#adjacent in the sense of not reading my words right idk?

[meteorherd]

should probably stop being nosy and going into tags of posts but like. people are misunderstanding me im afraid 😭 i said if youre desexualizing a female character and think the boobs look too big for her body in canon you shouldn't be afraid to make her fatter to make the proportions realistic. like you shouldn't just. chop the boobs off yknow. and now everyone is talking about how it's bad to make a character fat in a desexualized design if it's for the purpose of desexualization WHICH YEAH I AGREE but like. i think it's safe to say my words were decidedly Not for people who already believe desexualizing characters by making them fat is Good. maybe? i don't know man i'm just a guy on the internet </3

[batmanisagatewaydrug]

The shorter version: Hey could you talk about stone tops more? Or anything like that, people who like giving but not recieving?

The longer version: I’m sort of going through that process of self discovery, I’ve been meaning to ask about it somehow- basically I am sexually attracted to people (I think??), I get aroused, I enjoy masturbating, even talking with my partner about stuff we could do is arousing to me. I enjoy some submissive kinky stuff. Hell, my boyfriend (transmasc, both of us are) recently let me go down on him and it was like a fucking religious experience, I LOVED it, but I find it really difficult to enjoy anything being done directly to /my/ genitals. Like, I can feel the sensations, and they feel good, but I don’t build any arousal, like I can’t get in the mood? I know I’m not, but I do feel fucked up and broken. Spiritually, I want my boyfriend to rail me into next week, but physically I’m afraid there’s like. Something wrong with me, like,, I don’t work??? Idk. I’ve got major anxiety, I’ve got dysphoria, I guess I always figured it was one of those things. There’s only so many times I can feel Way Too Seen by fanfiction about Noted Asexual, Archivist Jonathan Sims before I start to wonder what exactly they’ve hit directly on the head, if that makes sense. I’m not asking you to Diagnose Me Asexual lmaoo but I was wondering about more like… asexual adjacent things? My boyfriend suggested I look into “service top” too. I… don’t feel like a top? I’m very submissive. But I’ve heard it’s not always top= dom, bottom=sub… how can I be a submissive top?

Sorry this is… so much. It’s really been weighing on me. Even if you don’t feel up to answering this I thank you profusely for the sex ed content you’ve been posting lately. Demystifying sex and promoting sexual health is so incredibly important, and even just what I’ve read from you makes a difference in the agency I feel over my sex life.

hi anon,

weeeeeee!!! this is a fun one.

so, first off, I'm just gonna throw this out there: liking the idea of something - for instance, your boyfriend railing you into next week - is not an innate sign that that's something you'd like in real life. I'll jack off to the idea of getting railed like Thomas the Tank Engine, sure, but in real life vaginal penetration has never felt like much of anything to me + I haaaaAAAAaaaate the idea of doing anything with even a teeny tiny slight chance of getting me pregnant. some stuff is fine to stay in the brain!

if you do ever decide to tentatively explore it with your bf, that's also fine and wonderful, but let's focus on what we know about your likes right now. you don't want to get fucked (awesome) but you like going down (also awesome). none of that means you are or aren't asexual, btw, there are loads of asexuals in the world who love to get railed and hate going down and also feel every possible way about every other possible array of sex acts. you're only asexual if you want to be, keep that in mind.

you're also only stone or a service top or whatever else if you want to be. words exist to be useful, not as an innate ontological truth to discover within yourself. personally I think it's waaaaay more important for people to refine their sense of likes, dislikes, communication, and boundary-setting than finding the exact right word for their particular cup of tea.

as long as we're talking about terminology, let's get into dom/sub and top/bottom. you're absolutely correct that they're not interchangeable, whatever the hooligans on various hellsites would have you believe. dom and sub are terms for power exchange play, when two people enact a power differential in which one partner is consensually given a great deal of control over the other, be it physically, psychologically, financially, or what have you. top/bottom simply refer to who is acting vs who is being acted upon during a sexual act; while some people identify intensely as either a top or a bottom, it's also a simple matter for those roles to switch on a dime depending on what kind of sex you're into. it's completely possible to have sex without designating anyone the top or bottom, and I'd argue that most people have sex without there actually being a dom or sub involved.

so can dom bottom, or a sub top? of course; people can mix and match whatever pieces of sexuality they want in their own explorations. a dom can boss their sub around like a little servant, giving them extremely detailed instructions about exactly how to rail them, and perhaps punish them (in the fun consensual way, obviously) if they fail to meet those expectations and don't get their dom off the way that was wanted. you can, and I cannot possibly emphasize this enough, do whatever you want forever.

a service top, incidentally, is generally considered a separate thing from a dom (which is not to say they can't overlap!) in that a service top isn't always dominating, but is topping because they enjoy getting their partner off in whatever way they like. the overlap of service tops and folks who are stone is notable!

in your particular case I would recommend not worrying so much about which of these terms, if any, are the correct one for you and focus way ore on exploring and playing with your partner to find a rhythm that works well for the two of you. doms, subs, tops, and bottoms all have something useful to teach people about how they like intimacy, but there's no rush to figure out which category, if any, you fit in. just focus on what's fun and feels good to you and toss the rest.

[just-some-random-blogger]

Dry Humor

The Blonde Boys Club

Daemon Targaryen x Sorceress!Reader, Geralt of Rivia & Sister!Reader

Summary: I would say you pretty much convinced Daemon not to hold Geralt to his actions against him, considering how heavily he was flirting with you as you shared ale.

Word Count: 1k+

Warnings: AGAIN THE ONLY INCEST IN THIS IS THE CANON TARGARYEN INCEST IN HOTD I WILL DECK YOU IF U SHIP THE SIBS, fem!reader, witcher!twins, reader is kinda a witcher, I describe reader's hair and eye color, crack fic, typos, etc.

A/N: These gifs man 😩😩😩😩 they just make the scenario in my head so real. This has a part 1, though i dont think you need to read it to understand but it would make more sense though if you did. also idk if i will continue this, but yeah HAHHHA Also not everyone said they wanted to, but im tagging everyone that commented on the first part just cuz Tagging: @khaleesihavilliard @thenovelcarnival @miiikkeey @aomi-nabi @aralezinspace @pinksirensong @cleverzonkwombatsludge @ayamenimthiriel @deniixlovezelda

Daemon released a sigh as he leaned his arms on the table. His glistening, alcohol laced lips were curved and his tilted his head at me

"A very convincing stance," the prince says after hearing my explanation of my twin's cold tendencies, and how, as much as we were a team, Geralt tended to overlook this and act on his own accord.

"Though," Daemon adds raising a finger, "not convincing enough."

I lean back on my chair. The silver haired man, directly in front of me, skids his, so that he was on the other side of the square table, adjacent to me. Now that he was to my right, he gives me a dramatic frown, "I don't think Caraxes will ever recover from your witcher's viscous attack."

I feel my lips pull into a small smile. He is pleased by my reaction and breaks into a soft chuckle before continuing, "you're going to have to atone for your brother's treasonous actions."

I lean towards him, mirroring the way his elbows were propped on the table. His smirk grows when he finds that I am unabashedly moving so close to him that he smells the ale on my breath.

"What if I told you I don't care if you throw my brother in prison?"

Daemon tilts his head, closing the space between us that our noses brush, "and what if I kill him?"

I chuckle, "you could try," I lean back, "but you would regret it, Prince Daemon."

He tilts his head and narrows his eyes.

I decide not to note on the matter further. If he wanted to know what I meant, he can inquire himself.

"I'm curious," he starts, grabbing his cup, "you mentioned magic is what makes your features so."

I hum, crossing my arms.

"How are you so sure it is not magic of Old Valyria that courses through you?"

I snort, rolling my eyes, crossing my arms, "why are you obsessed with the notion that we share the same heritage?"

"Well, it would explain how my ride obeyed you," he says, hand extending towards me, "and it would make it easier for me to wife you up."

I grab his wrist before he reaches my hair.

He grins at the force, "quite a grip you have."

"You do understand, boy, that you have only met me?" I raise my brows at him, "you've no idea the life I've lead before your parents were even born."

When I release him, his face contorts. It seems he was only now remembering the long life of my kind. Daemon pulls his hand back, only to reach out again and push the white streak of my hair behind my ear. I let him, rolling my eyes as he does so, "then consider me eager to learn, wife."

"Do not call me that," I narrow my eyes at him.

He chuckles, correcting himself by saying my name.

In that moment, I decide to pick the tiny bit of twig that has been sticking out of his long hair the whole time. I show him the object before flicking it away. He appreciates the sentiment it seems. He should not thought of it at all; the thing had been annoying me the moment I spotted it.

"You said your hair burns white because of your brother's," Daemon shifts in his seat to face me, one arm on the backrest, the other on the table.

I nod, "there is a magic between us. I used think it was simply because we were twins, and we had a special bond, which was why the chaos in our beings were so tightly connected. But I've come to realize, throughout the decades, it may be perhaps our mother tied us together, so that no matter what, we would survive through each other."

"You said you did not know your parents," Daemon knits his brows as he tilts his head.

"I never said that," I blurt, uncrossing my hands.

I reach out for my ale, but find that it is all but full. I turn to Daemon, "excuse me while I get us both a refill."

I grab both our cups and head for the keeper. I feel Daemon watch me as I walk away.

It is there by the bar, I walk up beside Geralt, watching him down his own drink. He appears disgruntled. It makes my nostrils flare in amusment.

"Idle flirting amidst pathetic conversation," he notes, eyes on his cup, "I'd say I'm disappointed in the Targaryen, but I don't think that's anymore possible, since he's got about as much prowess as the dirt underneath my boot."

I chuckle as I turn to the bartender, beckoning her by raising my two cups, "a fitting analogy, don't you think?" I turn to my slumped brother, "you cannot seem to get the crust off your soles."

"My blades usually help," he grunts, golden eyes staring at me.

I huff, slapping my hand on his shoulder, "take heart. Our conversation will not last any longer."

He rolls his eyes, grabbing his cup, "does he know that?"

I offer coin to the bartender, telling her I'm paying for Geralt's drink as well. She smiles back at me, then nibbles at her lips at the sight of my brother, who was too caught up with his drink to even notice. I turn away from her when her lips part at the sight of Geralt's throat, dripping with ale, Adam's apple bobbing as he finishes the last of his ale.

I shudder, grabbing my drinks, "maybe you should have tried not to listen to our conversation."

He grumbles wiping his lips, "trust me, I did not want to hear that flying lizard talk about wifing you-" he cuts himself off with a retch-like burp.

I eye the bartender, still ogling my brother, "take care of him."

She turns to me stunned, as if not realizing I was still here.

"Took you long enough," Daemon blurts, leaning on his chair, "did your brother give you a hard time over me?"

I set the cups before him and sit back in my place spot, "if you are so curious of my brother's words, mayhap you have been conversing with the wrong twin."

"Gods," he starts, grabbing the refilled cup, "I would rather die than converse with that dull creature."

I break into a giggle, just as I hear Geralt chuckle darkly from his place. I sigh, rubbing the cup in my hand, "I'm sure my brother would love to arrange that."

Daemon keeps his eyes fixed on me as he drinks. When he props the cup down, I do not hear, or rather, I do not listen to his next words, as I feel a viseral tingle. I straighten up from my chair, looking out the window behind Daemon, looking across the tavern, before ultimately my gaze lands on my brother who was already looking back at me.

The prince watches me, turning to where I my sights were, then back to me, "is something a matter?"

"Someone is looking for you," I mutter, turning back to him. I narrow my eyes at him as I lean in, "are you on the run, prince?"

Daemon is stoic, but I feel his nerves.

All at once, Geralt is upon us, hand on his hilt, annoyance on his face, "times up," he grabs my arm, "I knew this was a bad idea."

Daemon eyes him as Geralt continues, "if you have any further grievances, your grace, I suggest you sort out the ones with your search party first."

Daemon watches as I stand.

I turn to Geralt, who gives me a dark look. I look back at Daemon, who seemed to have stiffened upon hearing my brother's words. I give him a nod, "I trust everything is sorted between us, my prince. May the gods bless you with good fortune in your endeavors."

Geralt releases me as we turn from Daemon. However, we both still when he calls out, "I'll hire you."

I raise a brow as I turn back to him. Geralt's face sours as Daemon stands, "needn't I only toss a coin to a Witcher?"

"Not interested," Geralt hisses.

Just then, a man bursts into the tavern, muddy, bloody, and distraught, "IS THERE A WITCHER HERE?"

I raise my hand up as Geralt turns. He takes in his bewildered expression before calling out, "here."

[theinyshlobster]

feed them silence by lee mandelo [review]

read from september 13th - september 14th

read for sapphic september !!!!!!

review:

minor spoilers!

oh this was super interesting and not what i was expecting at all!

seeing as this is a novella i’m not gonna have…. too many thoughts honestly.

i really enjoyed reading a book about academia and neuroscience research!!!! i’ve pondered going into that field quite a bit, either in neuroscience or research, so seeing them mashed together was a little bonus point from me. sean writing her emotions into academic speak…. chefs kiss. “academia is devoid of emotion” YUP!!! YUP!!!!!!!

also side note but i love the fact the female mc is named sean. idk i love the idea of ungendering names. fuck it names shouldn’t have a gender. also sean is COOL for a woman. we as a society need to name more women sean methinks.

speaking of sean…. whoo she was a doozy protagonist! i mean im reading this for sapphic septemberand its prompt was “disaster sapphics”, so i wanted to see how the sapphics were disasters and…… oh it defo fit that prompt! sean is somehow so incredibly unlikeable and an awful person, yet simultaneously incredibly empathetic. i love a protagonist who is awful and everyone calls them out on their shit, but honestly an awful protagonist can only go so far when the reader wants to gouge the protag’s eyes out. but this book teeters the balance of empathy yet disgust towards sean. god she sucks.

the actual plot itself felt a tad… anticlimactic. idk i expected more…. Horror. this did not feel like horror to me…. defo seems to be more so speculative fiction & thriller rather than scifi horror… but that’s just me. and the whole story itself felt…. idk. boring isn’t the right word. but although i could see the descent into madness, what i was reading wasn’t matching the emotional response sean was producing if you know what i mean. like it made sense… but it also seemed like homegirl was being a bit dramatic. yeah that’s the point but as someone who will sit thru movies going “this shit is dumb why didn’t they do xyz”…. i kinda was just sitting here at times being like “…..why is this bitch going from 0-100 over that”. like her responses were disproportionate even for someone going through what she was. it didn’t make sense logically based on what was explained. and then the climax built up instantly fizzled out… i was just kinda sat there getting excited and then the plot flatlined. 

i really think this book described isolation incredibly well, and anything even adjacent to psychology or neuroscience will get my little brain buzzing with excitement. i won’t say this book was a flop because it wasn’t! but i wasn’t itching to read this book because the plot was good, or i was intrigued. i was waiting for something batshit to happen… and then it didn’t… and then because it’s a novella i might as well finish it.

apologies if this review makes no sense (like my reviews ever do psh) homie is on day 5 of cymbalta 😀 i have slept 16 hours every day i am fried. 

anyways don’t read this book if animal cruelty upsets you 👍

[icaruskey]

can i ask you something? i dont know how to word it without coming off offensive however i am curious as to what trans men think about manhood as a concept. i consider myself to be pro-trans rights but as I've learned more about gender and sex, I've started to interpret male/female binaries as being inherently rape culture compliant (not the individuals who partake in gender/sex as a construct, just the construct itself like as a concept). my question is i understand the whole concept of positive masculinity but also i genuinely cannot come up with any set of qualities that are inherently and only masculine (also have the same problem with feminine qualities). like every man (not just trans, cis too) who wants to deconstruct masculinity ends up sounding a little sexist to me because i just do not know how something like idk "protectiveness" can be seen as only masculine. the way i view gender (and sex) honestly is mostly as a relic of the past but i dont know if this line of thinking is transphobic or not. bcuz i dont want trans people to not exist or not be trans, i welcome it while humanity is in this transitional period but i also think that gender neutrality is/should be the norm. i hope this wasnt offensive or anything, you dont have to respond or anything i just would like to know more i guess and understand better.

Well, luckily I'm able to read things in good faith, regardless of the actual words used. It's hard to discuss things sometimes without coming across as a dolt, especially if you're struggling with a concept as complex as gender identity.

I've been going back and forth on how to reply to this because I could like. Respond with a detailed breakdown but I'm not sure it'll help you, not really.

Because look at how you write. You're coming at this from like this inherent idea that men as the villains. Rape culture is a particular tell, as rape culture focuses on women as victims and minimizes/erases male victims. Meanwhile, since 2008, when I first became truly aware of how often women are victims of assault and harassment, the statistics on male victims have been slowly creeping up to meet female statistics. Rape culture is also a phrase I personally find adjacent to SWERF rhetoric, as they have this idea that all sex work is inherently rape, regardless of the actual autonomy of the women (never the men) in the situation.

You also focus on how masculinity and men deconstructing gender come across as sexist, with little thought to how women are just as sexist when it comes down to it. There are a lot of problems within feminism, and it's something we see clearly as they constantly have to redefine what a woman is as they acknowledge (or refuse to acknowledge) the different experiences of womanhood.

I'm not blaming you for this. Feminism makes dissecting womanhood and villainizing manhood the default for almost all discussion, and there's been a lot of work done to allow for a diverse array of women to exist in the world. Masculinity and manhood though, it's hard to pull it apart from the villainization that's been done to it. Because honestly, it's easier to demonize men than it is to deal with the fact the reality that the true villain is the very societal framework we exist in (capitalism).

I realize I'm probably not making all that much sense right now. But while I largely agree with you that we are heading down the long and arduous path of decoupling the idea of gender entirely from existence, becoming something we may choose for ourselves rather than something given to us at birth, I disagree with how your thought patterns betray your current biases.

Trans men, and indeed men at large, are not a monolith, nor are women or nonbinary people or agender or genderqueer identities. We are all at the faults of whatever framework we approach it from, and largely the group I am part of speaks from a very Western idea of gender. The fun part, though, is deciding what your gender means to you. Which is why I do see myself as a protector, very stereotypical, but I love glitter and silly and goofy bright musicals and magical girl stuff. I don't wear skirts or dresses, but maybe I'll pick a romper. And I work very very hard to see more than just my side of a story and don't try to make a list of "what is wo/man" cause honestly, I don't see the point.

This is my positive masculinity. I wonder what my followers see as theirs.

