingering after the new year's party.

She closed door to her room behind her and embraced the darkness and silence that allowed her to meditate and focus her powers...

And then she heard the faint jingling of the cowbells from behind the wall.

The purple flames on the candles around her shot up to the ceiling, as Raven tried to control her irritation.

She barked and grabbed her mirror, disappearing into her private void that extinguished the flames she ignited.

Raven walked down the floating rocks that paved her dimension, encased in darkness, illuminated by just few stars and distant galaxies. The ravens flew away in fear, as she glided forward, hoping to find some peace and quiet here...

- Hiya!

But of course, in this realm, she was never truly alone.

A woman dressed in pink jumped from behind a nearby rock, causing Raven to cease her movement just for a while, before she promptly decided to ignore her own emoticlone.

- Oh come on, you haven't been here for ages! - the jovial embodiment of happiness continued - We've been having SO much fun here!

- Great. Leave me alone.

But before she could react, Pink grabbed her and steered her off-path, flying down a different route, loudly announcing their presence.

- Hey guys. looks who's here! - she shouted, waving the arm she wasn't using to maneuver Raven between rocks.

- Oh, great, our big sister... - the Orange mumbled from behind a couch-shaped rock

- Have-have we done something wrong? - the timid Graphite pulled over her cloak

- Judging from your prolonged absence, something extraordinary must have happened. - Yellow interjected, eyeing Raven with curious stare.

Raven let out another groan.

- It's nothing. Leave me-

- Oh, is it about you-know-who?

Violet's sly and suggestive voice prompted Raven to pause mid-turn. her eye twitched.

- Ooh, very brave of you to tackle the most common problem of your visits! - Green added at once. - He can be annoying...

- I've said...

A blast of energy erupted around her, as Raven turned away, but couldn't finish her sentence. There was one emotion left, and she knew very well what can summon her, and it was already too late.

- Come on, say it.

Red spoke, gleaming with a subtle, yet unmistakeable triumph in her voice.

- I'm done with you. - Raven answered and continued her walk, before being predictably stopped again

- Oh sure, is this why you have almost brought me back? - she sneered - And for such petty reason...

- Ooh, tell us, tell us! - Pink chimed in, before being brought aside by Yellow

- Let me do it...

Red spoke and spread her arms, giving the other emoticlones chance to glimpse into what little she have seen.

- That... that is quite an insignificant reason to bring back *her* - Yellow judged - Are you sure it's adequate?

- I'm just afraid this will backfire... - Graphite meeped from behind her

- But I was right - Violet added - It is about him...

- ENOUGH!

Raven burst with energy, silencing her living emotions.

- We just want you to say it, so we can... help you.

The Red emoticlone stood in her way, finally making her stop. Her presence cast a shadow of fear on the lesser creatures of this realm, and even some other emoticlones that dared not to approach her. Red's voice was strangely polite, though Raven knew she must have an ulterior motive behind it.

- And you know what the answer to your problem is.

Anger reached her arm and waited for Raven's response. She couldn't meet her eyes. She was right, of course, but at the same time, embracing the violent and unpredictable part of her nature, reminding her of her father's legacy filled her with disgust...

- But you will not be alone with it. - Violet suddenly joined.

- And while it may look odd, this might be an opportunity to broaden your horizons. - Yellow continued.

- And let's face it, you've done weirder things, but you never cowered away! - Green shouted.

- Besides, it's gonna be so much fun! - Pink smiled.

Raven lifted her hood and looked at the other emoticlones, all awaiting her decision.

Knowing she's delaying the inevitable, with a heavy sigh, Raven made her decision.

===============

Garfield knew better not to interrupt Raven. He has made that mistake a few times in his life, and he still had his life only because Raven was his friend.

Still, seeing her angry was painful, thought not as much as the silent treatment he was getting from her. Beast Boy hesitated for a moment, and just before he was about to knock on her doors, he stopped himself.

With a sigh, he turned around and returned to his room, finding someone already inside.

At first, Garfield thought he was dreaming. But after a few blinks, he realised that the marvellous, dreamy sight in front of his eyes was real, and it made his heart skip a beat.

Raven's trademark, dark-blue attire was gone, replaced by a white costume dotted with black-and-brown spots. Her long legs were covered in fishnets with the same pattern, and as his eyes travelled up, he realised what was exerting the gravitational force that was pulling him that way...

The skin-tight costume had changed his perception, perhaps, but even then, Raven' nipples were just a fraction of an inch away from slipping, as her breast were simply too big to stay hidden in any article of clothing.

And when he looked at her horned head again, he noticed a faint smile on her face, contrasting so much with her demeanour over the past few days. She shifted her legs, spreading them slightly, giving him just a small tease of what was to come, and with her eyes fixated at him, she spoke.

- Moo, I guess.

- Oh, momma!

And before she knew it, Beast Boy leapt onto her with the grace and agility of a frog, diving between her enlarged breasts, and feeling the delicate, cushioning texture engulf his head almost entirely. And at the same time, with his fingers digging into the material, he freed Raven's breasts, hungrily kissing each square inch of her body as if his life depended on it.

- Gar... - Raven moans, feeling her boyfriend wriggling against her bosom

- I see someone has changed her mind...

- You can say that... - Raven replied, hiding the moan that was about to escape her lips.

- I guess you took Starfire's approach and visited the market? - Beast Boy joked, between his kisses - Or, wait, no, you ordered it online so no one will know, right?

- Let's just say I didn't have to order it...

For a moment, Beast Boy pondered the meaning of her words, until he realised that he has seen her outfit once before. Well, without the black-and-brown blots. And as the realisation dawned on him, he let out a gasp, as Raven's eyes glowed white.

Only one of the spots was brown. There was a pink, yellow, green one...

Her most powerful form, the combination of all of her emotions sat on his bed, emanating raw magical, warm energy that could easily vaporise him if she wanted to. Beast Boy suspected the horns weren't plastic either, and that he has just made a few snarky jokes to a demonic sorceress orders of magnitude more powerful than him.

And yet, she was still smiling.

- I just... - Raven swallowed - Couldn't stand you ogling all those cartoon anime girls on-line, in their stupid cow costumes. So I had to fight fire with fire.

- Aww... - Beast Boy cooed - Is my Raven jealous?

- YES. - the demon spoke in deep, rumbling voice that shook some of the objects on the shelves.

The spots on her White costumes suddenly glowed with ominous, red aura, as blood in Garfield's veins froze.

Her face was inches away from his, and only when she felt his hastened breath, she calmed down, and her spots returned to their original colours, just as the red aura disappeared from her eyes. She reached her hands and cupped his face, glad that he did not back away, as her anger overtook her. Their lips met, and Raven poured her apologies into him in a long, delicate kiss.

- And you will have to pay for it. - she smiled, giving Garfield clear sign she was everything under control, including him.

- Rae... - Garfield whined - You-you know I'd never... they... they don't mean anything...

- Then prove it.

Raven used the moment of hesitation to engulf him and with one sharp move of her hands and her magic, she ripped his clothes to shreds and brought her lover closer to her. With his shorts gone, Raven's eyes fixated on his cock, and had to restrain herself from licking her lips, as its head came closer and closer to her face. But of course neither of them would settle on just a blowjob, given the magic Raven cast upon herself.

Beast Boy jumped onto her breasts again, peppering them with plethora of hungry, ravenous kisses. Knowing already her bosom by heart, he know had a whole new territory to explore, and he did that with impeccable dedication. But as his lips closed around her nipple, he received a taste of something unexpected. His eyes widened, and met hers, as sweet substance made contact with his tongue. The sly smile on her lips remained, but as Beast Boy began lapping her milk, her face was torn with a new grimace he hasn't seen yet, and Raven was more than eager to experience.

Garfield moved from one nipple to the other, wishing he could transform into some creature with two heads. As Raven squirmed and moaned underneath him, he wondered what will happen soon, and with his hand manoeuvring between her thighs, he was determined to discovered that.

Her back arched, as his fingers reached her wet spot and slipped underneath her costume, just as his tongue coiled around her nipple again. Though she was trying to contain her emotions, the spots on her costume glowed in violet with each kiss and delicate move of his fingers against or inside her sex, and soon, Raven was thrashing underneath him, ready to burst.

And when she did, it was not with energy, but with milk that filled Beast Boy's mouth, in an act that surprised both of them.

Raven quaked for a few more minutes, coating his fingers with her juices he now lapped as eagerly as the new one she produced for him. Beast Boy made sure to wait until she was looking at him when he licked his lips, tasting both.

- Come'ere, I'm thirsty too... - she huffed, and settled herself amongst the pillows, ready to invite him.

Beast Boy let out a dreamy sigh, as his cock slid between her breasts, engulfing him completely with the delicate, heavenly texture only her breasts could provide. And when Raven gently pushed her mounds together, she added the missing part of friction, making Beast Boy throw his head back, even though he hasn't moved an inch.

But as he looked down at his girlfriend, he met her unusually frisky eyes, and with that, he flexed his muscles. Next thing she knew, his hands were on her horns, and he pushed his hips forward, diving deep into her bosom.

His action was a bit sudden and Raven's eyes opened wide when she realised that her head was pulled forward and that his twitching tip was now a fraction of an inch from her lips. And as she was about to open them, he pulled back and began his thrusts, mewling and moaning with each one, as pleasure slowly engulfed him.

He was in trance, brought by the alluring sight of his girlfriend and her magically enlarged bosom and thge reward they were leaking. And as Raven promised, she wanted one of her own: now, with every rapid thrust, her tongue lapped a drop or two of his pre-cum, in turn only generating more samples of what was to come. Raven was pretty sure what was his plan, but she opened her lips wide anyway, hoping to catch at least some of his oncoming climax.

- Rae...Rae... I LOVE YOU!

And with that proclamation, beast Boy dived balls-deep between her magically enlarged breasts, letting her warmth and size cover them as well, which only strengthened his orgasm. Raven yelped when the first stream of his seed flooded her mouth, and closed her mouth just in time to suck a bit more, even though she knew what was the sight he wanted to see.

As he pulled back, his cock was still twitching, spurting more and more of his virility in the valley between her mounds, until it slowly started to spill down, glazing her breasts with the sticky proof of his devotion.

And just as he thought he has seen it all, Raven dragged her finger across her breasts, hoping to catch as much of his cum as possible before it all drips to the bed. she parted her fingers to show the sticky strands between them before she closed her lips around them and made him collapse to his back from the simple act of tasting him.

- That was fun - she spoke, as most of his seed made it to her lips. - But you know what every cow needs, right?

Raven asked, lapping the last bit of cum from her tits. She leaned forward and with the same low, salacious tone as before, whispered the words that Beast Boy already had on his mind.

- Her bull...

His green body grew in a split of second, transforming him, but not in the form of the animal Raven expected. While his head became elongated and grew bovine horns, his torso and arms remained human, though much more muscular, and only the addition of hooves on his legs and a tail truly made her realise what he was now: a minotaur.

But of course, hooves and tail was not what piqued Raven's interest the most, as her eyes looked down at the figure towering over her.

This time, she could not stop herself and her lust; Raven licked a small droplet of drool that formed on her lips, and reached her hand to experience the enormous, throbbing organ whose glistening head was now once more inches away from her lips.

But her lover didn't want another blowjob. As steam-like cloud escaped his nostrils, Beast Boy grabbed her and effortlessly slammed her onto his cock, watching as the sorceress lets out a silent moan.

When he went down on her, Raven tried to maintain at least some dignity. But now, as her sex was filled completely with his monstrous cock, she threw all of the pretence away and babbled her lover's name, while the blots on her costume pulse violet each time his cock reached her depths, time after time, depraving her of common sense, as bliss slowly overtook her mind.

But not until she has managed to speak one last wish.

- D-Do what you are supposed to!

Raven screamed, her voice vibrating with the erratic thrusts her entire body was subjected to.

- Mate me! Breed me!

Another roar escaped his mouth, and Raven took a gasp of air just in time to expel it, as Beast Boy shoved himself deeper inside her throbbing pussy that before, firmly positioning himself as far as possible, right against her core, he now bathed in first deluge of his seed. And with his thick, monster cock forming an air-tight seal, not a drop of his virility could leak out, and was forced up into her womb. What would have been impossible for any other man became a child's play for him, letting Raven experience the impossible.

And with the flood of his warm seed filling her, came her orgasm, making Raven thrash around his cock, as if she was a puppet on his mercy. With each wave that flooded and promptly overflowed her sex, came a new sensation of being filled and claimed, and in turn, each simultaneously extinguished fire in her loins, and set it anew...

At some point, Raven fell back to the bed, feeling her pussy pulse with each after-wave of her climax, while Beast Boy's seed oozed onto the bed. She wasn't sure how long her after-glow lasted, but she knew what brought her back to her senses.

Her breasts were kissed again, with the same tender and care the minotaur would never learn. Beast Boy was his regular self, taking care of her body his monstrous form has neglected, listening to her breath slowly becoming less and less erratic.

She looked up and their eyes met, while Garfield locked his lips around her nipple again, drinking her orgasm.

- Hey.

- Hey. - she replied - I guess people were right, those cow costumes do work.

- Rae, you could dress like a platypus and you'd be sexy.

Raven smiled, and her hand reached to her lover's cheek, prompting him to leave her nipple.

Their lips met again, and though she thought she would be tired by now, she welcomed him again, especially as his hands now roamed her thighs and ass.

She let out another moan, seemingly far louder than a moment before, but maybe it was because her voice wasn't drowned by the beast's low grunts, but Garfield's borderline cute huffs.

And even though he was now much shorter and thinner than before, somehow Raven felt fuller than when a giant minotaur ravaged her. Maybe it was his kisses, dotting her breasts and lapping her milky fluid, maybe it was his delicate, but steady grip of his hands on her thighs... or maybe it was the unspoken promise they mentioned...

As they kept coming closer, the empath suddenly grabbed his cheeks and pulled him against her, not to kiss, but to find emotions raging in his mind. And she found them - those of love, protection, dedication and responsibility, which easily pushed her to the edge...

She cried out his name just as he flooded her again, this time with his essence, and even though Raven knew it was impossible, she somehow felt the difference in warmth that filled her sex.

As the two breathed in the same air, Raven gently moved her hand between her body, feeling the warmth of his body above her, and his cock and seed inside. She could undo the spell right now, and change their lives forever... And she had to admit, it would be a very apt moment... but then again, she would rob them of many, many heated moments like these.

It's a good thing she buddied up with Yellow as much as with Violet for this ride.

The two lay ion each other's arms for quite some time, savouring each other's scents and warmth, until Raven found strength and motivation to speak.

- So, got any more silly internet memes trending?

Beast Boy smiled and reached for his phone.

=============

Winter this year was snow-less, rainy and mild, like for the past half a decade or so. But that only made the New Year's eve less cumbersome, as it meant less time traversing through mounds of snow. Plus, it meant the Titans' Tower rooftop wasn't off limits.

- I thought this place, at this time would be the worst to meditate. - Beast Boy spoke - The whole sky's gonna be on fire in five minutes.

- Yeah, but maybe I wanted to watch.

He sat next to her, listening to far-away sounds of concerts and premature celebration. He scooted a few inches closer to her, and let out a short meep when her cape covered him.

- I wonder what this year will bring us. - he spoke, ruining the quiet, charming moment.

- I do - Raven answered quickly. - This year is gonna be of the tiger.

Raven spoke and undid a button of her cape that joined the two, freeing her breasts. Beast Boy swallowed loudly, seeing the moonlight shining onto her skin, and making her bosom look bigger with no additional magic required.

- Why don't we practice, kitty?

And with that, the night's air was filled with a powerful roar of a predator cat that has just found its very willing prey.

[wickedmilo]

HYPOTHETICALLY | MILO & MORGAN

PLACE: Outside White Crest University TIMING: 10:05 PM SUMMARY: Milo approaches his old professor to ask her some suspiciously specific but definitely ‘hypothetical’ questions WRITING PARTNER: @mor-beck-more-problems CONTENT WARNINGS: Drug mentions, addiction mentions, mild references to PTSD

Milo felt a little ridiculous. It was beyond stupid to assume any professor had knowledge of the supernatural beyond what was taught on the curriculum, but he had been spending a lot of time around the university building due to his newfound friendship with Orion. And so many memories were resurfacing, memories of lectures on vampires, and discussions on werewolves. Presentations on witches, and how their representation in mainstream media was problematic. It was highly unlikely this focus meant anything more than Professor Beck had a secret love of Twilight. Honestly, absolutely nothing would surprise him at this point. But he had to try, he needed to try. Every day his control was growing stronger, albeit in incredibly small increments. But the work had to count for something, and settling into his new life was leaving him with far too much time to think. He still couldn’t remember very much of his death, and certainly no incriminating details that might lead him to discover the identity of his killer. But he did know the club had been crowded, he did know the nightlife was often frequented by students.  

It had been burning at the back of his mind, leaving him restless, and uncomfortable. With no culprit, with no sire to name, he couldn’t blame anybody but himself for his situation. Maybe if he could look into the eyes of the person who had taken his life, if he could ask them why they had decided to turn him, he could lift the weight from his shoulders, he could finally stop feeling responsible in some twisted, and soul destroying way. Sure, he had made a dumb, and reckless decision. His entire life had been composed of them for years. But that didn’t mean he deserved to die. That didn’t mean he deserved to be broken, and abandoned. Left to figure things out on his own. Night had only just fallen, and he didn’t trust himself to slip into the school building unnoticed when there were still so many people around. So he waited outside like some crazy stalker. He probably counted as one, who was he kidding? He had looked up the schedule for Beck’s classes online in the hope of catching her on her way to the parking lot. She had technically finished her final lecture but part of him was worried she might end up working overtime. Wasn’t that something professors liked to do? The last thing he wanted was to stand for hours, staring at the patch of grass where Dani had last attacked him.  

But for the first time in a long time, something seemed to go right. Dropping his cigarette to the floor, he recognised Beck as she hurried down the stone steps, and immediately began to make his way towards her. He wasn’t sure whether she would recognise him from her classes. He had graduated a year ago, and even then his attendance had been unreliable. When he did decide to make an appearance it was always smelling of pot, or coming down from the previous night’s substance of choice. “Professor Beck!” He called. “Uh, Morgan Beck?” Could he call her that? It felt weird, even though he was no longer one of her students. “Hey- I’m sorry, it’s- it’s Milo… Summers. You probably don’t remember me, but I was in your class a while back and I was wondering if I could maybe ask you some questions?”  

Morgan didn’t like to stay late on campus anymore. She thanked the mother of earth for longer days, but time still got away from her now and then. When Morgan noticed the darkening sky this time, she thought she heard the hunter child stepping out of a room, knife raised. Quickly, she threw her things into her bag and started hurrying out the building. She couldn’t figure out if she would be safer going down the service stairs or trying to chase some straggler students to walk with for safety and so zig zagged through each. As she came out on the main floor, she saw a group of boys outside the big lecture hall. They looked like they were about to leave, and maybe she could walk close enough behind them but it would only be safe if they really were just students. Hunters didn’t go in packs on campus, did they? If she found any like that, would she even stand a chance? How far would she get before they pinned her down? How loud would she have to scream for anyone to come running? Morgan tripped on the stone steps out the building as she rushed past them.  

She was moving so fast she didn’t see the other boy loitering nearby and when he called her name she screamed, backing away. But she knew this face. “M-milo,” she wheezed, trying to force air back into her lungs. “You startled me. I’m sorry.” She winced. “It’s good to see you again. I thought you graduated, though?” That wasn’t relevant. Morgan waved away the rest with her hand. “What is it that I can help you with, exactly? I’m heading home right now, to my family. They’re already expecting me. So, we can walk and talk, huh?” She looked briefly at the walkways that cut through the arts quad and set her sights on the one crowded with the most people. Not closest to the parking lot, but she could worry about that part later. “Scenic route sound good?” 

Milo flinched, almost stumbling backwards at the sheer force of the sound. Morgan’s scream seemed to echo in his ears and for a moment he took the time to curse his new heightened senses. “Fuck-” He breathed, staring at his old professor with a look of shock of his face. If he still needed oxygen he knew he would be catching his breath right about now. He shouldn’t judge really, there could be any number of reasons she was so easily scared. But it was the last reaction he had been expecting from her, and therefore the last reaction he had been prepared for. “No shit, I startled you.” He laughed, calming down after such a jarring response to his presence. In a way, it almost worked out. The distraction was making it far too easy not to dwell on why he was here, on what he was about to ask. “Yeah, last year.” He agreed, weirdly flattered that she remembered him although he doubted she didn’t have fond memories.  

At the mention of her family, he felt an unexpected pang of guilt. Maybe it wasn’t fair to approach her after work. If there had been any other way to do this, he liked to think he would have made the effort to find it. “I’m sorry,” he insisted. “We can walk and talk, it won’t take long.” He wasn’t sure why he was promising that when he couldn’t possibly know, but it felt like the right thing to say. “Uh…” A frown creased his brow as he eyed the route she was choosing to the parking lot. Something was definitely bothering her, but it wasn’t exactly his place to try and figure out what. “Sure?” He said, unable to hide the fact that he was a little confused by her behaviour. Brushing off any concern, he pushed down every part of himself not entirely convinced this was a good idea. He needed to find who had done this to him. Letting it go simply wasn’t an option, and Morgan Beck was his first lead. “I have some questions about- well, about the supernatural.”  