[loverofallthingssmart]

PLEASE UNLEASH your hadestown demons!!!!!

unleash my hadestown demons is right this is a BEAST thank you very much ive satisfied the brain worms by dumping all my thoughts under the cut

first off. the beauty of live theatre allows for so much nuance and beauty to demonstrated so i cant even begin to cover all the things that could make me insane its so wonderful i love live theatre everyone should watch at least one live theatre production i believe it will solve at least one problem they have

the tragedy of it all!! its a sad song but we sing it anyway, in hopes that we hope that orpheus doesn't turn. but he will. bc he loves eurydice so much so he went down to the underworld to save her.

guys. the repeated, cyclical nature of everything. its an old tale from way back when and its a sad song but they sing it anyway. the point of hadestown is the HOPE of it all wait theres an article (https://www.standard.co.uk/culture/theatre/anais-mitchell-hadestown-west-end-broadway-b1134613.html) regarding mitchell's thoughts on orpheus that make me insane im gonna paste a quote here:

"If Hadestown has a moral, she says, then it’s “you have to try, you have to have hope, not because success is a given – it’s not. Orpheus fails. We heroicise” – here she breaks off to apologise that jet lag has led to her making up words – “we heroicise Orpheus not because he succeeds but because he tries, and that endeavour alone is worthwhile. How to live, and not merely survive, is to believe things could change.” ARE U KIDDING ME OURGHH

which brings me to the topics of like. climate change and capitalism that the play discusses its so good. the fact that there's no spring or fall, only summers and winter because of persephone's absences, how "is it true" is just a song abt labor protests red carnations are a symbol of love and passion yes, but in germany theyre a symbol of the working class protest. its SO important hades has just created an industrial revolution, has built a wall, has workers work forever, "why we build the wall" is soooo incredible "hey little songbird" "chant" all the songs that take place IN hadestown itself are sooo gritty so despondent in a way its insane.

theres another article that discusses sm of it AND discusses like portrayals of persephone that i REALLY like. im gonna paste it here PLEASE read it it has so much good stuff from a classics person regarding it and OURGH too good

orpheus's "to the world we dream about" but then also "the one we live in now" like oh.okay. im NORMAL….

if u noted every single lalala in hadestown it would be 6 min long. the leitmotif oh i am so normal actually.

okay im not rlly a music person i call myself music adjacent bc my two closest friends r music ppl LMAOJDHJS but like. the first time u hear eurydice say "i do" i.e what you say to seal a marriage is after she tells orpheus she signed the papers. she does not say "i do" in the entireity of wedding song, where they talk abt their nuptials. she says "i do" in informing orpheus she cant come up with him. that she chose this life (or death i guess) of her own doing. isnt that vile….

in wedding song she goes "is he always like this" and hermes responds but then in "a gathering storm" she asks the same question to no response.. idk what's there but something is there.

hermes being the narrator thats involved in the play is SOOOO delicious for my brain, the way he switches between a character involved in orpheus and eurydice getting together, invested in their relationship to a all-knowing narrator who knows the end bc he sees this every time.

there's this sense that only orpheus and eurydice do not know they r in a repeated play. which heightens their love at first sight, the "i feel like i know u but ive just met you" OHHHHH my god.

the original nytw script having orpheus say "ur early. i missed u." directly paralleling hades and persephone but in a different context because OHHHHMYGOD and not even that but the fact that mitchell took it out bc she believed it engaged the brain when the moment should only directly engage the heart. so she had the lovers say each other's name. one last time. im soooo normal

also this is bc one time i was thinking abt hadestown and mitski's remember my name played so . just that song in the context of hadestown is SOOOO bc like. like. how eurydice couldn't rmbr herself when she became a worker but orpheus went down to save her and she remembered.

when he turns back and says.

"it's you" "it's me"

^ are you fucking kidding me. the sort of disbelief the happiness the love the incoming grief im inconsolable.

when orpheus turns back, eurydice says his name w so much joy SO MUCH JOY she is not upset at him. "what was there to complain of, except that she'd been loved?" <- quote from metamorphoses

like yes we wish orpheus doesnt turn around but at the end of the day, orpheus is still the trusting guy he was in the beginning. EURYDICE on the other hand KNOWS how cruel the world is and chooses to trust orpheus anyway. but. "it's a tragedy" and doubt creeps in. part of the tragedy lies in the fact that eurydice, "all ive ever known is to hold my own" eurydice runs after him w open arms, chooses to trust him, chooses to follow the trial, and he still turns around. BECAUSE he loves her ohhhmygod im so normal

obligatory mention to the fact that orpheus could never finish the song he was working on because it was a duet. like okay lol. im fine im normal hahahahaha are u fucking kidding me.

hades and orpheus are mirrors, there r two relationships in the musical obviously and it is clear theyre mirrors of each other even w/o the original script line but like.

hades gives orpheus the test that he himself goes through every spring. hades is the villain of the story yes but he is not evil. he gives orpheus the same trial, sees that if orpheus can judge him for losing faith in his wife through the course of their relationship, let's put his romantic nature to the test. let's see if he can feel the absence of his love and keep going. and he cant. bc orpheus has never had to learn how to fend for himself. so when u take away his support system, when u take anyone's support system, how is he, how r we supposed to succeed?

just. the song "how long" encapsulates hades and persephone's relationship SO WELL. "the girl means nothing to me." "i know. but she means EVERYTHING to him" the fact that this is the first time we persephone REFUSE a drink bc shes had enough oh were SOMBER somber the way the whole song just parallels itself and every verse GOD.

the love was there. the hope was there. its a sad song. its a love song.

every single time before they leave. every time they're on stage, eurydice is in front of orpheus. he trusts that she is before him and she never doubts that he is there. it is when their positions change, him in front and her behind that he bends. it is then that doubt comes in.

those r just the like the thoughst of the music and themes itself we can talk abt the ppl and the live play now:

so first. can we talk abt this we need to talk abt for reeve carney's last show the original orpheus his last show he didnt turn back. he and eurydice lived they passed the trial. sorry that makes me so insane bc like. imagine u play orpheus. doomed to a lifetime of looking back at ur lover and your final show, u finally get to stay. oh im very normal i just love the nuances of live theatre!!! what a send off!!!!

THEN we can talk abt how eva and solea play PERFECT eurydices, full of grit and used to the cruel nature of the world. and how lola tung i feel is a DECENT singer but shes not a eurydice shes so light and soft but idk. who am i to say.

also the soundtrack is just SO incredible so is the set design there's not a single ounce of stage space that is wasted like there are so many nuances like i cant even talk abt all that there is my FAVORITE musical for SOOO many reasons ough.

yeah i think that's it. this took me MULTIPLE hours and i feel drained abt talking abt all this. WOW i love hadestown not normal amounts. i can't die before i see this live its one of my goals i just need to see it live on broadway.

[liminalweirdo]

6 / 17 / 34 for the fic writer q's! <3

Thanks for such interesting questions! <3

6. Do you have your work beta'd? How important is this to your process?

I try to have my work beta'd/edited when I can. With fanfiction it's not always possible or practical. The only beta I have atm is my husband and I write faster than he feels up to editing which it absolutely fair, so usually I post things with just my own editing.

I say that the worst writing advice anyone ever gave me (or anyone) was "you don't need an editor," and I think that's mostly true. Fanfiction is... maybe not so serious, you know? I forgive other writers their typos and mostly just gloss over them and barely notice, but I hate when I find them in my own stories haha. But if you're doing something for publication, even if it's a self-pub — if multiple people are gonna be spending money on your finished product, please please please get an editor. Just my opinion as a writer, an editor, and a bookseller for over a decade. I've seen many an awful self-pub that could have been improved so much by editing.

I think a trusted second eye can make your work better. If I can't find an editor/beta reader I'll usually write something and try to edit it myself, but even though I have experience editing professionally (i.e. for money) I am still catching and correcting at least grammatical errors in my published work even months later, which sucks for the reader (sorry!). It's harder to edit your own stuff because you know what you meant so you tend to accidentally miss errors and not catch things that don't make sense/don't line up just right plot-wise, if that makes sense.

One of the tricks I use is handwriting my story and then, when I type it up I can often flesh out the story better, but that may just be how my brain works. Idk, see if it works for you!

Also, I'm usually willing to beta people's stories if they want me to so just lmk and I'll try to help out if I feel like I'm qualified (i.e. I know your fandom, and if I have enough time).

17. What do you do when writing becomes difficult? (maybe a lack of inspiration or writers block)

I never ever had writer's block until a few years ago, which fuckkinnnggg suuuuucks. The pandemic messed me up, I guess. I think the best thing is either just sitting down and writing either a set amount of words or for a set amount of time even if I hate every moment of it and if that's too much -- because let's face it, sometimes life/shit is hard — I will ... take a break! I'll either do something totally unrelated and let my brain chill out, or I'll re-watch the movie/film/read essays or other fic etc., just to get excited about it again. This is a lot harder in small fandoms or with things that have limited source material. When that happens I read/watch/find things adjacent to it and hope to find inspiration there.

34. Five years from now, where do you see yourself as a writer?

I mean, I think and I hope I'll still be writing fanfiction. I hope that in five years things will be different with the pandemic and I'll be able to be more out in the world, actually having wider experiences again. If I ever publish anything, I think it will probably be nonfiction before it's fiction, but we'll have to see. I'd like the opportunity to write for film.

[makeroomforthejolyghost]

right so that moment has passed and now it turns out i do want to discuss my thoughts in some more detail lmao

like ok to be fair i'm an outsider to all this; i am not and never have been active in cpunk or -adjacent spaces. and i definitely feel like i have not seen the epicenter of this whole drama, since like. in browsing random disability blogs i have in the last week encountered multiple people whose posts for months have been 90% complaining about This Shit, and yet i have not encountered very much of the Shit in question at all?

like. i've seen a whole bunch of posts that go something like, "i can't believe abled NDs* have the gall to call us ableist bullies just for saying that chronic illness and autism are different experiences!", or like, "no matter how clear i make it that i'm talking about physical disability, all my posts end up with a billion notes tagged 'adhd' or 'depression' or whatever. why they gotta make everything about them! let us keep something to ourselves for once!", &/or c. usually in that order. but like... without the obvious middle stage where they argue on their blogs with actual objectors to this "let this be just for us" plea. so like maybe they've deleted most of those posts, or maybe the central example is on some cpunk bnf's blog which i just haven't happened to click on yet. idk. but my point is

that from my outsider's perspective it feels like a huge and sudden escalation? to have gone from "ugh not every post has to be about you; read the actual words i wrote, don't just pretend they said something else that you like better!" to, like, "in case you needed more proof that all abled NDs are ableist scum" rallying-the-troops type posts

and wow! i hate it! i cannot actually imagine a level of vitriol from The Other Side that would justify this bullshit.

i want, like?--i sorta hope that somewhere i've missed there's like, a long manifesto from the aforementioned (hypothetical) cpunk bnf about why they and their friends have suddenly decided that neurodivergent people don't count as disabled. even if i probably wouldn't agree with it, i'm still like. that should exist. you can't just start Asserting stuff like that, at people you know will take offense, without explaining anywhere why you've adopted these different discourse norms.

(or i mean--you can, but if you're not trying to escalate conflict then you really shouldn't.)

but.......... also it makes sense. not morally! but. logically. it seems to be a common problem with any echo-chambery discursive space? i remember when i was ~18-21 and much more Online, i would drink some shiny new kind of SJ koolaid and then forget within weeks that people who hadn't drunk that koolaid didn't know what it tasted like.

e.g. after that post that's like (i'm paraphrasing) "the expression 'boys will be boys' should be replaced with 'bad parenting leads to assholes'" got super popular, for years whenever i heard someone say "boys will be boys" i assumed they were either endorsing or deliberately mocking the sexist baggage with which i associate that phrase. when... no, pal; it's a common phrase. you have zero information about what it signifies in random strangers' minds

so like, i'm guessing that's what's gone on here? like like like, backing up a bit: i sympathize with and frequently feel for myself these people's rancor about mental illness (and, though to a much lesser extent, autism and adhd) being the public face of disability. and particularly the thing where like--

ten or fifteen years ago, when i first encountered awareness-raising activism about mental illness, a lot of it took the form of "you wouldn't download a car"-type comparisons with injury, illness, and/or central examples of physical disability. as in, like, rebuffing "your [mental illness accommodation] is just a crutch!" with "imagine telling someone on actual crutches that they shouldn't rely on a crutch" &c.

when what their intuition told them was about physical vs. mental or visible vs. invisible illness was really more about acute vs. chronic illness.**

and like a. this mistake is very annoying, since it leads to a lot of mentally ill/invisibly ill people assuming incorrectly that physically disabled/visibly ill people don't get doubted and belittled the same way they do, when uhhhh guess again.

but also b. it means that while from my perspective it seems super mega obvious that mental illness is the public face of disability in 2023, many people who care a whole lot about activist efforts on behalf of mental illness but who don't know much about other kinds of disability activism still, erroneously, inexplicably think that the reason they don't see as many campaigns like this for other kinds of disability is because physically disabled people are seen/accepted already and don't need to fight for that the way mentally ill people did/still do.

when like.

...this is such a tiny example but i'm bitter about it so: the other day on my university campus i saw a fundraising booth about support for mental illness. you can't log in to our canvas page without seeing a mental health hotline pop up in the corner. nearly every professor i've had here has at some point gone on a tangent about how important it is to support mental health. many times we've had little impromptu class discussions about the unique struggles faced by people with (always this phrase) "invisible illnesses like depression." my school is really really loud about how much it cares about student mental health.*** and i don't think any of these people know that when i encounter these pronouncements i feel like my own experience has been overlooked

so yes, ok? it pisses me off also when mentally ill/neurodivergent awareness-raisers, activists, and people generally think it's like. an underdog move. punching up, if you will. to reblog posts about chronic pain/other phsyical disability and add "this can apply to mental illness, too!" as if that's a mindblowing revelation to us stuckup, old-guard invalids when like. y-yeah, we know that mental illness also sucks. many of us (raises hand) experience it ourselves, and even if we haven't? we too have seen the internet. the mental illness experience is way more legible to the general public than ours is, so it's really fuckin annoying when people co-opt descriptions of our experience to be about theirs.

but like. the fact you (a physically disabled blogger) have now had this conversation with your (also physically disabled and blogging) friends doesn't mean you get to treat people who weren't in on that conversation like hopeless reactionaries??? this is like me in 2012 seeing the term "friend zone" as a red flag no matter who flew it, even though 2011 me had used that term nonjudgmentally and had no inkling of its entitled/sexist undertones.

like i can remember the exhaustion of communicating with waves of internet strangers who can't be bothered to backread your blog a few pages before commenting on some viral post but. th-that is the thing that's occurring here?? multiple waves of people who, each, individually, see something that without context looks inflammatory. not one wave of pigheads who refuse to listen.

*their term, not mine. don't like this at all myself. see previous post

**though to be fair, i don't doubt that plenty of otherwise-healthy people have been accused of "attention seeking" even for, like, a sprained ankle. or for still audibly sniffling when they come back to work after having had the flu. some people are just....? dicks? just dicks. if you can imagine a bad behavior, it's probably common somewhere.

****does this decrease the rate of mental illness in our student body? hahahaha no, probably not

[strititty]

per my last reblog i decided to ramble in about nerds aint got shit, my most popular fic.

well, ostensibly i’m rambling about that but honestly i have 3 am motormouth and i took an edible so im just in that sort of mood, you know. all philosophical like. more under the cut

i wrote that fic in 2015 for drone season, when i was living in - and i cannot stress this enough - the MIDDLE OF FUCKING NOWHERE, though not as much as i would be the year afterward. my internet was shitty cornfield hotspot net and it was the summer after my first year of college so i had a helluva lot on my mind already.

the original document was just a little notepad file with word wrap turned on cuz that’s how i used to write all my shit, and i’d send people wips via pastebin. can you even imagine? PASTEBIN? i use google docs now but sometimes i wonder if i should go back to notepad lmao. smaller size, less evil google involved. when i was a kid i used word, though i can’t remember when that stopped being a thing. might have been during high school.

since i wrote nerds aint got shit so shortly after i had graduated high school i had a very clear picture of my OWN high school in my head, which probably lends itself to some weird stylistic quirks. my high school was very very small. i shan’t name it, of course, lmao, what am i some sort of fool? but it was tiny as hell and that tends to infect any sort of high school adjacent au i write. rereading it i can so clearly picture MY high school that it’s frankly a little funny.

fortunately my high school only had one creepy teacher and it wasnt the PE teacher + we got his ass fired, but fiction makes for a much more fun place to explore these sorts of ideas for me. idk why i have such a thing about age differences & teacher/student fics but i SURE DO.

i can still remember the summer days writing this fic, kind of, in a hazy way. i remember my phone being the only way i could connect with my friends and loved ones, and the sun beating down, and the way things were far too hot in my little room. my cat had gotten out and gotten pregnant by a farm cat, so i had to cough up money to get her fixed - she should have been already but the people i lived with were less concerned about that sort of thing and i’d been at college so i hadn’t been able to make my case. the kittens were cute but tiny and stunted b/c my cat was very young and small & only two of them survived. i think the third one was stillborn and that my cat ate that one, but since i wasn’t there when they were born i didn’t get a lot of the details.

i still think about this fic sometimes for the memories it draws up and the plans i have to revamp and add on to it--my initial idea was a sort of 7 day format where dave goes back to bro every day of the week, but that was a plot for when i was a more prolific writer with a clearer grasp of smut. now im lucky if i can get a coherent smutty fic down in a few weeks god save me lmao. i don’t know if it’s because i’m older or just a little more burned out.

it was a fun idea though and i do semi frequently consider revisiting it, especially when i get the energy and inspiration to write strider stuff. right now that energy is being conserved for certain other works but hey you never know.

i feel like there’s also a hundred points i could make about how my most popular fic is also my oldest homestuck fic, like. yeah, okay, homestuck was more popular back then, so it makes sense that it would have more kudos and what not. hs fanfic is a much quieter affair now, between the fandom controversy, the natural drop that happens after something ends, and how half of all fandom seems to be girlbossing too close to the hayes code. brodave used to get you 200 kudos and now you get like 20!

and you know i don’t like. hate that. i do post for engagement but i never really expected to be POPULAR you know what i mean? more like sharing this thing i wrote about something i’m interested in-- “i wrote this for me but you can read it too, please enjoy!” energies. but i think that it’s so interesting that something that is now approaching its eighth birthday (What The Fuck) had its biggest surge of participants ages ago. i wonder what they’re doing now and actually whatever theyre doing i hope theyre having fun with it but i don’t need to know because i’ve been burned before okay. ppl turning into fancops or whatever. shitty as hell.

the hour grows late so i shall return to the actual topic at hand:

nerds aint got shit’s ill-begotten romance. that shit was gonna be so toxic. i was definitely gonna write dave growing to sympathize with bro, kind of, with his crush fueled by terror kicked into overdrive. bro’s kind of a sad and pathetic weirdo even though to dave (and this is real, not imagined, dave’s not making it up) he is a significant threat. and dave was going to start to pick up those sad jerk vibes in addition to the horny vibes and start to, in an almost lalondian fashion, romanticize the shit out of it.

in a manner of speaking, anyway. im not sure if that was my full plan or what but there’s also just the gremlin brain breathing heavily going “god this is my favorite dynamic” which back then was fairly true. i had also written almost 20k of original teacher/student fiction so romanticizing that was not a new concept to me. i think there’s a part of me that does want to be in that place, you know, but from a safe distance where it’s also just fun and games.

that’s why fics are fun! that’s why trashy romance is fun :) insert something about ace kink here. i do not want to actually touch it but mentally touching it is ok.

nowadays i don’t write so much teacher/student fic tho im still hells of deep in my love of age differences. more often than not i find myself kind of drawn to a cougar/kid in their late teens dynamic nowadays for original fiction, tho i also love ancient vampire/regular human and just minor age and experience differences.

(jotting down ‘rose lalonde as a cougar’ for a future fic idea thanks)

i think ive grown away from this fic mostly, but it feels like a wild time capsule to me, and maybe one day i will unearth it to add more. maybe in 2025 for the a ten year anniversary.

[elytrafemme]

hi :]! I am awake at ungodly times but! I’ve been thinking about uhh sibilance (sibilant sounds?) recently and I forgot the words for the other ones bc I know that’s only the repitition of s sounds at the start of a word etc etc. But sibilant sounds and all that -> it makes me think of poetry even though I think it’s more often in prose? or at least I think I saw it more in prose back when I was doing classes on that kinda thing. idk. I keep accidentally doing it though (not just with s sounds) and wondering what that makes the sentence sound like since it’s usually used to give off a particular vibe and I’m not meaning to give it any particular vibe o(-(

was wondering if u had any opinions on the whole thing -> I do like it bc it makes the sentence flow nicely like a little waterfall or something. although some of them aren’t supposed to right? I feel like some are supposed to sound a little harsh. just pulling from my memory though so idrk .Some make a little ssss sound like a snake 🐍 that’s fun

anyway hope u are doing well ! wishing u the best as always :]

HI BRACKETT sorry im just now getting to this HAHA but ty for reminding me to respond earlier :>

I've never heard about this but its super super cool!!!! alliteration is something i only really explore in small doses as the farther i push it i feel like the more muddled your intent actually gets, which i think is sort of similar to this! (since it's like... alliteration with s but more specifically that sound of s, like a hiss) i've never seen it as a vibe giver persay but more as something that drives you forward -- if you think about the rhythm of a piece, it's going to fall in a very specific way when you get to words with alliteration (usually quicker in my experience) which kind of stops you in your tracks while reading and then reorients you as you continue. it's the kind of thing you want to use either as you build up to a very near peak (like the next line or two you say) OR at the height of your peak, though i would encourage the first one more or at least write that way. but with everything its like do whatever the fuck you want etc etc this is just ! my takes and stuff

rhythm is so fucking hard, like the recent stuff i've worked on has been a nightmare in a rhythmic sense because it mostly is meant to be poetry writing in a prose adjacent style. as a whole ive been thinking more about the small choices people make in poetry, though; was reading a poem that had a very specific stanza break while also having enjambment at that part and i was reading it like ... why is that where you put the stanza break? etc it's really interesting and can be frustrating but u gotta just trust that people write what they wanna write and everything!

but yeah! in terms of vibes i also think that alliteration and similar stuff like sibilance give off that sharper vibe -- if we're looking at alliteration with b or p or k or t is absolutely feels like the kind of thing you announce very crisply which is mostly refreshing, versus s and f and so kind of slow it down OR speed it up in a way that feels like it has a drawl to it. maybe just bc of where i live and the kind of peotry im TRYING to get into more but it gives me US southern energies a bit.

anyway!!! srry for the delay i hope this ramble kinda answered what u were trying to ask me HAHA,thank u for telling mea bout this bc ive literally never heard of this before but it is so so cool!!!!! <3333 always good hearing from u my friend

[lonepower]

you know what? the more I think about it, the more I think you're absolutely right. as vehement a defender as I am of this game, it didn't on first pass strike me as the most... subtly-constructed story, and I'm sorry I just accepted my initial surface read because I think I may have done it a disservice!

(the rest is under a readmore because I uh. may have gotten a bit carried away 😅)

The game wants us to see the Tantas as good, fair leaders who did a complete 180 when they were corrupted: that's how we see it through Frey's point of view, at least. But if we're not taking it for granted that the narrator here is reliable, then that's not quite right. Rather, the game actually wants us to see the Tantas as being seen as formerly good, fair leaders, and those are not the same thing at all. (suss voice "you are not immune to propaganda"-) Looking at the information we have, it would make sense that Rheddah was, if not actually colonized, then in some way pigeonholed into its dealings with Athia, and that these dealings were fundamentally and unacceptably detrimental to Rheddig life in a way that went beyond just, like, paying taxes. (although then again, sometimes that's enough...)

as for my Thoughts about demons:

Susurrus is not the only demon, and demons can take many forms: the councilors and Tantas (including the First Tanta) are both familiar enough with the existence of demons to reference them without further explanation, and people mistake Frey for a demon because they can tell something is off about her but not that she's not the source. Ergo, either there are multiple types of being that get lumped under the umbrella of "demons", or demons are shapeshifting creatures that can appear as anything. Given that we see Susurrus depicted or physically manifested at various points as a snake, a dragon, a humanoid, a flock of birds, and a full-on winged wheel, I'm leaning towards the latter. Susurrus also says "You can't keep a good demon down," implying he knows (or at least knows of) other demons and has judgements as to their quality.

Related to prior: the fact that Susurrus appears as a six-winged, haloed humanoid and as a winged system of interlocking wheels is a very deliberate design choice. whether it's out of evangelion-style "idk I just thought it looked cool" aesthetic ~Rule of Symbolism~ or whether it actually does indicate something, that is solidly christian and jewish folkloric imagery respectively. However the devs define ‘demon’ in this universe, they're definitely drawing on western symbolism pretty heavily.

I think "[binding] someone with a former life to a bunch of metal to create a demon" is closest to my interpretation, which has admittedly been filtered heavily through both the Bartimaeus series (because it's my benchmark for sassy insufferable demons), and Elizabethan-era demonology (because I just think it's neat). Demons or demon-adjacent beings needing a body to enact their will on the world is a pretty common trope—I mean, what else is possession?—so if he existed in some nontangible way and was simply given physical life by the Rheddig, that answers both his choice of words and why demons in general are a known quantity apart from him.

His dialogue in the boss fight also lined up enough with my understanding of fictional demons that I didn't question it, which, again, I'm realizing I maybe should have. The bit with "it's not about what I want" re: destroying Athia made perfect sense to me, because I'm used to the convention that a demon summoned has to fulfill what it's summoned to do. It may take enjoyment from the destruction, but it doesn't actually have much agency in the situation. Being literally assembled to those ends would have the same result, of course, but the game is tropey enough in other aspects that I feel safe in applying Occam's razor here.

Because of that, my initial thought was that he probably didn't like the Rheddig any more than he likes Athia since they both enslaved/imprisoned him, but that's seeming like it has less evidence now. I'm still fond of the idea as a what-if because it makes his "I'll have to think of a way to thank them" line (over a soldier's corpse in a labyrinth) just so much more delicious, but I fully admit that that's just because I'm a dumb bitch with terrible taste who will never change a simp for demons predictable.

In direct contradiction to that, though: I'm also rotating in my mind the idea of him being Rheddah's equivalent to a Tanta in that he was the primary being to hold magical power there, and there was some John Dee-esque political magician who makes pacts with him to get magical stuff done, etc etc. So in the first war they make their Resident Mascot Demon a cool body to help them fight, but that goes sour and he gets trapped - and now they have barely any magical weight at all, which leads to their attempts to free him and the "purge" (which, boy howdy is THERE another term to not trust). A likely scenario? Probably not, but I'm having fun with it. 

tl;dr

This bit of dialogue drives me insane.

There is very clearly something that happened between the Athians and the Rheddig that Cuff believes to be justification for his rampage.

It can't be as simple as the Tantas fighting back against the Rheddig invading. That's logical self defense: hardly a crime.

An unforgivable crime suggests something terrible and heinous, and we haven't been told of any such thing at this point.

Yet Cuff is adamant that Athia must burn for it. For whatever it is that the Tantas did to the Rheddig.

I want to know what it is.

[cornflowercanine]

i mightve said this here already? 8ut i h8 physically talking, 8ut not as in i ever have Trou8le speaking (aside from occasional sp33ch impediment cr33ping in), and not as in i f33l 8ad or tired in any way After talking 8ecause Of Talking In And Of Itself, just, i h8 the Concept of speaking? if i could talk in only 8ody language unless i WANTED to use words, i would, 8ut i always end up talking and ppl always end up asking me stuff that Requires more than a yes/no, -points-, etc answer ._.

[littlemisslipbalm]

“your turn”

Harry Styles was a romantic. He hated weddings. Rori Williams was practical. She hated weddings, too. How could she deny a man who had just drunkenly confessed his love for her at a wedding? Even if it was completely and totally untrue.

A story of two semi-strangers to lovers with weddings, drunken confessions, and girls with two names.

gif has nothing to do with it but he looks fancy and i like it :) tpwk

Hi! this is for @meetmeinfleetwood to lovers fic challenge! and it’s a little cruel of me to post it today after those wedding pics came out but i have been working on this for awhile and tomorrow’s the deadline so if it’s too soon im sorry and if its just what you need enjoy! I used prompts 12 and 15! It’s my first ofc story which is a little strange for me but i wanted to use a name for this, but besides her hair and eye color and a name she’s pretty generic,,, idk thank you all for always reading and all of that. lmk what you think and reblogs are always really appreciated

Word Count: 9.3k | Warnings: drinking, swearing, implied? smut (couldn’t bring my heart to write any my apologies), harry being a silly drunk, mentions of being afraid of someone taking advantage of someone under the influence but ofc no! actual any misconduct -- a SITCH wedding!!! so cute ::))

Harry Styles was a romantic.

He loved love songs that professed their undying love for their significant other. He loved romance movies, rom coms especially, because they were happy and in love and he got to cry and laugh all in one. He loved writing his own songs about love and he loved spreading the idea of loving and treating others with kindness. He loved first dates and the relationships that sometimes sprouted out of them. He loved reading books about love and how to make it last. He loved poetry that waxed eloquent about love. He loved love.

He hated weddings.

Well, he hadn’t always hated weddings. In the beginning, they were like every other aspect of love, he loved them. But slowly, as he kept receiving announcements of engagement and wedding invitations and he kept not sending out letters of his own, his aversion grew.

Sure, he still loved going. He still wept for the happy couples when they committed themselves to each other. He still clapped profusely and danced to the dj or live band. He still tried to enjoy it. But with weddings he had a nagging sense in the back of his head reminding him that he still hadn’t found it yet. Each of his relationships had fallen short in some way as to not lead him to this destination. So when he sat at his assigned table at these various gatherings, he held a bit of apprehension, a bit of envy, about everything going on. He knew that his smiles were all a little forced and his laugh not quite genuine. His thoughts always managed to be controlled by his green-eyed monster that he always attempted to keep locked away. But at weddings, especially when the alcohol started flowing, he had a harder time controlling it.

Seeing all his friends getting together, getting married, and having children wore on him. Wore him thin more than he ever let on to anyone but his therapist. And his therapist couldn’t seem to give him a better answer than to be patient and not give up hope.

By 2021, Harry had decided that maybe he was just meant to be alone. Love was something he could admire, but it wasn’t meant for him. He could chase it, but it would never let him have it. He was unlucky in love and by Sarah and Mitch’s wedding in the Spring, he had come to terms with it.

He had even been optimistic for it, being Mitch’s Best Man and all had gotten his hopelessly romantic heart all aflutter. He was introduced to Sarah’s Maid of Honor, Renee Williams and she had been lovely. She was 31, a little older than Harry - but age wasn’t something that deterred him, and she had worked with Sarah in Los Angeles before Harry recruited Sarah for the band. They were best of friends and Sarah had known for a long time that Renee would be her Maid of Honor.

When Harry met Renee, he was sure that she was meant to be his person. She was beautiful and hilarious, her beauty mark at the side of her lip was so utterly unique he called her a “right Marilyn”. She insisted she was not a Marilyn Monroe type at all and had laughed. Harry had charmed her with his expert flirting and claimed that just because she was a brunette didn’t mean she was a Marilyn. She had smiled and bantered through the rehearsal dinner with him at her side. He was entranced, it had to be Renee, he had been so sure of it.

When Renee had walked down the aisle just before Sarah, Harry had been sure of it. When Renee had smiled at Harry as Mitch slipped on Sarah’s wedding band, Harry had been sure of it. When he had hooked his arm around hers as they walked down the aisle and into a foyer, Harry had been sure of it. When she laughed at his jokes while they waited for their wedding party photos to be taken, Harry had been sure of it.

When Renee walked up to Harry at the reception with another man wrapped around her, Harry wasn’t so sure of it anymore.

“Harry, I’d like you to meet my boyfriend, Corey,” Renee smiles giddily between the two men.

Harry’s eyes widen slightly at the word ‘boyfriend’ and he swallows harshly before blinking and putting on a sweet smile. He thrusts his right hand out for Corey to shake.

“Hullo, mate,” Harry says happily.

Corey greets Harry, extending his hand to meet Harry’s with a warm smile and a “how are you”. Harry laughs boisterously and takes a sip of his champagne flute. They shake hands with a firm up and down motion.

“Planning on getting really drunk,” Harry says in response to Corey’s question. “Have a great night, you two,” he finishes and stalks off for a refill.

Renee watches him go with a little bit of a confused look on her face. She sees him tilt his head back and finish his drink before turning to face her boyfriend and peck his cheek. She mumbles to him, “He’s a really nice guy, wouldn’t stop chatting my ear off the past few days. All these people must make him antsy.”

He nods back to her, “They must.”

Harry sidles up to the open bar, discarding his empty flute and exchanging it for a much stronger drink.

“Tequila. Neat...Please.” He sighs and runs a hand through his curls that are slowly becoming less and less coiffed. His fingers slide to the collar of his shirt and tug, attempting to loosen it a little.

“Rough night already?” Someone asks from beside him.

His face turns to them and sees a smiling brunette. Her eyes are big, larger than most eyes he’s come across. They’re brown with tinges of gold and green, likely making them hazel by her standard since most people prefer saying hazel eyes to brown. Her smile is bright and clean and if Harry hadn’t already heard her speak he would assume she was American from that smile. It was perfect, too perfect - the teeth both straight and blindingly white.

He raises his eyebrows at her and thinks about his response. His tongue darts out to wet his lips, leaving them parted, but he remains silent when the bartender hands him his tequila. Harry wraps a specifically less ringed hand tonight, he had forgone his ‘H’ and ‘S’ rings as well as the rest of them actually on his left hand. His right hand still had two: the large flashing lavender gemstone encrusted in a gold casing from Stevie Nicks on his middle finger and then a clean gold signet ring with little crosses on the sides on the adjacent ring finger. Every other finger was noticeably empty. So when he picks up the glass there is no familiar clink which draws the attention of himself.

The woman doesn’t pay any attention to his hand, she’s still waiting for him to respond to her question, as well as waiting for her other drink to be made. She was taking advantage of the two drink system and getting two for herself right now, so she didn’t have to come back until much later.

“You have no idea,” is how Harry decides to respond and then turns to leave. He forgets about the woman and sits at his assigned table for his entire drink, talking casually with the people who come to speak with him.

When he's finished, he goes back to the bar to order a second tequila. He thinks about the girl who had stared at him with her big brown eyes. How she had seen him and thought to ask how his night was when it seemed to be going to shit. And how he had blown her off with barely a glance. God, he could be such a prick. After he receives his drink, he forgets yet again and continues to drown his sorrows in the golden liquid that helps him numb the pain that he had once again missed out on his fairytale love story.

The girl Harry had run into sat in the corner of the ballroom for the majority of the night. She settled on just having that first round of drinks for herself and one glass of obligatory champagne during the toasts. Other than that, she had promised herself she wouldn’t get drunk and go off with a random stranger. This was not a wedding for that. This wedding couldn’t be for that. She just needed to keep her head low and try to have a semi-pleasant time.

When she was nursing her champagne through the toasts, the man at the bar caught her eye again. She knew who he was. He was the Best Man after all. Sarah talked about him a lot, even Renee after the past few days, but seeing him at the bar had been the first time she’d ever seen him up that close. It was strange, he was so human. So tangible in that moment. His shoulders shook with each breath he took. His fingers tapped as they waited for his drink. His green eyes blinked and darted around as he took in his surroundings and even looked at her. He simply was and it had startled her to see him in a slightly bewildered state at the bar, but again, she wasn’t one to judge.

Get through the wedding. Try to have a semi-pleasant time.

It was time for the Best Man’s speech. Renee had just given the Maid of Honor’s and now Harry was up. He stood up and wavered a little as he tried to stand up straight. The neat tequila likely makes his stance a little harder to maintain. Mitch looks up at Harry at his side and smiles fondly.

Harry raises one hand in an awkward wave while the other is planted firmly on the table.

“Hullo,” he starts, “I’m Harry and I’m the Best Man, but I’m sure you knew that already.”

The entire group of guests laugh wholeheartedly, taken by the talented young man.

“To start,” he stutters, his words slurring slightly from the alcohol he’s had, and his smile slithers into a smirk. “Let’s hear it for the bride and groom, the lovely Sarah and Mitch Jones!”

Queue the laughter again. Harry laughs too when Mitch slaps his arm playfully, he turns to look at him with a mock ‘what did I do wrong’ expression.

“I had a speech written out, took a week to write, made it nice and poetic for these two lovebirds, but it seems I’ve misplaced it,” he pats at his pockets and sighs before rubbing his forefinger at his bottom lip. “I hate weddings.”