Morgan tried to cover her fright with a knowing laugh. This is fine! I’m definitely not freshly traumatized! The important thing was that Milo had agreed to walk with her along a nice, busy, public route with lots of witnesses. She made a point of waving to a faculty member as they walked. She didn’t know the woman, but she waved back awkwardly, trying to place Morgan in her head, and would therefore maybe remember her and who she was last seen with. She was so busy looking for someone else to spot her, someone she actually knew who might care a little bit, she almost missed Milo’s question. “The--supernatural? Like, um, one of the texts we studied? Or a project you’re doing on your own? Or--” Or the real thing. Including who and what she was. “Maybe if you could, uh, be more specific, I’ll know if I can help.” 

Unable to tear his gaze away from Morgan, her odd behaviour was becoming increasingly obvious to Milo. But he wasn’t sure pushing her to explain what was wrong would help either of them. If anything, it would probably result in her running from him, and he was so desperate for answers to his questions he couldn’t bring himself to risk it. If she continued to look so genuinely frightened, he would ask her before he left. Until then, he decided he would do his best to ignore the waves, the long routes, and the stumbling over her words. “Uh, no… not really.” He admitted, sheepishly rubbing the back of his neck. “More like… whether you believe in it?” He mentally prepared himself for any number of reactions, namely laughter, or claims of his insanity. If there was a more subtle way of asking, one that didn’t make him sound like a conspiracy theorist, he would jump on it. But as far as he could tell, this was the only real way of being direct. “Look, I know it sounds…” Crazy, ridiculous, insane, like a terrible fucking joke. “I know it does- I’m only curious. You focused on it a lot in your lectures, you know?” 

He didn’t sound like he was goading her, Morgan had to admit. If he was a hunter, he sounded a lot more nervous than he had any reason to be. At last she slowed and turned to look at him beside her. She had killed too many people to believe she could tell what a murderer looked like. But he didn’t look like he was cutting her open in his mind. He looked sad, maybe even desperate. 

“I did, yeah,” she admitted quietly. “I believe in a lot of things most people don’t. Including a lot of the things I talked about in class. Not in the way, exactly, they’re portrayed in books. But those...ideas, those figures, those people…” She looked sidelong at Milo again. “I know of a lot more resources than novels written by humans. What is it that you’re afraid of telling me, Milo?”

Slowing to Morgan’s pace, Milo continued to watch her, almost analysing her to determine what was causing her so much stress. It was impossible to know, not without her telling him, but this town had thrown an impossible amount of shit his way, and he was beginning to realise he wasn’t the only person to fall victim to the Weird of White Crest. Was Morgan Beck stressed? Or had she seen something? Maybe something she wasn’t supposed to see? Surprised by her sudden shift in demeanour, her voice was quiet when she spoke again, and it forced him to focus. The panic of before seemed to fade away, replaced by a genuine softness that he remembered from her lectures. He hadn’t been expecting an immediate yes, and he couldn’t hide the fact that it had taken him by surprise, but he was immensely relieved to realise they might be on the same page... sort of. “Wait- you do?” He echoed, as though he needed confirmation before being able to accept what he was hearing. “You believe in the supernatural? You’re not fucking with me?” If he had been unsure of this meeting before, he was finally convinced he had approached the right person. She clearly wasn’t going to judge him, and she was willing to answer him honestly. That was good.

People. The word was emphasised in a way that only furthered his suspicion. It almost sounded as though she had argued with others in the past, debated whether supernatural creatures counted as people, or whether they should be written off as monsters. Nearly getting lost in thought, it took him a few seconds to register Morgan’s own question, and he came to a sudden halt, eyes wide as he was hit by the implications of what she was asking him. How did she know there was more to this conversation? How did she know there was more to who he was now? Reaching absentmindedly to rub at the base of his neck, the scars there were incredibly faint, barely noticeable to anybody who wouldn’t be able to recognise them for what they were. They were evidence of his struggle, of his change, a reminder of everything he had lost. Feeling them beneath his fingertips encouraged him to stay. If he left then he wasn’t going to learn anything, and he would be no closer to finding the person responsible for taking his life. “Nothing.” He insisted, a breathless laugh escaping him as he did everything he could to sound casual. “I mean- I just wanted to ask, you know? It doesn’t- it doesn’t mean anything. I don’t have anything to hide- I mean, I’m not hiding anything. This is all… strictly hypothetical.” 

Morgan didn’t miss the way Milo changed as soon as he heard her answer. She winced with guilt, remembering how upset Bex had been when she’d tried to deny the whole zombie regeneration thing. “I...do. Yes. I’m not fucking with you.” In a fairer world, this wouldn’t have to be such a fraught conversation, or a secret one. She wouldn’t have to wonder if one of her students was about to hurt her, or if she was walking into some sort of normie joke, or something else equally dangerous and stupid. 

Milo must have been making the same calculations in his head, because no sooner did she do that than did he backpedal away from her follow up questions. 

“I appreciate the whole ‘hypothetical’ thing, Milo, I do. But if you know something or saw something, if something happened to you…” She let out a long, stiff breath. “I’m not going to give you any shit if it happens to be something I’ve never heard of before. But I’ve had a year into the weird side of this town, so I’m pretty hard to surprise. Actually, you know what, I dare you to surprise me, hypothetically or not.”

Milo fell silent, too curious to know what his old professor wanted to say, but also too anxious to trust himself to speak without taking any time to filter his thoughts. It was uncomfortable, navigating such a strange conversation. He felt a little like he was walking on a tightrope. If he fell too far one way, he might never get the answer he was looking for. If he fell too far the other way, he might out himself as a vampire and potentially put himself in danger. A smile tugging at his lips, despite everything, he couldn’t help feeling amused by hearing a member of staff swear so openly. The humour very rapidly faded though, when he was reminded of why they were talking. If something happened to you… He wanted to ask whether something had happened to her, but he couldn’t seem to form the words. That wasn’t why he was here. He didn’t want to talk about what he was, he didn’t want to be asked about what he was. “Nothing happened to me.” He insisted, sounding more confident in the statement than he previously had, but answering too quickly to be convincing. “I told you, it’s hypothetical.” 

He wasn’t sure his company was going to believe him, but so long as he didn’t prove anything, so long as he didn’t outright admit anything to Morgan, then he was safe, right? She would write him off as weird, or overly curious, and nothing more. At least, that’s what he told himself in order to force out what he really wanted to discuss. “Okay… hypothetically,” he started, his voice slow as he attempted to gauge her reaction to his words. “Do you think there might be vampires at this college, and hypothetically, do you think these vampires maybe sometimes go to the bars and clubs downtown?”

Whatever lingering fears Morgan had about Milo being a hunter or hunter-adjacent fell away as he stumbled through his question. When he finally came out with it, she had to stop herself from smirking with how banal it turned out to be. “Hypothetically, yes,” she said. “Easily. I would be more surprised if there weren’t any, with how reckless and vulnerable undergrads are. And, hypothetically, vampires would just be people with an unfortunately limited appetite and sunlight aversion, so of course they’d do all the normal things people do. Maybe even be a part of night life even more. I mean, unless, you know, they hypothetically popped out of the grave as grr-argh spawn-y times. Because that’s, you know...possibly a thing.” Stars above, she hated this. 

At last Morgan stopped and turned to face Milo head on. “Milo, are you trying to say you maybe met a vampire at a club? Because if you met a vampire at a club and you like them and want to keep talking to them, there’s nothing wrong with that, you just need to have really clear communication and honesty to make you’re being careful with each other.”

The sense of satisfaction Milo felt when Morgan said yes was short lived. He had somebody who was telling him it was very possible the vampire who attacked him was attending the uni, or otherwise, might be an alumni. But he had been so focused on this step, he wasn’t sure how to move forward. What did he do with this now? Where did he go from here? Spawn-y. Huh. It wasn’t a term he had stumbled across and he was itching to ask what she meant, but sounding too eager would be counterproductive. He made a mental note to ask Harsh instead, adding it to the list already forming in his head. He really should start writing down his questions. No doubt the older vampire wouldn’t mind taking the time to answer them. Glancing up at the stars too, he frowned, unable to help himself. ‘Normal people’ because he was no longer normal. Because being supernatural wasn’t normal. 

It was only when she spoke again that he was pulled back out of his thoughts, and he turned to look at Morgan with outright disbelief. She was being so casual, she didn’t seem worried about sounding insane, or obsessed like some desperate Twilight fangirl. She was talking about vampires like she knew they existed, like they were unquestionably real, a part of every day life, and it was just that simple. She seemed to be relaxing somewhat, which was why he allowed a laugh to escape him. Jeez, how much easier would his life be right now if she was right? If his biggest problem was knowing a vampire... “Why do you talk like that?” He asked finally, unable to help himself. “Like you’re so sure it all exists? I haven’t met a vampire, because they aren’t real… right? Like, nobody has met a vampire.” She wasn’t going to agree with him after so readily admitting she believed in their existence, but he was trying to avoid any further suspicion. “I’m just… I just wanted to know what you thought. So, hypothetically… and not for- not for like, malicious reasons, if somebody wanted to find a vampire, do you know how would they go about doing that?” 

Morgan looked at Milo, unimpressed with his two steps forward, one step back pace. “You asked me what I thought and I told you I believe in a lot of weird shit. Why are you so surprised when I follow up with the truth? And I know it’s a struggle, working through your pride and your fear on one side and how much you want this information on the other side. Because people are rude and awful and having what you know about the world turned upside down is one heck of a process. But I don’t like talking about this stuff in detail until I know what it’s for. Or if, you know, hypothetically, it’s someone’s elaborate attempt to get something for their Tiktok feed. But, hypothetically, continuing from the premise that vampires are like people but dead and with blood and sun problems, finding one would probably depend on the vampire, wouldn’t it?” She looked at him archly, daring him to come clean.

Milo frowned, realising his bullshit was apparently transparent. He had never been a terrible liar, usually his lack of sobriety depended on being able to lie. But maybe things were different now, maybe too much was riding on this particular conversation. “I don’t have any pride.” He countered. “Or fear.” He added hurriedly, not wanting Morgan to assume he might be afraid. He wasn’t afraid, he refused to be afraid. As far as he was concerned, the person he was trying to find had already done their worst. Setting his jaw, he listened to her assurances, too frustrated by the fact that she was onto him to really appreciate her words. 

“Why would you care what it’s for?” He asked, wondering whether she knew more than he had first assumed. For a while, he had been under the impression she had seen something. Something to make her suspect, something to make her believe. Nothing more than that. But what if it was more than that? What if she knew someone? Or what if she wasn’t human herself? He had so many burning questions, but he knew it would be stupid to ask them. “Can we hypothetically say it’s for a book I’m writing?”