Everyone laughs again, thinking he’s joking. Harry grimaces but it passes as a smile even though she can tell it doesn’t meet his eyes.

He rambles on for a few minutes about love and commitment, how this is just the beginning for Sarah and Mitch and everyone laughs at the appropriate times and just when he’s wrapping up, successfully stumbling through his messy mind, everyone begins to clap.

“To the happy couple…” queue applause, but she sees him say something else, it’s drowned out by the crowd cheering and clinking glasses again.

He sits back down, downing his champagne glass that’s been refilled twice already during the speeches. Mitch leans over and whispers something in Harry’s ear as he twists a hand through his hair. Harry shifts away from Mitch and gives him a look, telling Mitch that he’s fine.

The party goes on, a few more speeches, a few more glasses of champagne for Harry, a few more sighs from the girl in the back of the room.

She watches the first dance of Mitch and Sarah but once that part is over she slinks off. She’s got half a drink left and all she wants is to be alone. Tired of the party, tired of the people, tired of having to try to have a good time. The Rowland-Jones Party had rented the entire place out, so she wanders out of the main room and down a hallway until the music is a faint buzz in her ear. The air grows colder as the amount of people dwindles from over a hundred to one.

There’s a door to her right that has an intricate golden handle that she pulls down on. It opens quietly onto a similar ballroom that is slightly smaller than the one the party was going on in. It’s quiet and spacious, her steps echo as she enters on heeled feet. The clicking of her satin stilettos resonate against the linoleum. She walks to the center of the room and turns around herself, lifting her head to the light in the room. An ornate chandelier is still above her, it’s the same gold as the handle that let her in. Her eyes travel to the walls that contain swirls of gold as well, everything was encrusted in gold and splotchy vintage mirrors. It was beautiful and she saw herself in the reflection of one of those splotchy vintage mirrors and actually felt beautiful in that moment.

No one else saw her but herself and she thought she was beautiful, a fleeting thought as she watched her body move. No one to watch as her reflection swayed with her. Her lavender dress swished back and forth, the end of it brushing around her ankles. The tulle fabric climbed her torso, cinching at her waist and draping over her breasts. The sleeves fluttered over her shoulders and ended midway down her upper arm. The somewhat sheer material made her tan skin look all the more carmely in the golden light of the chandelier. Her pendant necklace was silver and glinted in the light as it sat evenly over her exposed clavicle and decolletage.

In the corner opposite of the door there was a single table with three chairs. It seemed whoever was meant to put things away had grown tired and left these out. She wasn’t complaining as she crossed the floor to take a seat. It was the perfect escape. It was quiet and not too cold in the room, which was especially nice since she had left her jacket in the coat room. What wasn’t so nice is that her phone had died and she had nothing to do in the room. It wasn’t horrible though, she had wanted to be alone with her thoughts. She just feared what would happen if she sat alone too long with no escape of the internet to drown those thoughts.

That contemplation was squashed with an unwitting solution not ten minutes later. She had been sitting at the table, sipping her drink occasionally and staring at the chandelier. Sighing with content that it was finally silent beside the clink of her melting ice cubes. The house mixed drink was strong, but with each passing second it grew more and more diluted. She considered herself completely sober.

She only questioned that when she noticed a second person in the room. She hadn’t heard them open the door, but she heard their loud footsteps shortly after.

He all but stumbled in and was entranced by the chandelier like she had been. He walks to the center in a similar fashion and twists around, only this time his balance isn’t as good as hers. He ends up on his ass, legs splayed in front of him and hands behind him only cushioning his fall a little. He lets out a huff, “Fuck.” He runs a hand over his face before bringing it down to look around the room again. His eyes are foggy with alcohol, everything hazy and slightly blurry. It feels like he’s moving with superspeed but as she watches him with a tilted head she wonders why he’s moving so slowly.  

He squints while looking around after a moment, running a hand through his thoroughly tousled hair. His tongue comes to wet his lips, but this time it's for a touch too long like he’s genuinely tasting the liquor on them. She raises her brows, observing him, her presence seemingly unknown.

“Oi, you!” He slurs the words and points lazily at her reclined in her chair. “Are you real?”

She half smiles and replies with a simple ‘yes’.

“I like your dress,” he says merely like he was stating a fact rather than giving a compliment. His hair falling into his eyes again despite him just pushing it back.

“Thanks.”

He makes his way to standing, his process rather ungraceful. He twists onto his hands and knees and begins to push himself up. He slips once before making it to full standing, he sways slightly and looks around again like he’s forgotten why he stood up. His eyes land on her again and he decides to make his way over to the table.

“You should probably sit,” she says, watching him splay his arms around him to keep his balance. She had seen him an hour and a half ago and he seemed fine, but now he seemed absolutely and utterly pissed.

“Thanks, mum,” he says as he thunks into the seat beside her, his hand waving off her suggestion.

Her brows raise at the slightly rude comment, but she leans back in her seat still observing him.

“Why do you hate weddings?” She asks once he’s settled and has his head propped up with one of his hands. She takes a sip of her drink as she watches him scan her face again, trying to see if he recognizes her.

His mind must come up empty, a vague memory of the bar slipping away without a second thought.

“It was a joke,” he shrugs.

“No it wasn’t,” she replies easily.

His eyes narrow and he leans forward a little shakily, “Who are you?”

“Aurora.” She licks at her own lips, a stray bit of liquid lingering on her lips.

“That’s a Disney princess name,” he says, unconvinced, how most drunk people were when you told them the truth.

“And my great-grandmother’s and mine,” she responds, a grin playing on her lips as she watches him think it over. “It’s wild how multiple people can have the same name. Did you know people can share a last name as well?”

He leans back in his chair now, unhappy with her snarky response.

“Isn’t that why we’re here, two people joining together and sharing the same last name now?” He threads his fingers as he speaks, mimicking something coming together.

“Yep,” She perks at the question he poses. “You still didn’t answer my question.” Her brows raise once playfully.

“What?” Harry seemed to have lost the plot, his fuzzy drunken brain choosing to forget the first thing she asked him while in this private ballroom of theirs.

“Why do you hate weddings?” She repeats, louder and with emphasis, the words echoing this time.

“Oh,” he looks up to the ceiling and blows air past his lips harshly, “S’ a long story.”

“We got all night,” she offers, and raises her glass to her lips once again.

“A night wouldn’t even cover half of it,” he ponders seriously, his mind reeling. “I’d rather talk about you.”

“Why me?”  She laughs like she’s just received the most delightful surprise.

“Because,” He starts and then sits quiet for a moment before leaning forward, elbows on the table as he peers at her, “I think I’m in love with you.”

“You only just met me,” she responds. “Not to mention, you’re drunk as fuck, Best Man. Just minutes ago I watched you stumble in here and truly fall on your ass.”

“Then tell me about yourself and I’ll explain my hatred for weddings.”

“You’re awfully good at bargaining for being this inebriated.”

“I never lose my charm, no matter how pissed I may be,” he smirks and gives a sloppy wink, hair falling in his face yet again.

She scoffs, but she is rather amused and intrigued by the man beside her. His tie now completely loosened, hair falling every which way, and his green eyes set on her. The shiny shoes he wore slipped around on the ground as he shuffled his feet below him like a child wanting to go play. She figured it was just his drunk brain trying to amuse himself or something. How could she deny a man who had just drunkenly confessed his love for her at a wedding? Even if it was completely and totally untrue. She at least had to entertain the foolish notion that maybe he actually was interested in getting to know her. If anything, it would help pass the time until she could go home.

“I’ll bite,” she relents.

The smirk doesn’t leave his face, it only widens, “Only if I can, too.”

“I wasn’t saying-”

“Shush, sh-sh-shush. I know that,” he holds a hand up at her, trying to get her to be quiet. He sways again, even in his seat he looks as if he could fall over at any moment. She wondered if he might not remember this tomorrow. “I was bein’...” he licks his lips in a pause, “suggestive.”

She laughs again, knowing his sober brain probably would have chosen a more articulate and suave word since ‘suggestive’ was rather tactless and more straight to the point. If she learned anything from all the conversations she overhead about him, Harry was definitely one for tact.

“You were something, that’s for sure,” she wraps a hand around Harry’s wrist, she draws the hand down from its hovering state and lays it against the table again. She withdraws her own hand back to her glass, her drink almost completely gone now.

He smiles, pleased with himself, but unaware that his charms had worn off with his exorbitant amount of alcohol consumed. At least on this girl they weren’t working. She had never been attracted to people who were too drunk to help themselves and she always hoped that’s how others felt too. She was thankful he had stumbled in on her rather than someone who didn’t feel the same way. It made her sick to think of what someone with evil intentions might do if they came across a babbling drunken version of Harry. Pushing those thoughts away since that wasn’t the case, she decided to pat his hand once just in reassurance to herself and him that this was really happening.

“I’m twenty-five.” She states.

Harry nods, a small smile on his lips now rather than a smirk as he watches her again. He liked how smoothly she moved rather than the rest of the world in his drunken eyes, everything else was choppy and fast. She was elegant and fluid, calming even.

“I love love,” Harry says, eyes remaining on hers, no trace of a joke in his tone, “And it hates me.”

“That can’t be true,” she squints at him, a frown gracing her face for a moment at the sadness she sees in his watery eyes. Not crying watery, just watery from his drunken state.

He says nothing, waiting for her to offer more information about herself before he says anything else. This was the deal after all. She quickly realizes why he isn’t responding and sighs, conversation with drunks was tedious already, but Harry seemed determined to make it even harder.

“I’m from California.”

“They always are,” Harry mutters to himself. He ignores her hum of a question, asking what he just said with a simple sound. “All my friends, they’re either getting married or they’re already married and got kids on the way or whatever. They all found love and I’m just here with fuck all.”

She sincerely doubts what the drunken man is telling her right now, but she knows how to play the game now to get more information. “I hate my job,” she states.

“Sometimes I feel like I'm cursed, like I fucked up one too many times and now I’m doomed to never find love.”

Her eyes widen at this, he sounds so damn sad and she wishes she could take his pain away. She knew what a good guy and she couldn’t imagine why he would deserve to feel this way. No one deserved to feel like they weren’t worthy of love. His sad state truly almost brought her to tears. She’s there in a stunned silence and Harry is confused why she hasn’t said anything more about herself. It was her turn.

“What’s something else about you?” He asks, his hand fiddling with itself on the table. She notices once again that there aren’t as many rings on his fingers as what she thought was usual.

She licks her lips and reaches her hand forward. She grasps Harry’s fiddling hand and stops his movement. “I feel sorry that you feel this way, no one deserves the kind of pain you’re inflicting on yourself. I’m very very sorry for you, Harry.”

“That’s not really…” He trails off, losing his focus on her face and instead looking at their hands touching. The feeling is so intense in his buzzing body. Her touch was so calming compared to the electric feeling in his body. It felt nice.

“Can I ask you a different question and then I’ll tell you something no one knows about me?”

He nods eagerly.

“And you can’t dodge the question, you really have to answer it, okay?”

“Okay.”

“What did you say at the end of your speech? It got drowned out by applause, but I saw you say something.”

“You noticed?” He asks kind of surprised, then scratches at his eyebrow. He sees her slight glare and knows to get to his answer. “Asked when it’d be my turn…like to fall in love, y’know.”

She sighs, saddened yet again by his words. “Okay, well, here’s my secret... I hate weddings, too.”

Harry’s eyes light up, maybe he really was in love. She purses her lips and pulls back from him.

“I think you’re my soulmate,” he breathes out, again making a false confession. His drunken brain wants it to be true. He’s desperate for his search to be over, for her to be his person.

She smiles that same sad smile that she keeps getting when he says these sad things to her.

“I assure you, I am not, Best Man.”

He looks at her confusedly. She was beautiful, she was clarity to him. Her brown hair was straight with a little wave in it, like it was straightened for the occasion but never truly that way otherwise. It flowed around her head and shoulders, but she had it tucked behind both ears. She wasn’t trying to impress anyone, she just simply was beautiful. Her sun tanned skin looked soft under the golden glow and Harry was sure she was an angel or something.

“Why not?” He insists, leaning forward.

She stands up from her seat. He follows clumsily behind her, standing as well. He was still taller than her even in her high heels. He smiled like a lovesick child down at her, his eyes as big as the moon. She bites at her lip as she sees him look at her so lovingly, so misguidedly. Then she leans up towards his face, up on her tiptoes and past his lips. Her hands hold him straight with them curled in his suit’s lapels. She presses a sweet and gentle kiss to his cheek, closer to his jaw than anything.

“Good night, Harry,” she whispers against his skin before pulling away.

His eyes flutter open, his looks at her confusedly, slightly unaware that he had closed his eyes at all.

“Good night…” He had already forgotten her name, something with an A...or was it an O? He’d have to ask Sarah and Mitch about the girl who had talked to him in the empty golden ballroom, the girl he had fallen in love with. He was certain. She was the one - if only he could find out her name. If he remembered this at all or if he just thought it was a dream.

She leaves the room before him and as she leaves she wonders if she maybe should have made sure he was alright, but she figured their talk was sobering enough. The night was ending and she had a sneaking suspicion that there were plenty of people here tonight looking out for him.

-

Harry forgot about the girl in the ballroom. Or at least he wasn’t sure if it was a dream or reality. He had woken up at Tom’s place where he had said he would stay after the wedding reception so he hadn’t gone home with a girl. He couldn’t remember her name so he couldn’t really ask anyone about her and he didn’t exactly have a lot of people he could ask. He wanted to ask Sarah and Mitch, but they were already off on their honeymoon and he was one of those people who would never bother a couple on their honeymoon. He was too embarrassed to ask Renee and anyone else for that matter.

So, instead, he forgot. Harry forgot about her for three weeks until Sarah and Mitch returned. He had called them for a hike and lunch the moment their plane had landed. He had missed some of his best friends. It was a lull in the year, where he wasn’t touring or in the studio, just living and writing when he felt like it. So maybe he was in need of some inspiration.

“Ah! The Jones’!” He exclaims as he walks up to their parked car at the head of the trail.

Sarah laughs and Mitch rolls his eyes, half-heartedly since he’s just as happy to see Harry as Harry is to see him.

“I missed you,” Mitch says as he brings Harry in for a hug.

“Don’t let the missus hear that,” Harry tuts while he sends a wink over Mitch’s shoulder to Sarah.

“It’s all he could talk about for the past few weeks,” Sarah jokes as she goes in for a hug with Harry. “How do you think Harry is? Hope he’s eating? I miss Harry.” She mimics Mitch’s voice.

Mitch shakes his head shyly, a smile spreading on his face after a moment. “That. Is not true at all,” he assures Harry, “But you do look a little thinner. What have you been eating?”

Harry elbows him with a grin, “I’m fine. Been bored so I’ve just been filling the time with working out.”

They start their ascent up the hill and into the canyon. Mitch nods, his worry for his friend subsiding momentarily before he says something strange.

“I’ve been wanting to ask, but you’ve been gone, about a girl at the wedding.”

“Oh?” Sarah gives Mitch a knowing look.

“Yeah, well the thing is, I’m not sure if she was real or not. I think she was real, but I was so drunk, there’s so many bits missing in my memory.”

Sarah and Mitch both laugh. “You were very drunk, H,” Mitch confirms.

Harry ignores him, “I even asked her if she was real and she said yes, but y’know people can lie in dreams. All I remember is she was amazing and she had a princess name, I think.”

Sarah thinks about the guest list. “No princess names that I can think of. What did she look like?”

Harry squints ahead of them, his sunglasses pushing his curls back on the top of his head. “She had straight brown hair, not long or short. She said she was, uh, twenty-five. She was in lavender, I think.”

“You think a lot,” Mitch interjects which earns him a glare from Harry.

Harry thinks about this part that he remembered vividly, how she had been so confident that he wasn’t. He adds, “...And I told her I was in love with her.”

“Oh god, Harry,” Sarah sighs.

Mitch gives Harry an apologetic smile.

“She didn’t buy it, but she didn’t run off either. We talked for awhile.”

“Maybe it was a dream,” Sarah says.

“Okay, let’s see,” Mitch grows to be the leader of the investigation, wanting everything for his best friend to find the love he knew he deserved. “Twenty-five year old brunettes at our wedding who are single. C’mon there weren't that many people there.”

Sarah thinks about it again. “Renee’s sister is twenty-five. I don’t remember what she was wearing, I hardly saw her all night,” she pauses, “Which is strange since she wasn’t on the job for once.”

“What do you mean ‘on the job’?” Harry asks curiously, remembering his girl saying she hated her job.”

“She’s a wedding planner,” Sarah says, glancing at him because she was almost sure that Renee’s sister was not who Harry was talking about. “But she had referred me to someone else for the wedding, she consulted sometimes and got us a discount, but said she didn’t like working with people she knew personally.”

Harry nodded, how could Renee’s sister be his girl? How could a wedding planner hate weddings? And wouldn’t it be all the more awkward if the girl was Renee’s sister? Renee’s little sister, could it be? He had no clue.

“I don’t think it’s her, though,” Sarah gives a half-smile, “She’s not super...uh, how do I say this?”

As Sarah says “touchy-feely,” Mitch interjects.

“She’s pretty cold-hearted. She’s relatively nice, but what makes her such a good wedding planner is she doesn’t get caught up in the sentimentality of it, she just understands other people’s emotions and knows how to make them feel amazing.”

“That’s a little harsh,” Sarah looks at Mitch with a strong glare. After all, he was talking about her best friend’s little sister.

“Well, what’s her name?” Harry insists, semi-off put, but knowing her secret made him think it was possible for Renee’s sister and his ballroom girl to be the very same.

“Rori Williams, think it’s short for something else, but I don’t know, as long as I’ve known her she goes by Rori.” Sarah gives Harry a sad smile and it reminds him of his mystery girl.

“Do you think I could meet her or something? I just want to know if it’s her.” Harry says as they reach the first peak on their hike. He looks out at the view from there, Los Angeles was green for once, but he knew it would quickly fade to brown and tan as the spring plants died off again from the summer heat.

“Pretty sure she’s off working on some destination wedding right now. She doesn’t like being bothered when she’s working,” Sarah gives Harry a look for two reasons as she says that. One, because she knows his next question would be to contact her anyway. And two, she’s saying how he is exactly the same, hates being contacted when he’s busy with work. “I can text Renee to see what’s up.”

Harry nods, “Please…” He begins to imagine Rori as his ballroom girl and mutters to himself, “A June Wedding…” getting lost in a silly little daydream.

-

“Harry Styles is asking after you,” Renee snickers over the cellphone line.

“What is this? The 1800s?” Rori sighs, as she holds the phone to her ear with her shoulder. She tries to brush her hair from her face with a flick of her head, which makes for a rather silly sight as her head and shoulder move awkwardly. “People don’t ‘ask after’ anyone anymore.”

She was in Hawaii, Maui specifically, steaming a sneaky last crinkle out of the latest bride’s wedding veil.

“Well, he still is doing it. You know how he is.”

“I actually don’t,” Rori responds, easily, ignoring the memories of her two encounters with him. “What does he want?”

“Wants to meet you or something,” Renee says easily. “Thinks he met you at Sarah’s wedding, obviously impossible since I know you scampered off half way through the reception and he was falling down drunk at the half way marker as well…” she trails off.

Rori knows her sister well and expects the next thing to come out of Renee’s mouth.

“Oh my god! Did you hook up with him?!”

Expecting this, Rori responds quickly and calmly, “No, we did not hook up, I would never... I did watch him fall on his ass, though.”

“So it was you!”

“What was me?” Rori squints her eyes at her sister over the phone and finally straightens from her steaming task. She feels like she’s only half paying attention to the conversation, especially since she had no intention of meeting up with Harry. He had been so sweet and sad, and she truly wished him the best, but she knew she wasn’t the answer to his problem.

“You!” Renee all but yells into the phone, “Are his dream girl! He’s been wondering if you were even real for weeks.”

“I’m real,” Rori sighs and crosses the room she’s in to sit at the desk she was using as a work space. She flicks through the planner she was using for the Hearst wedding, set to take place tomorrow. “But I’m certainly not his dream girl...I told him that when he said he was in love with me.”

“He what?!” Renee exclaims and hears her sister sigh once again, she knows Rori is growing tired of the conversation and is ready to offer an excuse to hang up any moment now. “Nevermind that, I’m going to tell Sarah to give him your number and the date you get back to Los Angeles. Keep next weekend clear.”

Before Rori can open her strawberry pink lips to reply, Renee is squealing a goodbye and hanging up. She felt her shoulders sag with the empty line, she reclined into the nicely plush swivel chair. This is why she stayed out of love and relationships when they didn’t relate to work, they were exhausting. Too much ‘he said, she said’ going on at all times. Color palettes, seating arrangements and menus were simple, they made sense, they could be arranged and put into place. Relationships were messy, the actual event of a wedding could even be messy, but when she planned them out, for a single moment everything was orderly and simple. She was in control. She knew she couldn’t be Harry’s dream girl because she knew she couldn’t control that situation.

-

Upon arriving back in the continental United States, at the end of June, Rori ubered immediately to her apartment in Silverlake. Well, it was a converted garage behind a house of a friend of Renee’s. Like most apartments in Los Angeles, it was funky, but it was Rori’s until she decided where she wanted to move. She never wanted to buy in LA and she never wanted to upgrade from the place she had called home for the past four years.

Almost immediately after dropping her pink work tote bag and worn backpack on the floor next to her medium sized navy suitcase, her phone rang through the ‘Do Not Disturb’ setting with an unknown number. A New York number. Possibly a new client, she picks up quickly and shuts the window-paned door behind her. The days were long, the longest day of the year had almost arrived, yet the sun was still beginning to set in the sky and turn the light blue into a painting of oranges pinks and purples.

“Hello?”

“Is Rori Williams there?” A British voice asks, almost timidly.

“Who’s asking?”

“...Harry.”

“I was told you’d be calling or something along those lines,” she smiles to herself.

Harry sat in his room, chewing at his lip, still unsure if the voice on the other side of the phone call was the woman he had talked to previously.

“Can we go for a drink sometime? How’s tomorrow?”

“Someone is quite enthusiastic.”

“It’s just...I’m trying to figure something out.”

“So I’ve heard,” she chuckles slightly.

“So you won’t tell me whether you’re the girl I talked to at Sarah and Mitch’s wedding will you?”

“What would be the fun in that?”

“So it’s a right Cinderella, if the shoe fits situation,” he mumbles, slightly to himself, but she hears him clearly.

She laughs.

“I don’t really care for Cinderella, I’m not really one for Disney princesses at all, actually.”

His breath catches, a foggy memory of something having to do with princesses tries to break into his mind. He couldn’t remember still and he vowed time and time again that he would never get that drunk again. Too much time lost.

“Alright, Harry. I’ve just gotten home from a work trip so I’m planning on a bath, some wine, and some terribly raunchy TV to get my mind off of my life. How about you pick a time and a place for drinks and hopefully I will show up? Great! Goodnight.”

She doesn’t wait for a response, just clicks the red button that hangs up the phone and goes on with her professed plans. Harry sits in stunned silence for a few moments, whatever he had gotten himself into was going to be a ride of a lifetime.

-

At a quarter past six, Harry sits anxiously at the bar top of a semi casual, semi fancy, totally cool bar he loved. It was private so he wouldn’t be bombarded with people, but it was still lively enough that it wouldn’t be dead silent if conversation lulled between him and Rori. That is, if she showed up.

His foot begins to tap, ever so persistently against the silver footrest at the bottom of the bar. His eyes shift from right to left, not wanting to order a drink before she arrives, but also not wanting to wait much longer and not order a drink. He’d waived off the bartender twice already.

She walks in, right on time, Harry had just arrived early. Her lips part into a happy smile at his anxious stance at the bar, he mirrors her expression at the sight of her.

She’s wearing a billowy white button down, the sleeves cinching perfectly at her petite wrists, cinched beneath a brown corset-like tank top. Her breasts showed their true size today in this outfit. She had the collar pulled out and the corset made it so that her cleavage was perfectly sculpted just beneath the crisp white cloth. Her pants were sleek and black, understated to draw more of a focus to her top as well as the lavender jewel inlaid pendant hanging just above the swells of her breast. Harry’s eyes dipped to that level for a moment, but quickly recovered to focus on her face. The night of the wedding had been blurry, but he was sure Rori’s face was the one of his mystery girl.

He’s shy tonight and a little more reserved than last time. He’s out of his comfortable bubble, what could anyone expect from a man so constantly watched. He fidgets with the top most button of his shirt that was buttoned and thinks about unbuttoning it to reveal a little more of his chest, but he refrains. At a friend’s wedding he feels safe, but in public he’s always watching, always aware of the possible prying eye. But like he had said drunkenly to Rori, he always maintained his charm, no matter the circumstances.

“Lavender was gorgeous on you, but this…” he gives a graceful sweep of his hand to gesture at her outfit tonight, “is extremely enchanting.”

“So you remember me in lavender? I thought you couldn’t remember me at all.” She grins as she stands directly beside him, similar to the first time they had chatted at a bartop.

Harry clears his throat at her tease, “I knew once I laid eyes on you, I would know. So now I know.”

She smirks at his reasoning and orders a vodka cranberry, both not wanting to get off her ass or look any certain way. Vodka cranberries were acceptable mature drinks, but not overly pretentious in any way. Harry tells the bartender to make it two. She looks at him with a discerning eye.

“Do you remember the first time we met?” She asks as she slides into the bar seat that seems to be trying to look vintage but was likely made no less than five years ago.

Harry sits too, more easily since his legs are longer than hers. “We met in the ballroom for the first time, did we not?”

“No...we met at the bar in the reception room.” Her hand splays to feel the stone of this counter, cold unlike the wood of the previous one. “We were about this close after you’d rudely stepped ahead of me and ordered before I could...not that you noticed. I asked if you were having a rough night and you pretty much dismissed me.” She bites her lip as she tells him the story, her eyes widen as she watches the distress roll over his features at what she says.

“Oh god,” One of his hands reaches to grab her hand to emphasize his apology, “I’m so sorry, that’s so rude. I was having quite a rough night as you would eventually see.”

He stares at her face, trying to meet her eyes, but she’s glued to the sight of their hands intertwined. He was so smooth and it was making her melt, making the walls she had purposefully put up for this date weak. She had rules, especially for guys like Harry - not that there was anyone that compared to him in her life, but she had them and she knew she couldn’t just be swept off her feet by his sweet voice and gorgeous face that has the most puppy-dog look on it.

She knows she shouldn’t but the extra ice she had added to her personality melts away, her eyes going slightly moony as she watches him visibly relax again. “No worries, I enjoyed your company upon the second meeting, even if you didn’t even remember my name after it.”

“Well,” he finally catches her eye, “That’s where I have a bit of a bone to pick.”

“Oh?”

“You didn’t tell me your real name...gave me some fake name I can’t even remember, but it certainly wasn’t…” His eyes shift to her pendant again and he looks back at her brassy eyes in the bar’s lighting. “If your name is Rori Williams, why is your pendant an ‘A’?” He says slowly, another foggy memory trying to break the surface of his knowledge but still failing.

She finally feels in control of the situation, calm and assured of herself, which was maybe unfair since it seemed Harry really had a hard time remembering that night and she could really fuck with him if she wanted to, but she wouldn’t - couldn’t - with those earnest eyes looking at her.

“I told you my real name the first time we talked, Harry. It’s Aurora,” she retracts her hand from beneath his grasp and touches at the necklace, “I go by Rori both socially and professionally, but officially it’s Aurora and this had been my great-grandmother’s. I don’t go anywhere without it.”

“Almost as beautiful as its wearer,” he smirks, his gaze stuck on her face, attempting to convey something specific. She thinks she knows what he’s saying with his look.

“You’re quite the flirt,” she rolls her eyes playfully before specifically choosing to take a sip of her drink through the little straw the bartender had put in it. It draws Harry’s attention to her lips, and after a moment they were wet with a bit of excess vodka cranberry and Harry felt himself grow a little hot at the tips of his ears when her eyes meet with his. She had caught him staring, but he recovers easily.

“I remember telling you I never lose my charm, it’s true is it not?” Harry inquires, head leaning closer to her as he takes a sip of his own drink, making a show to lick his lips after removing them from the edge of the lowball glass.

Her laughter is loud but not overbearing, Harry thinks it’s the best laugh he’s ever heard even if she’s laughing at him. She’s true in that laugh, she’s not trying to make him fall for her with that laugh, it’s just her enjoying herself.

She responds with something sweet and the two begin the back and forth of a successful date. They both drink around three drinks as the night persists, but it’s enough for her to feel the burning pull inside the pit of her belly for Harry. His hands stay relatively to himself besides a few subtle touches at her hair and hands every so often, his feet are the ones to blame. At one point in the night, he hooks his loafer covered foot around her ankle and she is quick to lean into it, reciprocating the footsie with ease. Each brush of his leg against hers is electrifying, every nerve in her body was beginning to go crazy. She was buzzing in a way that she hadn’t when she had first encountered Harry. Tonight he was more suave, but with a tinge of timidness that made him irresistible.

Harry made sure he wouldn’t get drunk tonight, ordering only as much as Rori. He didn’t want to be the fool who couldn’t remember their time together, again. Plus, he didn’t want to forget any of their time together, he wanted to remember it all. Everything about her was amazing, the feeling he had about her, the nagging desire to meet her was for a reason, he was sure of it. If her voice was a melody, then she was the most beautiful love song he had ever heard.

At 11:30, he leans in close to Rori, his nose brushing at the hair tucked at her ear and asks her if she wants to leave. She looks at him confused, the warm feeling in her stomach falls because she thinks he wants to end the night.

“Oh,” she says dejected, she swore it was going well. “Right..That’s it.”

Harry’s brows crinkle at her sad face.

“No, love, I was saying,” he raises his brows, “Y’know.”

“Oh! Right! You just sounded so...I don’t know, serious.” She sinks in her seat, realizing her presumptions had been wrong.

“I was trying to be,” he twists his lips trying to find the word, as blush rises on his cheeks. “Seductive.”

The two of them are quickly realizing they can’t pretend with each other. Rori can’t keep up the harsh facade against love with him, he sees right through it. Harry can’t play his old tricks with her, she sees right through them.

She laughs again, “Well, it just sounded like you were bored. Sometimes your moves fall really flat.” She offers a sweet wink in consolation for his failed attempt at trying to really get her weak in the knees.

They were a lovesick mess together as they clambered off their bar seats and exit the bar that had gotten increasingly loud.

“So what’s next?” She asks on the warm summer night.

He steps closer and takes the liberty of fiddling with the strap of the corset she has on. His head is tilted down as he towers over her. “You know me Rori, I’m a hopeless romantic so I desperately want to take you out for dinner sometime and slow dance with you until the sun comes up, but,” his breath fans over her face now as he shifts impossibly closer, “I also want to grip your hair as I watch you writhing underneath me. Just tell me what you’d prefer and it’s all yours.”

Her breathing has become a slight pant as his words wash over her. His nose brushes over the ridge of hers and she takes the moment to put her hands on his shoulders and pull him onto her. They were in the alleyway beside the bar, away from prying eyes except a few people too drunk to recognize Harry's face that is all but hidden in Rori.

“Harry,” she breathes, her eyes fluttering shut as she makes the decision to cross them into the point of no return. She wants this too much. She hadn’t thought this would be how her night would go, thought she would brush him off and never see him again, but god, she needed his warm body everywhere. Needed him to touch every part of her.

“Rori,” he responds.

“I want the second one first,” she whispers, feeling a little too eager, but feeling Harry press excitedly against her reassures her.

His lips press a searing kiss to her and she makes a sound of happiness at the contact. Her hands fist at the fabric of his shirt as she presses her lips feverishly back onto his. Harry’s quick to grip at the back of her neck and the small of her back, keeping her tight to him as he licks into her mouth.

“Can still taste that last vodka cran,” he notes before kissing her again.

Their tongues rub against each other, sloppily but with a tenderness hidden there as well. She snorts at his words which makes him smile and they’re kissing is becoming more silly as they try to contain their laughter. He pulls away, finally giving up trying to maintain the kiss while they both laughed.

“Would you like to come back to mine?” Harry asks as he leans his forehead against hers.

Rori’s eyes flicker open and stare into his, the focus only on his eyes and the sprinkle of light freckles and beauty marks below them. She nods her head, making his move with it. They both smile, trying to contain their laughter once more.

She presses her lips against his once more for a small peck and then lowers her head into the crook of his neck. The skin warm and smooth against hers as she whispers happily to him.

“It’s your turn now, Harry,” Rori says blissfully.

She had been the answer to all his questions.

-

[binniesthighs]

hello stranger | reader x changbin |

a/n: I sincerely apologize for the pain caused with last chapter...so naturally, i had to go and write more pain muahaha. i also apologize for the wait on this one, for some reason i had a weirdly hard time getting this one out of my head, ahhh i think I’m just lil sad about it all ending :( but! we’re almost out of the woods cuties!! thank you so very much reading as always!! <3 this is the second to last chapter and idk how to feel ahhhh 

Part 7 

Pairing: self insert, female reader x seo changbin, female reader x han jisung 

Genre: strangers to lovers, fluff, smut, angst 

Tags: (of this part) college au, rapper!changbin, rapper!jisung, establishedfwb!jisung, artist!reader, skz side characters, bestfriend!chan, bestfriend!felix, roommate!minho, explicit language, some kissin’ and that good, good makin’ out, soft n’ intimate body touchinggg, mentions of getting drunk in the past, mentions of a toxic familial relationship, gahhh lots of crying and emotions in this one but it’s bc we’re figuring things out :) 

CW: dub-con-ish scene due to conflicting feelings but it gets stopped pretty quick

Word count: 7.6k 

Chapters 

PART 1 | PART 2 | PART 3 | PART 4 | PART 5 | PART 6 | PART 7 | PART ? 

Jisung shared his apartment with two equally messy boys. You had forgotten their names despite meeting them and seeing them around on more than one occasion. Lucky for you, they each had distinguishing features so you named them as such: tall one and younger one with white hair. Once upon a time the four of you had hung out and they weren’t unbearable, just a bit cookie-cutter as you had called it. Both of them were in the same music school as Jisung and didn’t have many other interests outside going to music shows and playing PC games while loudly shouting. 

There was never food in that apartment but somehow there was always dirty dishes in the kitchen. Sure, it smelled a bit like dirty socks, but you never paid too much attention to that when you would clambering in the door with your lips locked with Jisung’s. It was strange walking in not doing so. Tall one and younger one with the white hair sat on the couch eating pizza with feet kicked up on their banged up coffee table. They didn’t say anything as they watched you walk in, but merely rolled their eyes and pretended that you weren’t there anymore. 

“We can go to my room.” Jisung raked his hand through his greasy brown strands, then kicked aside approximately ten pairs of sneakers. He held onto your hand tightly--so tightly that his knuckles turned white. 

You nearly slipped on that rug that lined the wooden floors of their hallway. It wasn’t the first time. 

Just as the rest of the apartment was, Jisung’s room was strewn with all kinds of random articles such as dirty clothes, tangled up cords and old to-go containers. His bed was unmade; it was those navy sheets that likely hadn’t been washed in several weeks. You could never really pinpoint what they smelled like, just that they smelled like him. You had spent nights there too, but they were nothing memorable. No groggy mornings with coffee or sunlight streaked onto his features for you to admire in the golden sheen. It had been running late to class and the dozens of times that you had left jewelry and hair-ties. 

“Wanna sit down?” Jisung patted the spot next to him, and you did so. 

The two of you sat in silence, the atmosphere became thick with the tangible sense of disaster that hung around the both of you. It was catastrophic.

His trembling hand came reaching for yours, and you let him take it. He sniffled, and it triggered your eyes to fill with the same hot tears. 

For the first time, you wondered, what am I doing here? 

“You want to lay down?” His puffy eyes asked you. 

You nodded, crinkling those bedsheets that were probably full of dust. 

In all your months of knowing him, you had never, never cuddled. This was the first time and you really weren’t even tied together anymore. 

His nose had turned pink, and he rubbed a bit of snot away with his wrist. 

“Thank you for coming here.” Jisung whispered. “But--what are you doing here? I thought that you were with Changbin now?” 

I am. You thought briefly. Am I? 

“I just...so confused right now. I don’t know...there’s just...I don’t know...” 

A tear fell down Jisung’s cheek, and you couldn’t fathom why he would be the one crying when it should’ve been you. You wiped it away. You had never thought of it before, but seeing him cry brought a sting to your chest. 