Morgan’s eyes narrowed. “Because the right information in the wrong hands can get people killed,” she replied evenly. “And no, a book isn’t good enough. I’m sorry. I get that you’re not ready to trust me. You weren’t exactly up in my office hours all the time. But I can’t talk about something like this in detail on a hypothetical that vague and tired. I’ve even used that one before.” She came close and squeezed his shoulder gently, softening again. “When you’re ready to talk, know I’m going to probably believe you, or at least listen attentively in good faith to what you have to say.” She winced, another obvious idea coming to her. “Unless you really are writing a book. In which case I fully support your writing endeavours, but I can’t ethically disclose certain information for your research. But I’ll read your drafts or whatever else you might want my help with!” She looked into his eyes, searching. She had no idea what was wrong with this kid, why he was so worked up about this that he’d come back to campus to find her, but she had a feeling it wasn’t anything nice or happy. “Are you taking good care of yourself, this stuff aside?”

Realistically, Milo knew he should appreciate Morgan’s discretion. In withholding the information, she was stopping people from getting to it who might genuinely be trying to harm vampires, to seek them out and hurt them. She was essentially protecting him, although hopefully she didn’t know that. Still, all he could feel was annoyance, and anger. He was so close to somebody who might be able to help him, who probably could help him, but he couldn’t tell her what he was. It didn’t feel right to be so outwardly open. The few people who knew had found out through means of their own. They were supernatural themselves, or they were Hunters, and Slayers. He had yet to volunteer the information, and doing so with somebody he barely knew felt like a ridiculous risk to take. It went against everything Harsh had told him about how to stay out of trouble. Glaring at her when she rested a hand on his shoulder, he begrudgingly took a breath so that she wouldn’t be able to feel the unnatural stillness of his chest. 

“I know you’re going to believe me, that’s the fucking problem.” He muttered, shrugging off her contact. “Fuck the ethics.” He continued, growing more frustrated with each passing second. “I already told you this isn’t malicious, what more do you want from me? It isn’t like I’m asking for a step by step guide on how to kill vampires, that isn’t why I’m here.” A bitter laugh escaping him when she asked him if he was taking care of himself, he wasn’t sure why it mattered. She wasn’t willing to help him, why should she give a shit about his wellbeing? “No.” He admitted, a petulant edge to his voice. “Self care isn’t really my thing.” 

“The fucking ethics are how we survive!” Morgan hissed. Then, realizing what she’d done, she added quickly, “All of us. Normie, not-normie, living, undead, everyone. And other people’s lives aren’t fodder for morbid fascination, just because they’re undead. There’s lots of ways to hurt people, Milo. I’d rather have the truth. I’ll take some proof that you aren’t being reckless, with yourself or this vampire person you’re looking for.” And Milo’s admission of not doing self care wasn’t helping her worry. Stars above, was this kid looking to get turned? On purpose?

“That’s not really encouraging, Milo,” she said softly. “This world you’re asking about isn’t Teen Wolf and Vampire Diaries bullshit. It’s not a game. Where are you staying right now, do you need a ride home?” 

Milo stared at Morgan, stunned into silence by her words before she hurriedly corrected herself, adding to her statement in an attempt to alter the meaning. Surely, he was being paranoid. Surely, he was imagining things. It didn’t make any sense. “Uh huh…” He said, his voice slow, and deliberate. Making it clear he didn’t believe she was saying what she really meant. She had done the very same thing to him. If they were going to incessantly dance around the subject, he was going to make her work equally as hard. “Sure.” He continued to glare, his annoyance incredibly evident in his expression. I’d rather have the truth. He wanted to bite back, to tell her she hadn’t earned it, he wasn’t going to give it away quite so easily. But he forced himself to hold his tongue. “Reckless how?” He demanded. “Honestly, look at me.” He gestured to his slim frame, knowing his body appeared far weaker than it actually was. “What do you think I’m going to do? Go on some mad vampire killing spree? I don’t get it, I’m not exactly asking for sensitive information.” He didn’t care about how to kill, or how to trap. He only wanted to find someone. That felt innocent enough. 

He let a bitter laugh escape him, feigning derision at the mention of the two CW shows. “I don’t know whether to be more offended by the fact that you think I watch those shows, or the fact that you think I take them as fucking truth.” He snapped. Half being serious as he realised she clearly did think he believed those shows were accurate representations of supernatural life. Jeez, he must have given a really bad impression during the time he spent in her classes. “Don’t pretend you care.” He let out a huff of breath, pushing his hair back away from his face. He was already desperate for another cigarette, for a way to dispel the anger settling in his chest. “If you gave a shit you’d help me, I don’t need a ride home.” 

“There are lots of ways to be reckless, Milo!” Morgan said. “If you really think vampire-murder is the only stupid thing you could try to do, you are way too human for what you are looking into. The fact that you think there’s some generic catch-all method for finding one, that you don’t see how telling you how to stalk them without any context--” She shook her head, baffled, then took a breath. Milo was in over his head. He didn’t know what he was doing, and he had to be horribly, painfully desperate to be going after something like this so hard.

After a slow exhale, she said more softly, “I do give a shit. Many, actually. But I am not going to help you destroy yourself. Whatever is really making you this miserable and desperate, yes, I will help you with, however I can. But there is nothing good down this road. I can promise you that much. I know this isn’t what you were hoping for, and I’m sorry for that. I’m sorry it hurts. I know it has to hurt so badly right now, but going after this isn’t the way.” She reached into her bag and wrote her number and social media info on a post-it. “Will you take this, please? I really do want to help, Milo. Just not in a way that will make things worse for you later.”

Milo allowed a bitter laugh to escape him, unable to believe he was being called too human. He played off his amusement, directing it towards the former half of Morgan’s statement. “I’ve been plenty stupid in the past, and I’m still here.” He countered. “I don’t think there’s some generic method, that’s literally why I’m asking you for help. But whatever- it’s pretty clear I’m not about to get any.” Continuing to glare at his old professor, raising his eyebrows to show her he didn’t believe a word she was telling him, he crossed his arms over his chest. It felt good to put a barrier between them both, as though he could protect himself from the hurt and frustration of getting absolutely nowhere. But it also allowed him to hide his clenched fists, hide just how angry he actually was. “Why does everybody think I’m out to destroy myself?” He demanded, although he already knew the answer. It was painfully obvious, after all. He had given people so many reasons to be concerned for his well being, obviously they were going to take notice. 

Setting his jaw as Morgan attempted to assure him, the speech was dangerously close to the one his mom used to give him when she found him curled up on the bathroom floor, or shivering in his bed after a difficult comedown. The sentiment hadn’t worked back then, and it wasn’t about to work now. “You don’t know shit.” He snapped, annoyed she was presuming to understand what he was going through. “But thanks,” he snatched the number, resisting the urge to tear it to shreds. It might be useful in the future, he had no way of knowing, and he didn’t want to take that kind of risk. “I guess I’ll call you if I ever need someone to make me feel like an idiot.” He muttered, crumpling the paper, forcing it into the pocket of his hoodie. “Have a good night- or don’t. I’m not going to pretend to care.” Turning on his heel before Morgan could comment, he found a spiteful sense of satisfaction in leaving her alone when she was so obviously feeling nervous. Maybe later that satisfaction would turn to guilt, but for now he allowed himself to revel in it. He was going to find this vampire, with or without her help. And if he got himself into trouble doing so, well, she would just have to deal with being partially responsible.

[yasminbenoit]

I’m so proud to announce that I am the first-ever openly asexual person in Paper Magazine! It’s a great step for asexual visibility, I can’t believe I’m in a publication like this speaking about the importance of asexual visibility. Your support has made this happen. We are here, we are being seen. 

Spread the word! 

When we talk about the LGBTQIA+ community, there still isn't a lot of talk about the "A" portion, and that's something UK-based model and activist Yasmin Benoit is actively trying to change.

As an asexual and aromantic person, Benoit does not experience sexual or romantic attraction. And while she's spent the majority of her life comfortable with this knowledge, it's also something she knows isn't the case for many others — and a lot of this can be chalked up to a dearth of asexual and aromantic representation.

So, using the platform and visibility she built as a model, Benoit has spent the past two years making videos, writing posts, and giving talks about the topic, which is still rife with misinformation and harmful stereotypes. According to her, "when you say you don't experience romance and sexuality and that those things are, innately, not a part of you, people think you're less human," which she says is a result of the importance society places sexuality.

"[They say] you're robotic. You're psychopathic. I often get narcissistic," as Benoit explains, before launching into the misconceptions she has to deal with on a daily basis. The biggest one? Her occupation, especially when it comes to her work with lingerie, almost always elicits a confused public reaction. Even though the rationale behind modeling lingerie is simple: she likes the garments and enjoys mixing up her portfolio.

"People find it weird as an overlap, because I'm asexual," she explains. "People think if you're modeling lingerie, something sexual is going on. They don't realize I'm just standing there for a couple hours, making a little conversation and shaking hands, before I go home."

Yet despite Benoit's sound logic, she says she still, on the daily, runs into a lot of questions surrounding her job, which is "seen as an oxymoron" — likely due to the inherent sexualization of lingerie modeling. That said, she says this isn't the most troubling assumption she's had to deal with, as exemplified by the myriad of invasive questions pertaining to why she's asexual and aromantic.

"Literally, yesterday, I had a man insisting I had been molested, and I was just hiding it and repressing it," she uses as an example. "He was insistent that that was obviously my issue. They think sexual attraction is the most human thing ever, and it's impossible to not feel that. You can't be human if you don't feel anything."

Sadly though, this sort of presumptuous projection and unfounded theorization has been happening to her from before she even figured out that there was terminology for how she felt. As Benoit says, she'd constantly be "quizzed on my sexuality" from the time she was around 9.

"Once other people around me started getting more hormonal, more into dating and going out with each other, I was like, 'This is kind of silly. I just want to stick by myself and play with my Legos,'" she recalls. "I assumed it would kick in for me, but it wasn't something I encouraged."

Unfortunately, Benoit says that once people began noticing that she "wasn't reacting to things the same way" as other girls her age — talking about her crushes or fantasizing about boys — they began coming up with theories, with some people even going so far as to tell her about their hypotheses, which ranged from theories about her being gay, a religious prude, a potential survivor of sexual abuse, or "just mentally slow."

"Because I wasn't reacting like everyone else, they concluded that I was stupid," Benoit explains, also mentioning that she's had to put up with other people assuming that she was repressing sexual trauma or that she was hiding a secret perversion. "But I just didn't understand why other people were trying to work it out for me, because there wasn't really anything to work out. I hadn't been molested. I don't have sexual hang-ups. I'm not against sex. There was nothing to work out."

That said, even once she learned about asexuality and aromanticism, that apparently "didn't stop people from coming up with theories" — including her own father, who she says recently went so far as to accuse her of pedophilia. But all the naysay has also, in part, spurred Benoit to dive into the world of activism.

As Benoit started gaining traction as a model, she began toying with the idea of mentioning her asexuality online in an effort to reach others grappling with their asexuality. This all resulted in a casual post about the topic, as well as the release of a video called "Things Asexual Girls Don't Want to Hear" — something she genuinely "didn't think people would care that much about," but ended up "spiraling, because not a lot of people talk about it."

"The asexual community was very happy to see someone with a platform discussing it," Benoit explains, later adding that she had "people messaging me how much it meant to them, which [made me feel like], if doing something so simple is really impacting people's lives, I might as well keep doing it." Benoit adds that she'd love to see more asexual and aromantic role models out there, especially since the stigma is so prevalent. After all, as Benoit explains, a lack of visibility and understanding surrounding asexuality and aromanticism makes those grappling with their identities much more hesitant to "come out" — whether we're talking about men, for whom sexual desire is "seen as such a quintessential trait of masculinity," or an asexual person who doesn't want to potentially "embarass" their romantic partner.

For now though, Benoit is doing what she can, with her most prominent push toward asexual visibility so far being a hashtag she started last year called #ThisIsWhatAsexualLooksLike, which aims to "dispel the idea that theres an asexual way to look or dress."

"People often say I don't look asexual, and I don't dress asexual, but what do you think that looks like then?" she explains. "I was trying to show the diversity of the community and, at the same time, give a tool back to others, so that they can represent themselves without relying on the media."

"There is a lot of stigma still around, so asexual people can go decades without realizing there's a word for what they're not feeling."

That said, Benoit's also quick to posit that while her asexuality and aromanticism have "never been a secret," it took her until that point to "realize I was filling a space and providing that visibility, especially for asexual minorities." That said, she also mentions that being a Black asexual activist is also an especially tenunous task, as there's a huge racial disparity when it comes to visibility.

"People perceive my asexuality differently than white asexual people," Benoit says, before mentioning the televised version of a documentary that she was cut out of — something she believes is "reflective of people higher up in the company who looked at us and was like, 'She doesn't make sense.'"

However, in the uncut version posted online, Benoit said the comments about her were much more "sexually aggressive and racialized" than what the other white activists got. "There was a lot more anger directed at me," she says. "People find it harder to compute that a Black woman can be asexual just because we're hypersexualized a lot more."

And though she acknowledges the difficulties of being a Black activist, Benoit says she's undeterred in her mission to continue spreading visibility and tackling the misconceptions and stigma surrounding asexuality and aromanticism. Her next steps? According to Benoit, she's currently working on a BBC radio series about asexuality, starring in another documentary about the topic, and potentially doing more talks at sex-positivity conferences and international Pride events. However, she's also eager to help organize more events in the UK that would provide physical spaces for asexual and aromantic people to convene and feel seen as well as supported by others.

"There is a lot of stigma [and misconception] still around, so even asexual people can go decades without realizing there's a word for what they're not feeling," Benoit says. "That has to change."

Article written by Sandra Song.

Hair & MUA: Fey Adediji (@beautybyfey_) Photography: Matt Parker (@mtyparks) Lingerie: Playful Promises Model: Yasmin Benoit (@theyasminbenoit)

[greatfay]

since ur answering asks and shit can u explain what u meant by generational differences in communication

Damn it’s like 2015 tumblr when my inbox used to be WET. So if you’re talking about the controversial opinions post, YES, like I totally understand where people are coming from when they say that generational divides aren’t real (because they aren’t, they’re arbitrary) and distract us from real problems and yes they paint past generations as collectively bigoted when Civil Rights protestors in the 60s (who are in their 70s and 80s now) are mirrors to BLM protestors today, who could be of any age, but the most vocal and famous (at least online, especially irt to the founders, like Patrisse Cullors who is 37.

But how we communicate is sooooo different. I really point to the Internet and Social Media as a major influence in how younger millennials (more Tom Hollands and less Seth Rogans—see even there, I feel like there are two different types of Millennials) and Gen Zrs/Zoomers and even Generation Alpha behave and communicate. We live in a world where we grew up either knowing right out the gate or discovering the hard way that what we say and do has permanence, the kind of permanence that prior generations have never experienced until today. The dumb things kids have been saying since forever can now follow them... forever. We have an inherent understanding of how online spaces work. Compare that to, idk, let’s say you posted on your Facebook (for the first time in 18 months) “All these big and bad grown ass Senators going after actual child Greta Gerwig lol ok, you’re so brave for attacking a CHILD over climate change” and then your aunt, who’s turning “forty-fifteen” in May replies to your post with “So happy to see my passionate niece! Much love from us, hope you’re doing well. Paul is doing great, waiting on his screening results. Tell your mom I said we miss her, we need to get together, we forgive her for last Christmas.”

Like... ok there’s a lot going on there, but your hypothetical aunt is oversharing on a publicly accessible post. And even with the most strict of privacy settings, she’s oversharing where your other Facebook friends (which may include classmates, coworkers, etc.) can see. But she’s saying things that would only be appropriate in a 1-on-1 conversation. This Aunt doesn’t have an understanding of such boundaries, she’s not as technologically literate and hasn’t grown up in a world of Virtual Space, she still gets most of her news from TV, she trusts what a reporter on Channel 4 will read off a script more than what actual video footage of an incident might reveal on Twitter, and she has no clue that she’s been sharing her location data with every post she makes.

There’s such a huge difference. I think it even affects how we experience and express stress and frustration. I think growing up partially in online spaces has made me more accustomed to conflict and consequence-free arguing than someone who never had to worry about that. I’ve been exposed so much to harassment and bullying, triangulating and echo chambers in forums and threads, and vastly opposing point of views at such an early age that it’s had an effect on how I see the world. Compare this to a customer I helped two weeks ago who was looking for a specific type of supplement for children. I found it for her, I handed her exactly what she was looking for, even though her description of the product actually matched several different products; to make sure I’d done my job thoroughly and that she leaves happy and satisfied and doesn’t bother me again, I then show her more products that match her description so that she knows she has options. And she proceeds to freak out, saying “NO, NO, I’M LOOKING FOR [X] AND IT HAS TO BE [XYZ]” and when I say freak out, she looked stressed and PANICKED. And being a retail employee wears you down bit by bit, and add COVID on top of it and little shit like this makes you snap, sometimes. So I have to cut her off like “Why are you screaming and freaking out, jfc you’re holding what you said you wanted. It’s in your hands. I gave you what you wanted, I’m just showing you more things.”

That customer is not an exception, she’s not a unique case. She’s representative of a frightening percentage of her generation, the kids who watched Grease and The Breakfast Club and Ghost in theaters when they were originally released. This is how they communicate and process information. She could not, for some reason, register that her need had been fulfilled, and defaulted to an extreme emotional response when given new and different information.

I’ve yet to deal with someone younger than 35 act the same way, the exceptions being the kids of very wealthy people at my new job who reek of privilege I gag when they walk in—but even they are like *shrugs* “ok whatever” and understanding when there’s something I can’t do for them.

Me: “sorry, we are totally out of that one in your size, but I can order it for you, it’s 2-3 day shipping at no cost to you and we ship it straight to your house”

A rich, white, attractive 22-year-old who’s had access to organic food, a rigorous dermatologist, and financial security since she was born: “mmm... sure, I’ll order it”

A 47-year-old of any socioeconomic background, of any race, in the same situation: “AHHHHHHHHHHH”

I just think it’s crazy how three generations of kids and young adults raised in a world where everything moves so much faster, where knowledge and entertainment and communication can be gathered so much faster, are often so much more polite and patient and understanding. Yesterday I told an older man (mid-50s) whose native tongue is the same as mine, as clearly and succinct as possible, that what he’s looking for is “in aisle 4.” He proceeded to repeat back, “Aisle 7?” four time before I dropped everything to show him what he needed in aisle 4, despite his insistence that he didn’t need me to walk him there. 4 and 7 sound nothing alike in English. There’s just something going on up there 🧠 that’s different.

Oh, other generational divides!!! We have different approaches to labor and working. Totally different! I’m a “young” millennial where I’m almost Gen Z, and I’ve noticed an awful trend among my demographic where people actually brag about working 90 hour work weeks. Or brag about how they skip breaks and live on-call to get the job done for “the hustle” like this “hustle, become a millionaire by 30″ culture that’s dominated these kids, idk where tf that came from. Like why are you proud of being a wage slave, getting taken advantage of by your millionaire/billionaire overlords. Compare this to my mother’s generation (she’s a borderline Genius X’er, she and her best friend were a year too young to watch Grease when it came out and had a random older woman buy tickets for her; she went to Prince concerts, took photos of him, then sold the photos on buttons at school, that’s her culture and teenage experience), where she’s insistent on her rights and entitlements as an employee, and these things she instilled me: “whatchu mean they didn’t schedule a break for you and you’re working 12 hrs today? oh no, you’re off, don’t answer your phone cuz you are NOT available!” There are Gen X’ers who entered the workforce at a time that America was drifting toward this corporate world, with more strictly defined regulations, roles, and understandings of labor rights (and also, let’s talk about how the 80s there was so much more attention on workplace harassment, misogyny and gender divides in wage gaps, etc. etc... not that much has changed, but at least it was talked about!). There are young people today who are taken advantage of because they aren’t as informed or don’t feel as secure and valuable enough to claim what belongs to them.

At the same time, those generations (Gen X and older) have a different viewpoint of hierarchies in the workplace and respect irt our direct supervisors. That’s how you get this blurring of boundaries between Work Life and one’s Personal Life that leads to common tropes in media written by their generations, where oh no! I’m having my boss over for dinner and the roast beef is still defrosting :O is such a “relatable thing” for them... meanwhile us younger generations are like I don’t even like that you know where I live, and if I see your 2017 Honda Civic pass my place one day, we’re going to have a problem. I think older generations have a different relationship with the word “Respect” than we do. Like, my grandma, who’s turning 87 (?) this year, and the other seniors in my area, they have a different concept of honor and an expectation of professional boundaries that I, and my mom and her generation, just don’t see (so then there’s something in common with Gen X’ers and the rest of us.) My dad grew up in a world where talking and acting like George Bailey and knocking on someone’s door with a big smile could get you a job, a job that could pay for college and rent no problem. My mom grew up in a world that demanded more prestige, where cover letters and references could get you into some cushy jobs if you’re persistent and ballsy enough. And I grew up in a world where potential employers literally don’t see your face when you apply unless they lurk on any social media profiles you have publicly available and they hold all the cards, and you need all those CVs and reference letters just to make minimum wage... so I feel like I am powerless in the face of such employers.