Jisung leaned forward, and the bed creaked lightly, then he kissed you. It wasn’t really a passionate one, but one that he had used to say more than he could himself. His lips tasted salty running over yours, and your brain froze deciding what to do. Jisung never changed: as broken as it felt, he was still starving, needy, and rough. You tried to find meaning in it, or if it made you feel. 

It didn’t. 

Jisung held your face in his hands, and with a hesitant sigh, he said, “I really, really wanted to do that for so long.” 

As desperate he had seemed for you, you couldn’t find the same desire if you had tried. Maybe, you had to find it? 

“Kiss me again.” You hushed. 

He licked his lips with a gaze softening. “Okay.” 

This time he swung his legs around your hips and straddled you with the kind of pressure that you had craved, once upon a time. He bent down to press even more of his heated desire on your skin. He was a good kisser, and you remembered once again how you really had wanted to have him kiss you like this, once upon a time. His tongue slicked against your bottom lip and you gave him the permission, testing it out just to see. 

You had thought back then that he was unreal. 

Jisung rutted his hips down into your waist, and you had already felt how he had hardened in his sweatpants. 

You knew how it would go...or how it used to.

“Baby, I want you so bad. You have no idea. I-I don’t think that I want anyone else besides you--” He broke to meet your eyes. Your world blurred, and sobbed out from under his gaze. 

What am I doing here? 

“Baby, what’s wrong?” Worry flooded over his face. 

“I-I can’t do this, I shouldn’t do this, fuck--what the fuck am I doing?” 

“What are you talking about?” 

“Please just...get off of me. Please...” 

He did so, but still looked just as shocked. “Did I do something wrong?” 

He too started to tear up again. At last you could finally name what it was that tugged at his soft brown eyes. Fear. 

“Can you please tell me what I did wrong? Y/n, I don’t understand, you’re confusing me so much--” 

“--This isn’t right Jisung!” You nearly yelled with broken sobs. “We aren’t right.” 

Jisung’s face fell, crestfallen. “N-no--” 

“--We destroy each other!! Don’t you see?? Never have we ever been happy together, we’re just...coping! That isn’t love!!” 

“Then why the hell am I in love with you??” Jisung spat out the words, and then it was immediately evident that he had regretted saying them. 

A deadly silence fell over the room, and all that was left was the both of your weak sniffles. 

“What did you just say?” 

Jisung grabbed one the pillows then threw it down on the floor with a poof. 

“Fuck!!!” He literally shouted. His face had turned red, and snot dripped down to his lip. “I have fucking feelings for you okay?? Is that enough for you?” 

“Ji...yo-you can’t--” 

“I can’t what?! Is it a fucking crime? Listen, I’m scared out of my fucking mind saying this to you, alright? I don’t know why the hell I am but--” 

“--We-we can’t, Jisung..” 

“Can’t what?!” He threw his hands up into he air in his exasperation. “Stop fucking confusing me!!” 

“We destroy eachother.” 

Jisung grabbed another pillow to pummel to the ground, but then stopped himself, digging his fingers into the fabric until his nailbeds turned white. 

“We hurt eachother too much. An-and...I don’t think that it’s really our fault either. It’s just...who we are. I can’t give you what you want and you can’t give me what I want.” 

Jisung sobbed out horribly, then buried his face in his hands. 

“But I fell in love with you...?” His voice was terribly cracked. 

You watched as tears dropped into your lap and made little wet dots on your jeans. “I fell in love with Changbin...” 

His eyes were puffy and bloodshot, but still glistened, like the way that oil would slick in rainbows with the snow. 

“Then what are you doing here?” He asked one more time, but now he had appeared to be utterly broken. 

You rose from the bed, looking down at him and drying your face. “I...think I know why.” 

“And?” 

Outside of Jisung’s window, the view was similar to your own: city lights in an array of colors; each of them like stars on the ocean. On the wall adjacent from his bed, you noticed there was a crack. You had never realized that it was there before. 

“I’m admitting something that I should’ve a long time ago.” 

╚ ——————————————— ╝

You had likely forgotten to close a window in your apartment somewhere because the winter cold had pervaded the whole space. It took you about ten minutes to realize that it was in your bathroom from when you had taken a shower earlier to air let out the steam. 

The second thing that you noticed was the crumpled up blanket resting on the couch from before. For some odd reason, you felt the strong desire to wrap it all around yourself like you could capture some essence of him in it. Sure enough it did smell like that scent of his that you had grown so used to. You let the blanket trail behind you has you made your way to your room to pull on one of his shirts over your head. 

“Who told you that you could look so cute in that?” He had said one time. 

[23:16] Bin

me: can i call you? 

[00:18] Bin 

me: if you’re asleep, can I call you in the morning? if that’s okay? i said things that I didn’t mean...i just didn’t know it then. 

i’m so sorry 

how i treated you...you didn’t deserve that 

i understand if you’re mad at me. you have every right. 

i’m sorry that i couldn’t see that things that you were trying to show me. 

i see them now. 

You had thought that now the snow had finally faded into the edge of the winter that near it’s conclusion. Early March, and you wanting nothing more for spring buds to peep from the snow capped floral beds on street corners and for the white hugging the trees to dissapear forever. The winter had felt as if it had lasted for a year--even though this year you had seen less snow than other years. 

There had been a time when you firmly believed that once the snow melted, it would get better. Snow was a bitter memory, and it was curse that had to happen each and every year. 

The night that you had met Changbin, it had been cold. Cold like the winter that you had tried to hide from. You hadn’t thought of it until now, but he was much like the way that snowflakes melted on your skin. It reminded you of the icy coldness of the world for fleeting moments, then faded just as quickly as it arrived. The little wet mark of him warmed on your skin. 

Outside of the miniscule window to your living room, snowflakes got caught up in the edges of the frame, and sprinkled the surface of the glass in their variety of gorgeous fractals and unique shapes. A full moon was painted into the sky with a brightness that could’ve paralleled the sun on this clear night swimming in deep azure. 

You hugged the fabric of one of his shirts even closer to your frame, pretending for a moment that it was him that had been hugging you and not the cotton. 

“I’m so sorry.” You cried out weakly to the empty room. 

Your phone screen flashed with the time: [00:42]. You wondered, maybe he really had given up like he said that he would’ve. Maybe he walked home in the shivering cold, hands shoved into his pockets and decided that he was done waiting; that you weren’t worth his time and the effort. Maybe he walked in his front door, closed it behind himself, and said the words, This is it. No more. Maybe he walked into his room and cried. Maybe he didn’t. You couldn’t decide if you had wanted him to cry for you or not. Both hurt. 

[01:13.]  

Your eyes dragged with sleep, but your mind moved faster than the pace of your dry eyelids. Dust had settled on the white sheet that you had drawn over the painting in your room. On the underside of the sheet, globs of acrylic had dried and turned into multicolored flecks: a bit like the sheet was a piece of art and and of itself. It was nearly finished, and only had about one more quadrant left that was void of color. 

Your wooden pallet had been resting by the window, so it was cold to the touch--as were the little aluminum bottles of paint resting beside it. You used your shirtsleeve to dry away one tear that had battled its way to your lid, then sat back on your desk chair, facing the easel head on. 

Black first. Then deep blue, then bright yellow, burnt orange and gold. 

Hairs brushed over the canvas, and swept in wide strokes back and forth. With an empty mind, you smeared over the dark colors that faded to the edge of the canvas into the glowing light of the edge of the alleyway painted here. His figure was prominent, even though you couldn’t see his face. He wore black clothes that were simple. Frankly, you didn’t really remember what he had worn that night, but it didn’t matter much. Neon blue and red restaurant signs met on as reflection on his dark black hair. 

It was as if your chest and hand had been weighted down even further, but you fought through it to raise them. While you let the tears fall at first, they dried after long and made the skin of your cheeks tout. The room was silent, and so it was outside with the drifting snow. Soon, the painting would be finished, and you could sleep. You couldn’t sleep until then. 

if your art didn’t mean anything, what even was it? 

The pink lights lining your room provided the only light to the room, however not much else was needed than that. 

You bit your lip, now mixing yellow with red. 

If you couldn’t tell him. You hoped with every fiber that this would. 

[04:51] Bin 

me: if you’re up to it, can we talk? or, i can call you? 

goodnight  

wait its morning 

good morning then. 

╚ ——————————————— ╝

Chan was good at keeping his promises. There was not one time in your whole time in knowing him that he hadn’t kept a promise, no matter how absurd it might’ve been. He had promised you to buy you ice cream on the first day of snow, and he had promised to share his lyrics with you, no matter how much they would make him cringe. He promised that if you ever needed someone to watch your guilty pleasure reality shows with, he would be over as soon as he could. Next to Felix, you had figured a long time ago that if there were ever people in your life that you were destined to meet, he was one of them. Admittedly, there had been a time when you had harbored a crush on him, but as usual, you had been best at getting in your own way before anything could’ve happened. This, and you loved him as a friend too much. 

Too many jell-o shots were both of your enemies. Halfway into the driest seven minutes in heaven of your life, and halfway into your confession to him, he had passed out right in your arms. You were lucky that he had forgotten the event entirely. Or, he was keeping his promise that you had hurriedly made asking him to forget that it ever happened when you and Felix carted him out of there. 

While he was good at keeping promises, you more so wished that he had forgotten that one. 

Chan had promised that he would personally use his ID card to get into the soundproof booth in the music department to scream. 

You hadn’t ever taken him up on the offer until today. 

It was nearly midnight and unopened text messages still sat in in empty bubbles on your phone screen. 

Even though you had consistently texted “good morning” and “goodnight” for three days straight, the action of sending them didn’t make you feel any better. 

Chan didn’t ask any questions, but merely let you through the halls which echoed from your squeaking wet shoes. The green light of emergency signs appeared to be the only guiding lights, but Chan knew the way well. 

“Careful. The floor is slippery. They mop after everyone leaves.” He hushed in the silent hallway. 

Your fingers and lips cracked from the cold and felt tingly warming up in the dry heat of the building. The two of you turned two more corners, then Chan carefully wrapped his veiny and red hand over the handle to the door marked with “Studio Five.” He tapped his key to the reader, and it beeped with flashing green and orange lights. 

“Here. This is the entrance to the booth. I’ll enter from that door to get to the other side of the glass. You don’t...want me to go in with you?” 

“Want me to wreck your ears?” You have him a feeble smile. 

He mustered his own kind of strength that he had been keeping up just for you. “Hm. You’re right.” Your friend clicked on the light, and it burned your eyes at first compared to the black hall. “Take...all the time that you need, I’ll just be over there. If you wanna...talk about things, I’m here for that too.” 

The booth was an ugly shade of lime green, and you wondered how anyone could ever be creative in a place such as this. On the other side of the tinted glass, you watched as Chan flicked on the light, then made his way to push the button to the little intercom system. His voice buzzed with a tinny sound. 

“No one can hear you, so....go nuts.” 

The walls were too padded with black foam insulation, and for a moment you considered how strange it was, that you, had entered that place to scream--not make music like the room had been used to. Even though the walls were lime green. It still brought a sense of sadness to your chest. 

The room spun lightly behind your eyes, and you panted out frantically. 

What the hell am I doing in here? 

[23:29] bin 

me: I hope that you sleep well tonight. i’m thinking of you. 

“Is everything okay in here?” Chan’s voice said over the speakers. 

“W-what am I doing here?” You repeated the question, feeling panic rise up your throat. 

“Getting your anger out?” He tiled his head. “I-I don’t know why else because you didn’t tell me. You angry at someone? Something?” 

“N-no? --I mean, yes...I-I don’t know.” You said with uncertainty. Suddenly the foam walls of the room started to close in. “I need to get out of here.” 

“Woah! Woah! Y/n! What’s--” Chan chased you out of the room, back into the empty hallway with the squeaky floors and the green light. 

“Hey, let’s just...take a breather here for a sec.” Your friend reached out to smooth down your arms. “If you wanna talk about it, I can help maybe?” 

You tore from his gasp, then slumped against the wall to slide all the way down and sit on the cold linoleum floors with the heaters pumping steadily above your head. 

“He’s not...messaging me back, and I think that I royally fucked up this time. I think that I finally did it, I finally pushed him too far.” 

“Who? Changbin?” Chan crouched down to sit next to you. “Is that what this is about?” 

Shallow breaths filled up your lungs, “I think...I think I just lost everything that I could’ve had with him, and it’s all my fault...I’m fucking angry at myself, Chan.” 

“A-are you sure?” 

“I basically told him that I didn’t know if I wanted to be his girlfriend...after everything that’s happened, everything that he’s done and how patient he’s been...but...there was Jisung an-and...I realize that I didn’t mean it, I didn’t mean any of it, I want to be with him so fucking badly and I was just too caught up to see it and--” 

“--Stop!” Chan barked. “Stop and give yourself a second to breathe! Did you realize that you’re not doing that? 

You hadn’t. Nor had your noticed your shaking hands. However, Chan had seen them, and held them with his. 

“You said that you do want to be with him but you told him that you didn’t?” 

Somewhere in the hallway, one of the emergency floodlights blinked with a harsh white light. 

“Yes.” 

“And did you tell him that you didn’t mean it?” 

“I have but he hasn’t gotten back to me? He would always get back to me, no matter what it was--it makes me worry--” 

Chan cupped your hands then brought them to his chest where he held them earnestly. “Some things are out of our control, Y/n. And, I hate to say it but, now, I think you need to come to accept the possibility that maybe...” His gaze softened. “I’m sorry. I wish I could say something more or better but I’m not him and I can’t know...” 

You scoffed, “Is that supposed to be comforting?” 

Chan tsked, as he often would do with a little sarcastic drag to his voice. “A long time ago I promised you that I would always be honest with you, and you know that I hold to my word.

He rubbed his thumb into your hands. 

“Do you want me to say then to go running after him? Throw it all to the wind? Even if it doesn’t end up going your way?” 

“...Maybe.” You swiped a tear from the corner of your right eye. “Would it be worth it?” 

“Maybe.” He sighed. 

A silence filled the hall and the space between you two, and Chan kept holding your hand. It was a simple touch, but you hadn’t realized that you had craved something as such. 

“Y/n? Can I say something?” 

“Yeah?” 

“Even if it isn’t him that it ends up being, I think that you should know that you still deserve happiness in someone. Even after all that you’ve been through, you still do. It sounds like to me...you’re finally realizing it.” He smiled with a bit of a wrinkle to his lips. “I’m proud of you.” 

You squeezed his hand. “Thank you. Its...been a long time coming.” Your head hit the wall behind you with a slight thud. “I’ve been painting recently. And...it means something to me. I feel like I found something, like I’m seeing something for the first time in a long time and it makes me really... full. Like he does.” 

Your friend let go, then went to play with his shoe-laces. 

“If you don’t mind me asking, what was the final straw?” 

“He just...loved me different. Better than I ever could myself, and I think that it made me realize that in order for me to love him too, I had to make peace with myself, and just...” You breathed out a laugh, “...Chill the fuck out. But--I know that I can’t let go of it forever. What happened, made me. I can’t give that up, but that doesn’t mean that I should wallow in it forever. I don’t deserve that.” 

Chan leaned to give you a light slap to the arm. “Look at you.” 

“I...saw Jisung too.” 

While anger laced his voice, Chan remained level headed. “...And?” 

“Me and him just dug ourselves into a deeper hole. Even he...he could do better. He needs a “Changbin” too. You know? I can’t be that for him. I never was even close. I feel sorry. I should probably see him one last time...” 

The image of Jisung’s disparaged face burned in your memory in the midst of it all. Somehow you had forgotten that he had gotten feelings tangled it up in it all, and you had just left. Through all that you had been through with him, you couldn’t let it just go so easily. 

“There’s a lot of things that I need to make right.” You sighed out with finality. Next to you, your best friend did the same. 

“Whatever happens, Felix and I will be here for you. Like always.” 

“Mm. Thank you, Chan. Really. Thank you so much. The two of you are the best friends that I could ask for. I don’t know how you put up with me...” 

“Ahhh, don’t mention it.” He shoved his shoulder into yours playfully. “Ya know, if this goes south, we could just date.” 

“What?!” Your head whipped over to him so hard it hurt. 

“As I recall, about a year ago all it took were some jell-o shots...” 

You smacked him upside the head, causing him to burst out laughing in that empty hall. 

“I told you to forget about that!!” 

“I’m just joking!! Jeez! Can you take a joke!?” 

You laughed with him, your goofy and kindhearted best friend. You realized it hadn’t happened in quite some time. 

“Yeah Changbin is alright, but me and Felix are forever. Got it?” He teased, and you slumped your head on his shoulder. 

“I know.” 

In your pants pocket, your phone vibrated and flashed with a white light. 

[01:36] L. Minho 

minho: i fucking hate that i’m in this position 

but 

bin’s in a bad way and i’m fairly certain that he hasn’t told you about it all 

idiot. 

anyway, his parents are being shitty assholes and i think that he really needs you right now, even if he isn’t saying anything about it. actually i know that he does. 

i also wanna ask you to kindly resolve whatever shit that you have going on before you walk in our door. out of kindness for both yourself and him. 

sorry not sorry. i really do love the both of you and it hurts me to see it be like this. 

i suggest that you come over as soon as you can. 

Your heart beat its way into your throat with a million emotions, but out of them all, fear for Changbin ached the most. 

 “Chan, I have to go.” 

╚ ——————————————— ╝

It was likely Minho who had buzzed you in. 

Luckily, the night had somehow gotten warmer--at least warm enough to where you couldn’t see your breath in front of your face any more. Unfortunately though, you had still worn the shoes that Changbin would scold you for wearing on snow-packed nights. Luckily, the snow had started melted too. 

The door clicked when it unlocked, and you slid inside the glass entrance that was smudged with fingerprints and the wet from dog’s noses pressing on the surface. 

For a reason unknown to you, you decided to take the stairs--even though he had lived on the seventh floor. Partially you had decided that you had done so because it meant that you had more time with your thoughts; more time to decide if you really had resolved all the shit that you needed to leave on the outside of his doorstop. 

You thought back to the painting sitting finished in your room. It waited in all of it’s beauty for the sun to shine on it and the rest of the world to see it. For him to see it. It was for him that you had painted it in the first place. Every ounce of pain and confusion was lathered across the canvas, it was bare for anyone to see after you had kept it concealed for so long. 

He would see it. 

You took each step slow and carefully, and listened to the way that the sound bounced off of the walls and how the carpet matted on each stoop.

Chan had said, “Even after all that you’ve been through, you still do.” 