[mirahuyooo]

Nighthawk | ksj

Nighthawk

—No matter the effort, he always plagues your mind in nights like this one, reminding you of the feelings you let get out of hand.

Word Count: 1,638 Contents: AnGST, a smidgen of fluff and crack, jin and y/n are besties OwO Pairing: Kim Seokjin x Reader A/N: I noticed I haven’t written anything for jin in a long while (shame on me) so here’s this! I’m in mood for love—unrequited love. Hope you all enoyed! Today’s sad, sad piece is inspired by the word;

Nighthawk

n. a recurring thought that only seems to strike you late at night—an overdue task, a nagging guilt, a looming and shapeless future—that circles high overhead during the day, that pecks at the back of your mind while you try to sleep, that you can successfully ignore for weeks, only to feel its presence hovering outside the window, waiting for you to finish your coffee, passing the time by quietly building a nest.

P.S. I just wanna remind everyone that dYNAMITE IS COMING SOON oehgtiuabrgujbaufg prepare YOUR LoINS eveRYONE we’RE about tO gET deSTROYED ahksgabrigk

[masterlist]

A sigh leaves your lips as you close the door behind you, setting your bag down on the nearby kitchen counter. It was late—very late. Your face disappears behind the hand that you had brought forth to rub the furrowing of your eyebrows away. There was a damning silence that reigned over your empty Seoul city apartment, and you were attacked from it reflecting your current state, leaving you no choice but to throw yourself in bed.

The moonlight filters lightly through the curtains, casting over the lump of blankets you soon cocooned yourself in. Not even bothering to slip out of the clothes you’ve been wearing for the past twelve hours, you buried your face into one of the many spare pillows you had placed around you, hugging it closer to your chest as you dealt with the fissures seizing your heart. Alas, the frustration of not falling asleep adds to the weight you carry with you. At the very least, with the pillows surrounding you, whatever demons lurking in the dark won’t be able to add to the problems you were dealing with.

You knew it was a senseless and pathetic feat. All of this was practically your own fault. You were, after all, the architect of your own melancholy, and, for some unfortunate reason, you were exceptionally good at this particular skill.

Fuelling your despair, you deemed it befitting to punish yourself by reaching for your phone and further depriving yourself of much needed sleep. You’ve been lying around for what seemed like eternity—you weren’t quite sure. Your mind barely registers the numbers that the clock displayed before you, and in all honesty, you’ve lost the ability to care about it at all. You’ve stayed up well past the hours of 2 AM before, doing the same self-wallowing sessions you were doing right now. You had long been a seasoned connoisseur in ploughing through ungodly hours—something he’s always scolded you for.

As some sort of hilarious joke you couldn’t quite understand, fate throws something in your way as you scroll through Twitter—a picture of you and the very man who’s been plaguing your thoughts at 2:18 AM in the morning—Kim Seokjin. Even as your eyes start to blur with tears, they still drink his beauty in—his plump lips, his deep piercing eyes, and his confident gait. Combine those compelling factors with his welcoming persona, astounding cooking skills, and sheer talent, and you’ve got yourself one fine man that you’ve been simping over for the past decade or so. Oh, how blessed you’d be if he was yours.

Unfortunately, there also existed compelling factors that couldn’t make Kim Seokjin yours.

For instance, there was your remarkable trait of being a damn coward. Residing so long within the realm of the accursed Friend Zone had fashioned your fears into mighty beasts that bullied you into staying within the borders of the said zone, regardless of your countless attempts to escape it. Always at the last minute, your mind compels you to retreat at the nightmare of ruining the friendship you two had fostered over so many years—should he ever realize that you were a peasant compared to his princely attributes.

Speaking of being low beneath him, you very much were one. You’ve made peace with your inferiority to his beauty and lifestyle, so much that you could stomach sitting next to him in all of your bare-faced, broke glory. You were well aware that you were average—disagreeable next to him, but average nonetheless.

In other aspects, your mundane life also pales in contrast to his exhilarating endeavors. He’s a beloved icon—a passionate singer and graceful dancer who tours the world to meet the millions he’s touched with his words and his group’s songs. You, on the other hand, exist on the other side of the spectrum. You were no one special really, which you really didn’t mind since you weren’t keen on being in the spotlight. The closest shot to fame you ever had was when you were revealed to be Kim Seokjin’s non-showbiz best friend who once shamelessly dominated him on an episode of EatJin.

You weren’t even his type, which had greatly satiated the accusations of some fans—it’s still undecided if you should take full offense on that one. You weren’t the cutesy, feminine, soft girl that’s often alluded to be matched with him. You were capable of a meal or two, but you were no master chef. The only thing in the box that you know you fulfil very well is that you take care of him—and you’re enormously proud of that accomplishment of yours.  

As much as you mother him at times, there are still many a days where you wonder why on Earth he even remains as your best friend—what more if he was to be your boyfriend?

Another sigh leaves your lips once again, tearing your eyes away from the screen to stare up at the moon outside your window—the sole witness of the late night happenings that occur within the premises of your desolate life. Ah, but even the moon would remind you of him.

There was a sensation going abuzz within you—something you knew all too well. You’ve done your best to ignore the infestation of feelings that had apprehended your very being, even attempting to exterminate it by going on numerous blind dates. Unfortunately, the damn lovebug has always damned you, always surviving and multiplying with every sweet gesture, every dashing smile, and every uplifting heart-to-heart that he delivers to you.

All of a sudden, your phone rings. The screen reveals the face of the very man you’ve been having a debate with your mind about. Jin was calling you.

“Why does he have to be like this?” you whined to no one in particular, snivelling away as you were further left a mess. The moment your hand properly holds the device again, you glare at the image. “I hate him,” you grumble, but not really.

As soon as you answered, you weren’t given a chance to talk. “Why are you online?” he instantly asks you in that scolding tone you were so familiar with.

Your heart flutters, even you went to roll your eyes. “Why are you up?” you countered childishly, voice raspy from your recent breakdown.

Jin’s delectable chuckle makes you squeak into the plush of a nearby pillow. “Ya! I just woke up,” he defensively says, not seeming to take notice of your little stunt. “I’m just grabbing a little snack, and then I’ll go back to bed,” he informs you, “busy day tomorrow, after all.”  

You hum, as your insides continue with its attempts to betray you. “I couldn’t sleep,” you find yourself admitting to him in a weakened tone.

As you hear the slight ruckus in the background, Jin tsk-ed at your bad decisions. You prepared yourself to be told off. “Scrolling through social media won’t help, stupid,” he softly chastised, much to your surprise and damnation. “Drink the tea I got you from Japan,” he tells you, making you fluster. “You still have that right?”

You could only hum in response, as you further coiled into a fetal position—as if to say you were made as soft as a baby by this man. You held back a snivel, as your mess of emotions continued to make you cry over him.

“Good,” Jin says, still not aware of the true state of ruin you were in. “Go on and drink some, then. It’ll help you sleep.”

A sniff escapes you. “Okay,” you say with a whimper clinging onto the last syllable.

This time, your best friend doesn’t miss the sound. You could imagine him freezing, stopping whatever it was he was doing. “(Y/N), are you alright?” he asks, concern already pouring through in those few words alone.

Not wanting to conflict him, you went out of your way to fake a cough and a few more sniffles. “Yeah,” you said, in spite of your heart hammering against your chest. “I’m just tired from all the arranging earlier.”

The silence that followed was eventually broken by Jin clearing his throat. “Rest well then,” he tells you, before he goes to tease. “No one should look ugly at my wedding, and that includes you.”

Ah, there it was—the one last factor that cements you to the confines of your prison cell in the zone of unrequited love.

“Good night, (Y/N),” he says, voice gentle enough to destroy your heart.

In the silence that followed, Jin didn’t hang up. He never really does hang up first. You smile bitterly, tears silently flowing one after the other like a waterfall. “Goodbye, Jin,” you tell him, ending the call just as a sob wrecks through you. You put down your phone, and cry into your pillow.

Kim Seokjin—your best friend, your greatest regret—is getting married, and to a woman you knew would be perfect for him—a woman so graceful, beautiful, and skillful. After all, you were the one who had introduced the two of them together in the first place. You had no doubt that the two of them would be happily ever after.

You wonder then, if you hadn’t pushed your feelings aside so adamantly and went with the hell of it, would you have been the one in white to be waiting down the aisle? At any point in time, was there really a smidgen of a chance that Jin would’ve said that he liked you back?

You’ll never know.

Your puffy eyes wander towards the lone moon that shone brightly behind your sheer curtains. Your nightly companion was staring right back at you, but all you could hear were your thoughts.

It was all your fault.

[paths-of-my-childhood-candid]

Lover Conquers All

By: Mark Sutherland for Music Week Date: November 4th 2019 issue (published online on December 13th 2019)

She’s the world’s biggest pop star, but despite her global success, Taylor Swift is also the music industry’s greatest advocate for artists’ and songwriters’ rights. And, with a ground-breaking new record deal and a bold new album, Lover, she’s not about to stop now. Music Week meets her to talk music and business...

Around this time of year, the Taylor Swift anniversaries come at you thick and fast. Nine years since her third album, Speak Now, every note of which was written entirely by Swift, hit the shelves. Five years since she released her mould-breaking pop album, 1989, and went from the world’s biggest country star to the world’s biggest pop star overnight. Two years since her Reputation record saw her become the only musician to post four successive million-plus debut sales weeks in the United States. And so on.

But today, Swift’s mind is drawn further back, to the 13th anniversary of her debut, self-titled record, and the days when her album releases weren’t automatically accompanied by mountains of hype and enough think-pieces to sink a battleship. Her journal entries from the time - helpfully reprinted as part of the deluxe editions of her new album, Lover - reveal her as an excited, optimistic teenager, but also one with a grasp of marketing strategies and label politics way beyond her years, even if she was reluctant to actually take credit for her ideas.

“It always was and it always will be an interesting dance being a young woman in the music industry,” she smiles ruefully. “We don’t have a lot of female executives, we’re working on getting more female engineers and producers but, while we are such a drastic gender minority, it’s interesting to try and figure out how to be.”

And, of course, when Swift started out she was, as she points out, “an actual kid”.

“I was planning the release of my first album when I was 15 years old,” she reminisces. “And I was a fully gangly 15, I reminded everyone of their niece! I was in this industry in Nashville and country music, where I was making album marketing calls, but I never wanted to stand up and say, ‘Yeah, that promotions plan you just complimented my label on, I thought of that! Me and my Mom thought of that!’

“When you’re a new artist you wonder how much space you can take up and, as a woman, you wonder how much space you can take up pretty much your whole period of growing up,” she continues. “For me, growing up and knowing that I was an adult was realising that I was allowed to take up space from a marketing perspective, from a business perspective, from an opinionated perspective. And that feels a lot better than constantly trying to wonder if I’m allowed to be here.”