Minho opened the door after three clicks wearing a bathrobe and slippers. For being so distressed like his message had said, he looked perfectly cozy. You remembered that Minho really was one to keep it all together when shit would get intense. Somehow he had the ability to write whole papers over the course of one day and had passed tests after studying for only four hours. You wished you could manage as well as he could. 

“Fuck. It’s late.” He rubbed his eyes. “Come in. Take off your shoes please.” 

You did so, and rubbed your toes into their carpet. It was almost as if you were waiting further instructions, but you knew full well what you had to do. 

Minho glared at you expectantly. “Well? Shits left outside?” 

“Shits left outside.” You repeated with a nod. 

“l’ll let him explain. It isn’t really my place. Just--listen to him okay? I think that’s what he needs right now.” 

The apartment itself was a bit barren, the only things that were placed in the small space were the things that the inhabitants needed: a dining table, a leather couch, a TV set, a few beanbags and a kitchen kept clean by Minho. It was strange seeing a place so organized and...neat. It was as if this apartment was from an other side of the world compared to what you had grown used to previously. Changbin’s thick and dark black coat hung on one of the dining chairs, the same that he had worn the night that he had last seen you. You wondered if it had been sitting there these past few days. 

“Go on.” Minho flapped his hands to usher you down the hallway to Changbin’s room. At the end of the hallway was the bathroom, and seeing it flooded your skin with the feeling of warm water and defrosting skin, lips on lips with heated desire; tracing fingertips that got caught with the translucent stream of water as they brushed down spines and hips. If you could’ve gone back to then and done it all over...you wondered if you would’ve. 

“Knock first.” Minho mouthed. 

You did, breath hitching when it opened slightly, and you called out his name. “Bin? Its me. Can I...can I come in?” 

His hesitant voice called back to you, “Yes.” 

He was a crumble on his bed, black socks twisted up with his dark bedsheets and his hoodie riding up his back to expose a sliver of skin where he laid facing away from the door. His beautiful dark hair was knotted. 

“B-Bin? A-are you okay?” You advanced forward carefully, reaching out to touch his arm. You had never seen this confident and headstrong man reduced to something so small, it broke your heart into shards to see him as such. You didn’t know what to do with yourself: sit with him? Stand? Crawl in to bed next to him? Unspoken words filled the air, and he sniffed out loudly into it. 

“Thank you for messaging me still.” Was what he had said first. “I saw them a little bit ago. I was...too scared to open them at first...your messages. I was...ashamed to...” 

“--Bin,” You took two steps closer. “You don’t have to explain yourself.” 

He sniffed in with a clogged nose once more. “I’m sorry.” 

Two more steps. “No, I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry that I didn’t listen to you, and took all of your patience with me for granted. I really don’t deserve it. I tore you up, and that was awful of me. You somehow ended up being collateral damage to me figuring my shit out and I can’t say I’m sorry enough. I understand if you don’t want to keep this going that we--” 

“--Can you get into bed with me?” He suddenly interjected. Changbin twisted his hand back as if he knew that yours was there in some superhuman way, and grabbed at it. “It’s...cold.” 

Your heart paused, uncertain if you had heard him correctly. 

“Please?” Changbin muttered. “Two bodies is warmer than one.” 

Silently, you crossed the room and shimmied off your coat so it fell to the floor. It had been partially absentminded, but you had pulled on one of his shirts that day. It was light grey, and had nearly lost all semblance of his scent on it. You pulled the covers over both of you, peering just enough to see his puffed and red eyes and red wet nose. Seeing him like this, you had to fight every instinct to pull him into your arms, but rather keep a respectful distance. 

From seeing the way that he dominated the stage to how he looked under the soft glow of your pink lights, to how he had looked as thin and as fragile as glass now, it had all finally made sense to you. As brash and forthcoming as he was, it wasn’t all of who he was in the slightest. If anything, it was who he had pretended to be. 

Tears fell over his pink lips. “I didn’t tell you because...I was embarrassed. Fuck,” He laughed a little, “It’s so fucking pathetic. I’m so pathetic for getting so messed up over this all. I-I shouldn’t. That and...it’s not something that you should--”

“--Don’t you dare say that I shouldn’t worry about this Bin. How many times do you need me to say it?” You traced his dark hair over his ear. “What happened to being each other’s problems?” 

He smiled with a weak grin, then wiped his eyes with his sleeve. “Minho didn’t tell you?” 

You shook your head. “He said that you should be the one to.” 

Changbin sighed out, then pulled the comforter up to his nose, adjusting himself to meet your eyes with his that were strained with pink. 

“They’re disowning me. For real this time. They asked me to do a legal name change and everything...as if...they’re cutting me out of the family line. Fuck, I mean, they basically are.” 

His chest shook with an inhale, and a thick and burning mucus felt as if it had clung to your throat. It was anger and rage, the kind that was so foreign to you, it even started you to feel such a thing. 

“Bin, I’m so sorry. They’re...they’re fucking less than human is what they are. Treating you their own son like this...like they think that they can reverse time so that you were never even born of them...” Under the sheets your knuckles clenched so hard it bit the skin of your palms. “I-I’m sorry too...that you were going through this by yourself--” 

In one single motion he had spread out his arms to circle them around your upper body and pull it into hm. 

There he was again. Rosemary and cedarwood. 

You were in shock, but feeling the warmth from his body on yours made you shiver--it was the contact that you had craved so intensely now that you had it, it was so all encompassing that your brain scrambled feeling it. 

“Thank you for coming.” He whispered to the top of your head. 

Your hands snaked around his body, and you held him back. 

In that very moment, you had decided that you would spend the rest of your life holding him back if he would let you. If there was someone out there listening to your thoughts, you prayed that they would let you hold him. 

Changbin patted to top of your head with a trembling hand.

“What the fuck do I do?” 

Your fingers tugged at the thick cotton of his hoodie. 

“They said that either I meet with them to sign away my name, or I pack up, and go back with them as if nothing happened. They said that they were willing to “forgive” everything that I had “done” if I chose to come back home with them, so to school, and forget everything that I’ve ever written, performed...” 

“They said that??” 

The young man remained silent, but instead nuzzled further into you. 

“They said that they could arrange for a meeting with their legal team to finalize it in as little as two days if I decide to do it. Those assholes expedited the whole process and called up their lawyers to make it happen as quick as possible...” 

“Bin...” You cooed, and smoothed up and down his back. Being close to him like this you could nearly feel his own heart breaking in his chest against yours. 

“Do I forget everything that I was to chase this...dream? Or do I go back, get their support, live a normal life...” 

“--Stop.” You gently pushed his hand away to look up at him. “This, all of this is your life Changbin. It’s what you’ve worked hard for relentlessly and it’s what makes you happy, isn’t it? Yeah, it’s harder to do, but you’ve gotten so far, people love you! You’ve made a name for yourself, people want to hear your music--” 

“--Yeah, my names gotten itself out there a little too well for my parent’s opinions.” 

You wiped a tear cascading from one of his exhausted eyes. “They should be proud of you, not trying to suppress you.”  

“They...don’t want me to be Changbin any more. Do you know how that feels? I’ve lived my whole life being me and now they just want to take away the very last thing that I have that they didn’t touch?” He stifled a sob. 

“Hey! Just because you change it on paper, doesn’t mean we have to call you that!” You laughed out gently, “If you want to get a driver’s license or something it might be important...but, you’re always going to be Changbin to me, and Minho and everyone else who knows you. A name is just a word. You make up who you really are.” 

Changbin laughed out, then returned his hand to pat at your head. 

“Who told you to say that?” 

You chuckled back at the way that he had turned your words back on you. “No one.” 

“I’m just me, but...” Under the covers, your legs intertwined. “I think that if we compare a life of missed oppurtunties to a life where you leave a couple things behind, its worth leaving.” 

Body heat swirled between the two of you, and it was as calming as a song. Changbin brought his hand down to caress the side of your cheek with as much gentleness one would with those fragile snowflakes. 

Past his shoulder, your eye caught a small piece of paper that had been pasted to the wall above his desk: right in a space where he could see it if he had sat at his desktop. It was crinkled and held several creases and the lead that had been used to draw on it had smudged as if it had rubbed up against itself. 

It was a picture of a bench, some Christmas lights, and the city skyline behind it.

Tears flooded your eyes, and then fell freely onto his his fingers where he held your face. They caught in the corners of your mouth, and heated up your eyes. 

“Woah, hey, what is it?” Changbin rubbed away the wet and pulled you even closer to him. 

“Y-you kept it?” Your voice wavered. 

“Kept what?” 

You pointed a shaking finger to your drawing posted on the wall, and his eyes widened at first like he was embarrassed, then he slowly faded into something much softer. 

He nearly whispered the words, “Of course.” 

“W-why?” 

“It reminded me of you and that night. I think that I realized something then.” 

“What’s that?” He wiped your tears once more, stretching the skin of your face as he did so. 

“I realized that, well...I’m in over my head here.” He laughed out lightly. “Do you need me to say it again? I love you a fuck ton, alright? Getting over things, and healing from things...it’s not easy. You...don’t have to apologize for the mess of things and what it did to you. It’s not your fault.” 

You threw your head into the crook of his neck to sob openly. But I hurt you. I made you wait...I-I don’t wait you to wait any longer.” 

“And I made you wait too. My stupid...my parents fucked me up too, and I couldn’t get over the fact that this fucking mess that they made of me put a wedge between me and you. I didn’t feel like you deserved...I’m a mess too. A fucking nervous, cocky bastard at times and I don’t know how to talk about it. Isn’t that pathetic?” 

“What?? No--” 

“You wanna call it even then?” He grinned out, and it was his sly little smile that you had found yourself thinking of after you had seen it for the first time those months ago. 

“I--” 

“Damn. It does feel kinda good to talk about things.” He joked. 

You cried out his name even harsher, then melted into his whole body. He was boundless in the way that he had understood you, and how he had looked you without condition or pause. 

You don’t have to be scared any more. 

With your face muffled in the fabric of his shirt, you let the words fly of your tongue with reckless abandon, and it felt as if you had finally been rid of the crushing shroud fogging your mind, and chaining your heart. 

“I-I want you to be...my Changbin. An-and I want to be--” 

“--Wait!” Changbin pulled you back by the shoulders with a new and wild smile on his face that only grew wider by the second. A type of excited panic flamed in his chocolate brown eyes. “Willyoubemygirlfriend???” He said at light speed. 

You were confused as to why he had said it as such, but you nodded, finally feeling the sense of respite that you had searched so hard for. “Y-yes?” 

Changbin startled you with his sudden crack of laughter, then squeezed you so tight that it became hard to breathe. Once he let go looser, he bowed in deep to press dozens of kisses on your mouth and around it. Most of them missed the mark, but that didn’t matter to him. He only stopped for a couple moments to mutter the words, “I wanted to say it first.” You would’ve laughed had he not been attacking you incessantly with more and more pecks that you struggled to keep up with. 

“I-I’m sorry again that I made you wait--” 

Changbin rolled his weight over to lean carefully over your body tangled up in the sheets, then kissed away at your lips with “don’t say that’s “ quietly. “Thank you for trusting me.” He said quickly, then returned, pouring out oceans of admiration onto your lips until they felt a little raw. You kissed him back too, and you kissed him like you wanted to spend your whole life holding him back. His blissful little “oh’s” tickled at your lips, and you giggled at the way that they vibrated. 

Once you had properly kissed nearly all of the air out of each other’s lungs, you laid back, gasping, and each still a bit bewildered. 

“Thank you for trusting me too.” You turned your head to look at him where he lay with quickened breaths quaking his chest. 

“When I go through with this name thing, can you...be there?” 

“Yes.” 

“Thank you.” He said, barely loud enough for you to hear. His strong hands fell down his shirt which you wore; down to the small of your back where he snuck up the fabric. His fingers tickled at your tiny hairs there. 

“I have one more loose end to tie myself. One more place that I need to make peace.” 

Changbin nodded. “Mm. We’ll get through it together.” 

To your surprise, Changbin then took to pulling his sweater over his head, revealing his bare chest, then pulled off his pants from his legs a bit awkwardly under the covers. 

“W-what are you doing?” 

He giggled, then pulled at the hem of your shirt for you to do the same. 

“Trust me.” He whispered. 

You held his eyes as you did, and your bare skin too met the crinkling edges of the sheets which were a bit colder than you had expected. Changbin watched as you did so with a prideful little grin. 

“I-I’m confused.” You hugged your arms over your cold torso. 

“You’re so gorgeous.” He merely muttered, uncrossing your arms for him to look at you fully, then pulled you by the under sides of your chin back to his lips. He pulled gently at your bottom lip with his teeth. “Clothes were getting in the way.” He hushed, then set to unhooking your bra behind your back. 

“Getting in the way of what?” 

“Me being as close to you as I possibly can.” 

While he had said the phrase calmly, it still sent heat rising straight to your cheeks. 

“I want to hold my love like this for as long as she’ll let me. Can I?” 

Your two bodies met in the middle, flush, buzzing with a kind of giddy energy that only heightened the more curious that your hands got eating up each other’s presence. 

“As long as you’ll let me do the same.” 

You couldn’t quite tell, but it had almost felt as if Changbin had scribbled little invisible messages into the skin of your back. 

“Isn’t it obvious?” He answered. 

You took his wrist to kiss at the line of a scar that lived there. Naturally, Changbin blushed rosy from the action--then promptly pretended that he just hadn’t. 

~🌹~

Bunch of (Ro)ses! 

@minaamhh @dazzlehoseok @synnocence @jjewibeans @hyunsluvv @unexceptional-h @bobawithchaitea @lechanters @sailorhyunjinz @silencefavarchive @eunaeiekim @lunarskzzz

[neonstatic]

i’d put all of my thoughts in tag essay format but now i realise it’s better to just. make an actual post abt it. make it easier to read thru if anyone bothers. if i ever wanna go back to my words.

concerning the post right below: i think this is lowkey about me? or partly. i’m assuming this from the poster’s tags, which say that someone said that “men and women were opposites on a he/him lesbian post, which is ridiculous!” and the reason why i think i’m the ridiculous person in question is bc i did make such a statement on my own post on he/him lesbians, which made lots of traction. and tbh, i don’t know of any other post on the subject that circulated as much as mine. and i’m not saying this to brag ‘cause at the end of the day i’m a nobody blogger on a shit website, so.

what happened is: someone commented that he/him lesbians can also be men, as in genderfluid man-woman, and i disagreed. and this prompted a bit of a debate in the notes. it was already a hot topic at the time, whether or not genderfluid m-f ppl could identify as lesbians? see, i can fully see how a genderlfuid person can be gay either way, a gay woman and a gay man, but it’s when it comes to the specific labels in their strict sense that it got complicated for some, including me. 

i was talking to that genderfluid person’s friend, so idk what they would’ve said to me in that moment. i just know that then, their friend said smth totally off that made me dismiss them entirely. (smth along the lines of “trans men can say they’re lesbians if they want” which... yikes!) and i got blocked. discourse era was a weird one.

so yeah. i said that genderfluid m-f ppl can’t be lesbians or gay men in the strict sense. as in, “if your genderfluid friend is a lesbian, then they’re also a straight man.” from one nb person to another. see how easy it is to do intracommunity identity policing? lmao thing is, i felt so comfortable doing so bc as i was exploring my gender, i no longer felt comfortable calling myself a lesbian bc when/if i felt more masculine, more man-like, that label felt particularly wrong. i was under the impression that “lesbian” was an exclusively woman-adjacent label, or at least one that excludes any relation to manhood. and i pushed that onto someone else. but it’s not bc i feel uncomfortable doing so that it’s completely wrong right? 

truth is, even as i’m typing this, i’m trying to convince myself. it still puzzles me. to me, it feels like a relative to the bi lesbian discourse. altho my stance on the bi-lesbian label is pretty direct (i think it’s dumb lol if you’re questioning just say so, like the rest of us) but on this one... i guess for now i’ve come to the conclusion to just mind my damn business.

[goldafterglow]

hold me in the meadows

Summary: You are Ezra’s dreamcatcher and he is your burrow.

Request: “The sleepy prompts!! Lovely! Can you do “I have had nightmares every night for the past three weeks and now they’re gone because of you, how did you do that?” with (can you guess??) EZRA” - the love of my life, @opheliaelysia

Pairing: Ezra (Prospect) x Reader

Word Count: 4.6k+

Tags: angst?, fluff, more metaphors that don’t mean anything, weird touching lol idk what the fuck this fic is, this is also not beta read so send the flood send the flu

Author’s Note: If you left a like or comment or reblog on Dissolve Me I’m telling you with as little shame as is humanly possible that I definitely reread it at least 3 times. Feedback means the word to me! also this was supposed to be a 500 word drabble and now it’s over 4.5k words if that tells you anything about me. I apologize in advance I think I’ve really outdone myself w/ my bullshit this time

Gif Credit: @pascvl; Also shout out to @pascalplease sorry I spammed you for nothing dsfgdsg

Ezra is staring at you.

He’d met you on one of those toxic moons, one of those deceitfully picturesque mirages where the dust glitters like lily petals but the air would kill you before you could think to appreciate it. You were a floater; a nomad with no place to call home, but you figured you liked it that way. Homes were permanent. They set lives and futures in cobblestone and trapped spirits in gated properties, keeping just about anything and everything tethered under the farce of security. Homes make paraffin casings around dragonfly wings and turn footprints to concrete. So you never had one, and you never wanted one. Ezra had found you amusing. You had found him to be better company than just yourself. So with great reluctance, you established a partnership. Not one forged in steel or bronze but something still fleeting, its true meaning always escaping your lips like a forgotten thought. It’s too much work to try and think about it anyway.

You had let him invite you to reside in his tent. It took coaxing, required copious amounts of golden honey spilling from Ezra’s tongue to get you to tenaciously stick to him, but you were no match for his silver tongue. He did everything he could to assure that this wasn’t a habitat, but merely a shelter - a thing that could be taken down and built back up somewhere else, anywhere you wanted. So you had obliged. He let you take the cot closest to the zipper door; you liked being closer to the exit, just a rotation away from being back on your feet. He tries to let you truly feel like if you wanted to escape, wanted to elope with liberty and run away from the loose bonds of the canopy, you could.

Three weeks of sleeping adjacent to him and you still don’t want to.

Ezra is used to temporary relationships. He has done his fair share of companion hopping, although he wasn’t really making an effort to do so. It scares him a little - why can’t he make anyone stay, make anything last? Partners passed him by, either to traverse on their lonesome or to stay with that greedy man in the eternal sky. Teams disbanded around him like glass castles shattering in his wake. Ezra, whether he liked it or not, was accustomed to transience.