In the intervening years, Taylor Swift has released six further, brilliant albums, growing from country starlet to all-conquering pop behemoth along the way. She takes up “more space”, as she would put it, than any other musician on the planet: a sales and now - having belatedly embraced the format with Lover - streaming phenomenon; a powerhouse stadium performer; an award-garlanded songwriter for herself and others; and a social media giant with a combined 278 million followers across Instagram, Twitter and Facebook (which would make the Taylor Nation the fourth most populous one on earth, after China, India and the US).

But her influence on music and the music industry doesn’t end there. Because, over the years, Swift has also become a leading advocate for artists’ and songwriters’ rights, in a digital landscape that doesn’t always have such matters as a priority.

In 2015, she stood up to Apple Music over its plans to not pay artist royalties during subscribers’ three-month free trials (Apple backed down immediately). She pulled her entire catalogue from Spotify in 2014 in protest that its free tier was devaluing music, sending Daniel Ek scrambling to justify his business model. When she returned in 2017, it was a crucial fillip for the streaming service’s IPO plans.

More recently, her ground-breaking new record deal with Republic Records contained clauses not only guaranteeing her ownership of her future masters, but also ensuring Universal Music will share the spoils of its Spotify shares with its artists, without any payments counting against unrecouped balances. And when her long-time former label boss Scott Borchetta sold Big Machine to Scooter Braun’s Ithaca Holdings, taking Swift’s first six albums with him, the star publicly called out what she saw as her “worst-case scenario” and stressed: “You deserve to own the art you make”. She may yet re-record her old songs in protest.

In short, Swift has, for a long time now, been unafraid to use her voice on industry matters, whether they pertain to her own stellar career or the thousands of other artists out there struggling to make a living.

All of which makes Swift not just the greatest star of our age, but perhaps the most important to the future development of the industry as a more artist-centric, songwriter-friendly business. Hers is still the life of the pop phenomenon - she spent today in Los Angeles doing promotion and photoshoots (or, in her words, “having people put make-up on me”) as Lover continues to build on huge critical acclaim and even huger initial sales. But now, she’s kicking back with her cats - one of whom seems determined to disrupt Music Week’s interview by “stampeding” through at every opportunity - and ready to talk business.

And for Swift, business is good. The impact of her joining streaming, and the decline of traditional album sales, may have prevented her from posting a fifth successive one million-plus sales debut, but Lover still sold more US copies (867,000) in its first week than any record since her own Reputation. It’s sold 117,513 copies to date in the UK, according to the Official Charts Company.

Even better, while Reputation - a record forged in the white heat of a social media snakestorm over her on-going feud with Kanye West - was plenty of show and rather less grow, Lover continues to reveal hidden depths. Reputation struck a sometimes curious contrast between the unrepentant warrior Swift she was showing to the outside world and the love story with British actor Joe Aiwyn that was quietly developing behind closed doors, but Lover is the sort of versatile, cohesive album that the streaming age was supposed to kill off.

It contains more than its fair share of pop bangers (You Need To Calm Down, Me!), but also some gorgeously-crafted acoustic tracks (Lover, Cornelia Street), some pithy political commentary (The Man, Miss America & The Heartbreak Prince) and the sort of musical diversions (Paper Rings’ irresistible rockabilly stomp, the childlike oddity of It’s Nice To Have A Friend) that no other pop superstar would have the sheer musical chops to attempt, let alone pull off.

“Taylor’s creative instincts as an artist and songwriter are brilliant,” says Monte Lipman, founder and CEO of Swift’s US label, Republic. “Our partnership represents a strategic alliance built on mutual respect, trust, and complete transparency. Her vision is extraordinary as she sets the tone for every campaign and initiative.”

No wonder David Joseph, chairman/CEO of her long-time UK label Virgin EMI’s parent company Universal Music UK, is thrilled with how things are going.

“Love Story was a fitting first single release for Taylor here - she’s loved the UK from day one and has engaged so much with her fans and teams,” says Joseph. “She really respects and values what’s going on here creatively. To see her go from playing the Students’ Union at King’s College to Wembley Stadium has been extraordinary. Taylor is an artist constantly striving for perfection, and with Lover - from my personal point of view, her most accomplished work to date adore working with her and whilst it’s been more than 10 years this still feels like the start.”

And today, Swift is keen to concentrate on the present and future. She has a starring role in Cats coming up (and a new song on the soundtrack, Beautiful Ghosts, co-written with Andrew Lloyd Webber) and, after a spectacularly intimate Paris launch show in September, festival dates and her own LoverFest to plan (UK shows will be revealed soon). Time, then, to tell the cats to calm down and sit down with Music Week to talk streaming, contracts and why she’s “obsessed” with the music industry...

Unlike with Reputation, most of the discussion around Lover seems to have been focused on the music... Absolutely! One of the ideas I had about this record, and something I’ve implemented into my life in the last couple of years is that I don’t like distractions. And, for a while, it felt like my life had to come with distractions from the music, whether it was tabloid fascination with my personal life or my friendships or what I was wearing. I realised in the last couple of years that, if I don’t give a window into distraction, people can’t try to look in and see something other than the music. I love that, if you really pour yourself into the idea that an album is still important and try really hard to make something that is worth people’s attention span, time and energy, that can still come across. Because we are living in an industry right now where everyone’s rushing towards taking us into a singles industry and, in some cases, it has become that. But there are still some cases where clearly the album is important to people.

Does it matter that some new artists won’t get to make albums the way you always have? It’s interesting. Five years ago I wrote an op-ed in the Wall Street Journal and said, maybe in the next five years, we would see artists releasing music the way that they want to. I thought that each artist would start to curate what is important to them, not just from an artistic standpoint but from a marketing standpoint. It’s really interesting to see different release plans, if you look at what Drake did and then what Beyoncé does, incredible artists who have really curated what it is to drop music in their own way. We all do it differently, which is cool. As long as people dropping just singles want to be doing that, then I’m fine with it, but if it feels like a big general wave that’s being pressured by people in power, their teams or their labels, that’s not cool. But I do really hope that in the future artists have more of a say over strategy. We’re not just supposed to make art and then hand it to a team that masterminds it.

Were you worried about putting an album on streaming on release day for the first time? Well, there are ways that streaming services could really promote the [whole] album in a more incentivised way. We could have album charts on streaming. The industry follows where they can get prizes. So you have a singles chart on streaming services which is great but, if you split things up into genre charts for example, that would really incentivise people. It’s important that we keep trying to strive to make the experience better for users but also make it more interesting for artists to keep wanting to achieve. But I really did love the experience of putting the album on streaming. I loved the immediacy, I loved that people who maybe weren’t a huge diehard fan were curious and saying, ‘I wonder what this is like’ and listening to it and deciding that they liked it.

You’d resisted streaming for a long time. Have you changed your mind about the format now? I always knew that I would enjoy the aspects of streaming that make [your music] so immediately available to so many people. That’s the part of it that I unequivocally always felt really sad I was missing out on. There wasn’t ever a day when I woke up and I was like, ‘Oh, I’m really glad that multitudes of people don’t have access to my music!’ So I always knew that streaming was an incredible mechanism and model for the future but I still don’t think we have the royalties and compensation system worked out. That’s between the labels and their artists and I realised that me, to use a gross word, ‘leveraging’ what I can bring to cut a better deal for the artists at my record label was really important for me.

How big a factor were things like that in you signing to Republic/Universal? That’s important to me because that means they’re adopting some of my ideas. If they take me on as an artist that means they really thought it through. Because with me, come opinions about how we can better our industry. I’m one of the only people in the artist realm who can be loud about it. People who are on their fifth, sixth or seventh album, we’re the only ones who can speak out, because new artists and producers and writers need to work. They need to be endearing and likeable and available to their labels and streaming services at all times. It’s up to the artists who have been around for a second to say, ‘Hey guys, the producers and the writers and the artists are the ones who are making music what it is’. And we’re in a great place in music right now thanks to them. They should be going to their mailbox and feeling like they’ve got a pension plan, rather than feeling like, ‘Oh yay, I can pay half my rent this month after this No.1 song’.

Did you have more creative freedom making Lover than on your previous albums? In my previous situation, there were creative constraints, issues that we had over the years. I’ve always given 100% to projects, I always over-delivered, thinking that that generosity would be returned to me. But I ended up finding that generosity in a new situation with a new label that understands that I deserve to own what I make. That meant so much to me because it was given over to me so freely. When someone just looks at you and says ‘Yes, you deserve what you want’, after a decade or more of being told, ‘I’m not sure you deserve what you want’ - there’s a freedom that comes with that. It’s like when people find ‘the one’ they’re like, ‘It was easy, I just knew and I felt free’. All of a sudden you’re being told you’re worth exactly, no, more than what you thought you were worth. And that made me feel I could make an album that was exactly what I wanted to make. There’s an eclectic side to Lover, a confessional side, it varies from acoustic to really poppy pop, but that’s what I like to do. And, while you would never make something artistic based on something so unromantic as a contract, it was more than that. It was a group of people saying, ‘We believe in what you’re making, go make what you want to make and you deserve to own it too’.

You’re obviously not happy about what’s happened at Big Machine since you left. But will the attention mean artists don’t find themselves in this situation in the future? I hope so. That’s the only reason that I speak out about things. The fans don’t understand these things, the public isn’t being made aware. This generation has so much information available to them so I thought it was important that the fans knew what I was going through, because I knew it was going to affect every aspect of my life and I wanted them to be the first to know. And in and amongst that group, I know there are people that want to make music some day. It involves every new artist that is reading that and going, ‘Wait, that’s what I’m signing?’ They don’t have to sign stuff that’s unfair to them. If you don’t ask the right questions and you sit in front of the wrong desk in front of the wrong person, they can take everything from you.

Songwriters are in dispute with Spotify in the US over its decision to appeal the Copyright Board decision to boost songwriting royalties. Do writers need more respect? Absolutely. In terms of the power structure, the songwriters, the producers, the engineers, the people who are breathing magic into our industry, need to be listened to. They’re not being greedy. This is legitimately an industry where people are having trouble paying their bills and they’re the most talented people we have. This isn’t them sitting in their mansions going, ‘I wish this mansion was bigger and I would like a yacht please’. This is actually people who are going to work every single day. I got into writing when I was in Nashville and it was very much like what I read about the Brill Building. You would write every day, whether you were inspired or not, and in the process I met artists and writers. Somebody would walk in and someone would say, ‘Oh, he’s still getting mailbox money from that Faith Hill cut a couple of years ago, he’s set’. That’s not a thing anymore. Mailbox money is a thing of the past and we need to remember that these are the people that create the heartbeat that we’re all dancing to or crying to.

You were clearly aware of music industry machinations from a young age... Reading back on the journal entries, I forgot how obsessed I was with the industry as a teenager. I was so fascinated by how it works and how it was changing. Every part of it was interesting to me. I had drawn the stages for most of my tours a year before I went on them. That really was fun for me as a teenager! A lot of people who start out very young in music, either don’t have a say or don’t have the will to do the business side of it, but weirdly that was so much fun for me to try and learn. I had a lot of energy when I was 16!

Are you doing similar drawings for next year’s LoverFest? Definitely. And that’s why it’s still fun for me to take on a challenge like, ‘Oh, let’s just plan our own festival’. Let’s create a bill of artists and try and make it as fun as possible for the fans. I’m so intrigued by what that’s going to be like.

Finally, when we last did an interview in 2015, you said in five years’ time you wanted to be “finding complexity in happiness”. How has that worked out? That’s exactly what’s happened with this album! I think a lot of writers have the fear of stability, emotional health and happiness. Our whole careers, people make jokes about how, ‘Just wait until you meet someone nice, you’ll run out of stuff to write about’. I was talking to [Cats director] Tom Hooper about this because he said one thing his mother taught him was, ‘Don’t ever let people tell you that you can’t make art if you’re happy’. I thought that was so amazing. He’s a creator in a completely different medium but he has been subjected to that same joke over and over again that we must be miserable to create. Lover is important to me in so many ways, but it’s so imperative for me as a human being that songwriting is not tied to my own personal misery. It’s good to know that, it really is!

[carryonsimoncarryonbaz]

NEW FIC!!!

Written for the Carry On Quarantine event organized by @xivz​ for the prompt of food delivery. My thanks to @fight-surrender​ and @basic-banshee​ for the beta reads and support!!

Baz is a teacher quarantined at home and Simon is doing temp work delivering food for The Girl and the Goat, a local pub. A craving for a burger leads to Baz ordering from the pub, followed by weeks of mutual pining, the slow burn of a developing relationship thwarted by the physical constraints of social distancing, and a refrigerator full of pub food. Movie nights, exasperated friends, lots of texts, way too much food, and multiple awkward encounters. 

Let My Love Open the Door

Baz

I close my laptop and drop my head down onto it. I’m knackered. The metal feels cool against my forehead. I roll my face from side to side, relishing the smooth chill of it against my cheeks. And then I remember.

Fuck, now I have to disinfect the damn thing.

I’m done. Done for the day but also so done with this.

How can I be expected to effectively teach students—Sixth Form students at that—from a computer terminal? I’m almost three weeks into this, but their looming A Levels and GSCE’s are still on schedule for May.

That’s less than two months away. Five weeks and three days, to be exact.

Thank fuck it’s Friday. I’ll at least have two days to prepare next week’s frightfully inadequate lesson plan.

I grab a disinfecting wipe from the canister and methodically wipe down my laptop. I’m not sick—not a cough, not a sniffle—but I’ve bought into this not touching my face directive and I shouldn’t be smearing my germs on random surfaces. For all I know I could be carrying this thing. One of the asymptomatic Typhoid Marys, spreading it far and wide.

Not that there’s anyone to spread it to, seeing as I’m on my own here, but I wipe the laptop down anyway, unnerved by the whole idea of it.

I’ve washed my hands more in the past month than I have in my entire life. I spent the first day at home wiping down every surface, laundering the bedding, mopping the floors. My house went from having a pleasant, woodsy scent to the overwhelming stench of bleach instead.

It gave me such a headache that I had to open the windows and damn near froze. Bloody coldest March we’ve had in years. April’s not proving to be much better.

My mobile buzzes. I should have left it in the bedroom but I’ve become painfully attached to it.

If I’m not planning out curriculum, video conferencing with my class, answering frantic emails from parents, students, the other teachers at my school, or compulsively cleaning and reorganizing my house, then I’m moodily scrolling through Twitter and Instagram and ratcheting up my anxiety.

I should delete my social media.

My mobile buzzes again.

I glance at my watch. It’s six o’clock.

Bound to be Wellbelove.

Wellbelove: are you done yet?

Wellbelove: Baz!!

Wellbelove: you can’t still be doing classwork it’s after 5

Wellbelove: BAAAAZZZZ

Me: Give it a rest, Wellbelove. Some of us are actually working from home.

Wellbelove: I am working, you poncy bastard I’m obviously far more efficient than you.

Me: Look, some of us can’t just post our morning exercise routine and somehow have that count as work.

Wellbelove: Why are we friends again? Can you remind me why I put up with this slander from you?

Me: Because of my sparkling wit and undeniable charm.

Wellbelove: more like your fashion sense and propensity to pick up the bill when we eat out. Neither of which are in evidence at the moment so I may have to rethink my devotion to you

Me: Still, I’m indispensable.

Wellbelove: then buy me dinner. what are we watching tonight?

This all started at the end of that first week, when Agatha couldn’t concentrate on the book she was trying to read and I’d reached the pulling-my-hair-out state of lesson planning. She suggested we watch a film together—FaceTiming while our Netflix accounts played in sync.

We’ve done that almost every night since. Dinner and a movie, separately, from a distance.

We spend almost as much time arguing over what to watch as we do watching, but that’s just how we are. I’ve known Agatha Wellbelove since we were toddlers at the same crèche when our parents were at uni. Same primary school, same secondary school.

We drifted apart during our uni years, with Agatha at Brighton for phys Ed and Oxford to read for English Language and Literature for me.  

It was some bizarre twist of fate that we were both hired to teach at the same secondary school in Chilham. She was the last person I expected to see on my orientation day.

We picked up where we left off, latching onto each other as we navigated our first real world experience after uni.

It’s been three years now and I think the past three weeks have been the longest stretch we’ve gone without seeing each other since we moved here.

She’s self-centered, brutally straight-forward, horribly short-tempered, dreadfully impatient, and devastatingly gorgeous.

A perfect match for me if I wasn’t so irrevocably gay.

And if she wasn’t . . . well, categorically uninterested in me in that way is probably the best way to phrase it.

But she’s my best friend and I know it hasn’t been all that long but fuck, I miss her.

Wellbelove: WHAT ARE WE WATCHING BAZ ANSWER THE FUCKING QUESTION

She’d be kicking me in the shin by now, if she were here. Maybe I don’t miss her quite that much.

Ugh, it’s my night to choose. I don’t know what I want to watch. Something soothing, not one of those action films or plucky sports dramas she likes so much. I actually like Bend it Like Beckham but not those sappy American ones she’s inflicted on me.

I need something familiar. Comforting.

Me: Pride and Prejudice.

Wellbelove: 2005. Kiera Knightley. I will accept no substitutes.

Me: The 1995 version is superior.

Wellbelove: Colin Firth doesn’t look like that anymore Baz. Let it go.

I start to type “Keira Knightley doesn’t either” but fucking hell she does still look the same.

Wellbelove: and you owe me dinner

Me: 2005 AND dinner? You are greedy and demanding, Wellbelove. I’ll agree to Knightley. Make your own dinner.

Wellbelove: I want a burger I’m ordering out since you’re being a berk and won’t send me food

Fuck. I’m craving a burger now too.

I don’t even want to think about cooking anything. I’m so sick of pasta, even though I’ve tried to make it a different way each time, with my dwindling pantry supplies. And much as I love the curry place down the road I can’t eat it every day.

I used to think I could. I used to say I’d be happy eating tikka masala every day for the rest of my life, but I was mistaken.

And no more chippies. I can’t do another chippy.

Me: Who’s delivering burgers? Please tell me you aren’t getting McDonald’s.

Wellbelove: why would I get McDonald’s when I can get a lamb burger from The Girl and The Goat?

Me: they’re not still open?

Wellbelove: of course they’re still open you stupid git.

I don’t know why I hadn’t thought to check. Why I assumed the pubs would close down, when they all have kitchens and food service, just like the chippies and fast food places.

Me: why didn’t you bother telling me, you hag?

Wellbelove: You are a grown man Hunter gatherer type you should be able to forage for your own food

I want one of those burgers. We don’t go there all that often but The Girl and The Goat has some of the best burgers in town. Fucking hell, I’m salivating at the thought of it.

Me: Text when you’ve got dinner and we’ll start the movie

Wellbelove: you’re ordering from The Goat aren’t you you hypocrite and not even paying for mine

I close the messenger app to look up The Girl and The Goat online. I scan the menu and then ring them up.

The warm, cheerful voice on the line assures me the order will be delivered to my door within a half hour. I give my mobile number so the driver can text when he arrives.

“Just be looking for the text, love,” the woman’s warm voice continues. “Simon will leave everything at your door, no need to open up until he’s gone. I know how wary people are these days so we’re trying to make it easy.”

A little over a half hour later my mobile buzzes with a message from an unknown number.

Unknown number: Food’s here!

Unknown number: I’ll ring when it’s on your doorstep

The doorbell chimes and I peek at the doorway video display only to startle at the huge grinning face looming on the screen. I push the audio button.

“Yes?”

“Hullo! I’m Simon. I’ve got your order from The Goat. Lamb burger and chips.” He holds up a gloved hand carrying a bag. “I’ll just leave it right here for you.” I get a brief glimpse of a broad back clad in a brown leather jacket as he bends down, before he’s back to grinning at the camera again. “Thanks for ordering from The Goat. We appreciate the business. If you text me back you’ll get a discount for next time!”

“Text you back what?”

He leans in closer and shrugs. “Whatever.”

He’s got brilliant blue eyes. A scattering of freckles dotted across his face.

“Um, right, ok then. Thanks.”

He waves and then he’s out of sight again.

I move to the front window and twitch aside the blinds to watch him get in a blue car with “The Girl and The Goat” displayed across the door in white lettering.

I wait until the car is long gone before opening the door, gloves on, carrying the parcel of food as if it’s radioactive until I reach the kitchen, where I can dispose of the bag and transfer the food to my own dishes.

It’s likely overkill, I know, but I find being wary and methodical helps calm me.

I settle down in front of the television with my meal and my mobile, ready to message Agatha, when I see the text from the unknown number again.

I’d not say no to a discount. I click on it to text back. What exactly does one text to an attractive delivery man?

I shake my head. He’s just the delivery man, it’s irrelevant if he’s attractive or not.

My finger is still hovering over my mobile. I’m having an existential crisis over what to text a delivery man so I can get a discount on a pub meal. These are the depths that I have sunk to with this self-quarantine.

It would help if he were ordinary looking. It really would.

Me to unknown number: Whatever

I hit send before I think too hard about how unoriginal and trite a response that was.

My mobile pings back a moment later.

Unknown number: 15% percent off the next order. Just say Simon said when you call it in! :)

Read the rest at ao3!!!!!!!!!!

https://archiveofourown.org/works/23590015