He is not, however, accustomed to fearing that sharp brevity. Ezra is constantly on his toes around you, frequently wondering if he’s pushing you away or pulling you closer. You aren’t skittish, don’t constantly question everything he says or get offended by the sound of his voice, but he’s still scared of losing you. Every time he looks into your eyes he sees wonder, a certain fascination with life that he tries so hard to match because he wants to find things as beautiful as you do. As beautiful as you are. He wants to mis-quote your favorite novels that you force him to read so that you’ll scold him so affectionately and tell him that perhaps he had garnered a little brain damage from his previous escapades. He wants to trip over tree roots that have herniated through the soil so you can laugh at him, maybe lay there on the grass with him for a little bit. Just a little bit.

In your own mind, you are guarded. You try your very best not to get too personal, too deep, too much. Because you don’t like it when people can see your flushed, bloody insides. You just know that the moment you open your chest, someone will steal your heart right out of your rib cage and like the pass of a hummingbird, all of your secrets will be free to float in the breeze like the ashes of your lost quintessence; it’ll all be gone and then you’ll really be empty.  So how could you ever know what you mean to Ezra?

He knows what a truly locked up person looks like. He’s spent hundreds of cycles with people that don’t make a noise. He’s sat in bustling pods of people and felt like the only man in the room, like solitary confinement for his mind. No, you are not some warning-covered steel box, padlocked and duct-taped and glued shut so that even if he’s sitting right next to you, he’ll have nothing more than his own voice bounce to off of your walls and fly right back to him. You’re a music box, a gold-trimmed heart-shaped sound bottle, and he learns that if he winds you up the right way, you’ll sing so pretty for him.

He has spent so long talking, nonsensically making those arbitrary noises burst out of his throat until they lose all meaning, but finally, for the first time in so fucking long, Ezra gets to listen.

He listens to you tell him you think his hair is stupid and that sometimes he smells bad. He listens to you lament about barren dig-sites and wasted time, about how it’s so fucking hot in your suit. He listens to you fantasize about touching the trees, burying your face in your flowers and squeezing the moss in your hands. About drowning in the river so that your body is filled with the water and then rolling in the sand so that it all sticks to you and you have to dive back in to clean off. About feeling something.

Sometimes, Ezra just wants to hear something other than his own voice. And you’re the cold towel to his inflamed skin, refreshing and addictive. You’re much braver than you think, so much stronger than you give yourself credit for, because for once, Ezra can talk into the forest and know that there’s someone to listen besides the leaves. He doesn’t feel alone.

Every night, when the moon has turned its back on the narcissistic Sun and opened its arms to the thousands of other stars, each just a prick of light but understanding of their place in the tapestry of the darkness, the two of you retire to that tent. You both redress into comfortable clothes, backs turned on each other under the guise of respect, and climb into your respective cots. Ezra would turn off that shitty lantern that illuminated the enclosure, and your shadows would dissipate into the darkness.

Except Ezra’s shadows don’t disappear; they hide. They blend into the black and mold into one man-engulfing untamable beast to possess Ezra’s throat. And they manifest again in his mind. They poison that movie that plays once you slip consciousness, instills fear into his bone marrow until he doesn’t feel safe in his own body, his own thoughts.

These slumber illusions haunt Ezra. His right arm waves at him in his sleep, the souls to which he was the conduit bridging life and death haunt his diaphragm with toothy grins to mock him, screeching into his cavities. They remind him that he was never really alone because he has the suffocating embrace of those spirits that are sewn so tight to his eyelids. Every night he somehow manages to pull himself from the darkness only for his own demons to pull him back by the throat. He is always oscillating between consciousness and unconsciousness, being tossed around like a helpless rag with no hope of liberation. Nothing scares him more than his own thoughts.

And you know. You know all of it. How could you not? You were born a tumbleweed, wandering across desolation, so of course you’re a light sleeper. And you can hear Ezra’s choked cries, his tossing and turning as he drains himself of any sense of safety. But this man is a stranger to you. He is just a person you reside with, talk to all the time, nudge gently and tease and smile with. He is just the person that you wake up wanting to see, whose attention you always crave. A stranger.

So every night you turn your body to face the zipper of the tent and pretend that you can’t hear him cry. Pretend that you don’t sometimes cry with him. A pretty lavender lie that smells sweet, tastes sweeter.

You, in your cowardice, let him destroy himself. Watch as the bags under his eyes get bigger and greyer and the strings holding his shoulders up lose their tension.

Ezra, in his flawed cratered embodiment, is only human. And he had gone so long without holding anyone, without being held. He knows what he wants, knows who he wants. But he also knows how jittery you are, how fluttery your heart is, and he doesn’t want to approach it too fast lest he startle you and you fly off into the stars. But he can’t keep doing this, can’t live with himself when he knows he’s not the one in control but those horned, slimy creatures that claw at his maxilla with their venomous grins.

The lights are out in the tent per usual, so Ezra can’t really see you. His careful eyes can trace the outline of the curves of your body - or is it that his delusional eyes are envisioning some arbitrary glow around you, convincing him that what he’s seeing is real? Reality is a concept with which he is no longer familiar.

You, laying in your cot, decide that you just can’t take it anymore. You can’t stand to let this intruder of your life break you down the way he is without even trying. How dare he look into you, how dare he listen to you without passing judgement, how fucking dare he make you feel like a flower in bloom?

Ezra hears your breaths - they’re uneven. You haven’t gone to sleep. What are you waiting for?

“Ezra?” you practically squeak into the void. His ears perk up immediately; your cotton candy voice is enticing to him, flossing its way through his veins.

“What are you doing up, birdie?” Ezra asks softly, the air of his lungs floating on top of his words. He doesn’t mean to keep you awake, but he isn’t mad that you are. It’s stimulating his nerves enough to keep himself awake, and that’s something he probably won’t ever be able to repay you for.

“I-um….” Shit. You hadn’t expected to get this far. What would you say to him? How could you tell him that you wanted to help cleanse him, that you wanted to grovel in lime-coated thumb tacks with him and absorb his pain into your tissue paper skin? “I can’t sleep.”

Not a lie. Ezra knows you mean it. He just doesn’t know why.

“Well that won’t suffice,” he decides, outstretching his left arm blindly off the edge of his cot until his fingers brush against what he’s looking for: that goddamn lantern. With a little more fumbling, a weak but good enough orange glow is emitted on the floor between the two of you. You both catch each other’s pitiful gaze. You want to take care of each other, want to shield each other from the red sprites that nip angrily at each other’s hearts. Ezra holds his left arm out to you, tentatively. He’s never been more unsure in his life. He watches you glance at his arm, and then quickly to the side. You’re trying to decide if you’ll let him add another tether to you. If you’ll let him become something sewed so tight to your bleeding skin that to leave would rip you apart.

You slowly get up and walk over to his cot.

Ezra lets out a soft breath and his lips turn to a soft smile. He’s soft.

“C’mere, dandelion” he mumbles to you, and he hasn’t missed his right arm so much as in this moment. He wants to hold you properly, wants to keep you as close to him as possible. You’re hesitant, and he can tell. You’ve never been this close to him before, and you want to savor it. When your head finally touches his shoulder, it’s like a catalyst ignites underneath the two of you. You mold into each other the way the gods intended, like lake water seeping into the smallest of crevices of an empty river bed. Like the opposing poles of two magnets, like a key penetrating a lock. Like you were made for each other. Your arms immediately wrap around him, his neck now a fixture of your body, and his arm leads you to lay down on the cot. Without words, without that candid discourse that Ezra was so fond of, his face is buried into the warmth of your chest and he feels like you’ve cast an ethereal shield around him.

Ezra doesn’t need to hold you tight because you’re holding him tighter, like you’re trying to cling to something invisible and foreign before it can even think to leave you. Before it realizes that it doesn’t want you. Don’t leave. He can feel you breathe him in, face smashed against his wild hair, and he can’t blame you because he’s breathing you in too.

“Sweetheart-” he breathes, fanning against your skin in a way that sends a deep shiver down your spine and shakes your shoulders.

“Shh.” And for once in his cursed life, he’s speechless. There’s so much, too much that he wants to say to you, but his mind is shouting all of it at him at once and he doesn’t even know where to start. So he shuts the fuck up. He feels you. He feels your heat melt him until he can barely control his own muscles because they’ve gone limp, unable to perform a single contraction because his fibers are relaxed, are at peace.

He doesn’t know when he falls asleep.

When Ezra wakes, you’re still sweet and motionless around him. The lamp was still on, still shining pathetically on the ground. He doesn’t feel the need to look around or squeeze his lids closed in an attempt to wring the bad rest out of him.

Rest?

He thinks fucking hard. When had he woken up last night? When had his banshees infiltrated his thoughts and cried into the void of his packed mind? All he can recall are caramel dreams, whipped cream clouds and berry trampolines for him to jump high into the cotton candy sky. He thinks he might like it that way. Maybe every night can be like that, every morning can feel this transcendent.

He hears you moan quietly as you stir not long after him, breaths shuddering on their way out of your nose as you slowly come to your senses.

“Good morning, birdie,” Ezra finally says. He doesn’t know what to say to you, what he can say to you, without making you flip a switch and realize that it’s all a mistake, that he is a mistake. His eardrums smile as your sleepy whining settles.

“Morning, Ezra,” you whisper, throat not ready to talk yet. It’s okay; you’d rather hear him talk to you anyway.

“Did you…were you able to achieve some sort of comfort?” Ezra asks. For a second you’re confused until you remember what you’d told him last night, and you realize that you’re holding him the same way you were when you’d gone to sleep. He hadn’t woken up.

“Yeah, Ezra,” you finally say after letting yourself simmer in the silence for a second. “Thank you.”

He smiles wide against your skin, the blunt tip of his excitement the battering ram that beats against his racing heart. He’s given you something worthy of your gratefulness, and the feeling of being worthy light his chest with blue flames.

“It’s not my intention to blow you away, dandelion,” Ezra says, his nerves manifesting into his characteristic breathy laughs, “but I can’t deny how direly I want to just touch you.” You feel the air get knocked out of you as your diaphragm begins to spasm; what is he asking? You’ve thought about it before; god, of course you’ve thought about it before. To lay back as you let him study you, memorize you and then let you do the same. Analyze the sculpted marble of his body to remind yourself why you love it so much.

“Please.”

It’s barely a whisper, a secret told to the wind, but Ezra hears you. Ezra always hears you.

So Ezra’s fingers begin to wander along your skin. He wants to map out the scars on your body, wants to learn the shape of you so intimately that he could remodel you if he wanted to. He wants to know your body the way he knows when you’re disappointed or frustrated or amazed or confused. He wants to just know.

You feel the calloused pads of Ezra’s fingers put a little pressure onto that dip of your thoracic vertebrae, draw circles above your hip right under the fabric of your sweatshirt, caress your shoulder. He’s slowly exposing your skin to the humid chill of the dank enclosure, carefully making your top cover less and less of you, but you’ve never felt warmer.

As Ezra’s mind begins to really warm up and the cogs begin to grease themselves, his words begin to flow out the way you’re used to. The way you’ve learned to love.

“Sweetheart, I have had nightmares every night for the past three weeks and now they’re gone,” he blurts. Fuck. His hand stutters against the small of your back. He’s done it now, he’s really gone and blown it, because now you know he’s fucking broken and you’re smart enough to know when to avoid damaged goods. You have to know that if you were to take your hands and try and feel him you’d just get bumps and ridges and cracks. But Ezra is selfish, can’t help himself or his thoughts, so he keeps rambling. “It is not my intention to come off as presumptuous, but I just know it’s because of you. How did you do that, birdie? You never told me you were sent to me as a dreamcatcher.”

You can’t help but smile into his scalp a little at his words. You didn’t mind taking all of his bad dreams and refracting them far away into the space between the stars for him. A light, breathy laugh rolls off your tongue like a huff, because fuck, if you were going to be embroidered to something it might as well be him.

Your breath hitches again as the back of his hand runs flat along your stomach. It travels back around and up to the nape of your neck, tracing your shoulders and then over to your clavicles, paying close attention to the dips. You can’t help but wonder if this means as much to him as it does to you; it means everything to you.

“You’re right. I’ve been holding out on you all this time,” you say, and he can hear you smile through the roses of your words. He slowly and with purpose lifts his head from your embrace so that he can look up at you, maybe even catch a glimpse of that pretty grin of yours and burn it onto his lenses.

“I’m not confident that you’ll ever know how fortuitous I was the day I met you.” Ezra’s voice is low as he speaks, his drawl stretching and fraying the ends of his words, and you soak in every last syllable. You soak in the meaning of his words. He feels lucky to have you.

You look down at him, bringing a hand to run through his hair. That stupid blonde streak snatches your attention for a moment and you thumb at the strands. You want to tease him about it, mock him a little, but you don’t. The moon marine in your arms holds so much unbridled beauty, and it’s all yours to look at.

Ezra is all yours to look at.

Ezra’s hand travels up to your face, cupping your cheek while his thumb toys with the corner of your mouth in a way that makes you bite your lip through a smile. Throwing all caution to the wind, you turn your head and press a shy kiss to the heel of his palm. Ezra’s skin burns where you’ve sanctified him. His hand begins to crave your touch in other ways, he is craving something more from you, but he knows he does far too much taking. He’s already taken so much from you, has already stolen so many moments from you out of sheer gluttony, but it’s not always his fault because you’re so giving. He knows you were a little hollow from the start, knows you were a little frayed in the first place, but still you share your thoughts and companionship with him because whether you know it or not, you’re a little taken by this space mutineer. If you fled this little thing you’ve built with him, you’d be leaving the prettiest parts of yourself behind for him to keep taking care of the way a mother makes her son’s bed after he leaves for college because what if you want to come back?

But you haven’t left, haven’t abandoned him and in turn, yourself. You’re right here, letting him bask in your reverent lavender radiation, and as he looks at how you’re giving off your own intrinsic glow because the shitty orange light on the ground isn’t enough, he knows he hasn’t earned it. He doesn’t think this is a very fair transaction at all, but he’s too selfish to stop you from paying a little extra. You’ll let him keep the change.

Ezra wordlessly lifts his head, nosing at your wrist so that you’ll bring it lower and let him kiss the delicate skin there. He looks up at you with wide, eager eyes of adoration. His feelings for you are beginning to bubble underneath the surface of his silk-lined thoughts and he is willing them to stay at that low simmer because he doesn’t want to think about anything except how fucking gorgeous you look in the lamplight.

“I’m growing rather fond of the way you feel against me,” Ezra finally says. Everything is so foreign now, so new, so he tries to do the one thing you both know, the one routine you can both dance without needing to think about it: talking.

“I like it too Ezra,” you giggle. Not a long, flittery one, but a pass of air with a note under it. You’re a little nervous too.

“I reckon I could get accustomed to this,” he whispers. Your lip betrays you, curling itself to reveal your reply before you even say it. Your teeth capture your lower lip for the act of treason, but it’s too late. “But I’d just hate it if I made you feel like you’re bearing my baggage.”

“Ezra, you don’t have crippling baggage,” you insist. What is this man talking about? You were the one with issues. You were the one that had to be convinced to stay with him, you were the one that insisted on the right cot, you were the real coward here. You were broken. “Everyone has their demons. There is so much more inside of you. You’re so full.”

Ezra’s eyes go a little wide at your words. You didn’t think he was half a man? Some incomplete mosaic that would never find his missing pieces?

“You flatter me,” he chuckles; no, he giggles.

“Well…I just figured there’s no way a broken man could handle his broken partner the way you deal with me.” His expression melts into something more than pity and less than ignorance - confusion. The tap in Ezra’s tongue pops loose and his words begin to cascade from his lips like some majestic phenomenon, like holy water spraying the filth off of your brow.

“I need you to look at me, firefly.” His voice is more stern now, his words more articulate as he shifts up the bed slightly so that he’s eye level with you. He’s still on his side, his left hand is still gripping the flesh at your hip. “I don’t think you’ll ever truly comprehend how much you’ve done for me these past cycles, but this life is quiet and toilsome. You’re capable of recognizing beauty in things I wouldn’t have even taken note of in the first place, and I hang onto your every utterance whether you’re aware or not. It’s easy for me to sit here and tell you how bad I always want you because you fill my thoughts, pretty dandelion. And if someone came here and regurgitated your exact words to me, it still wouldn’t hold a candle to the way you sing when you wonder out loud. I don’t need to ‘deal’ with you, sweet rose. I want you.”

Your lip quivers a little; you know Ezra likes talking to you, he’s told you before. But you couldn’t help but assume Ezra just likes talking, period. That he liked having you around about as much as he’d enjoy the company of any other talker. To think that someone wants you, your passions and afterthoughts and pondering notions, meant more than anything you could articulate.

“Ezra-” you start, but you cut yourself off. You want to let his words turn into condensation on your skin, to form little rain clouds above your head so that they pour back down on you in delicate drops. You want to let him linger, to sit and hang above you like the sky hangs above the ocean.

You look straight at him, deep into his inquiring brown eyes as you both begin to breathe the same air, scents mingling between you like the heat between two stars. His nose is right up against yours and you can feel his lashes caress your cheekbone. He’s so close, but you want him closer, need him to move his hand or blink his eyes or do something, because you can’t take the nothingness anymore when you’ve got everything pressed right up against your face.

Ezra decides he wants one last thing from you.

“My rose, I don’t want to ask too much of you, but I suppose if that were true I wouldn’t have invited you to stay with me anyway. In the tent, of course. Not the cot.” Fuck, what was he saying? He lets out a soft laugh as he tries to reorganize his thoughts, a blushing mess under your gaze because he’s so used to knowing exactly how to get what he wants, but he’s really pushing your boundaries and bending your fence posts now. You’re turning him into a man who fumbles, a man who doesn’t always have to know what he’s about to say, and he doesn’t mind being a little less talk around you and a lot more touch.

Suddenly, he’s reminded of what he wanted to ask you.

“Sweet creature, could I kiss you?”

You don’t miss a beat in this soft ballad you’re playing with him, letting out a gentle “yeah, Ezra.”

You don’t like homes, don’t like to be told that you’re forever nailed to walls and wood. But maybe, as Ezra’s scruffy chin leans up to slot his lips against yours, you could build a tent in him. Maybe this leaky soul was your permanent, your unyielding, your perpetual.

As Ezra tilts his head towards you with a soft moan so he can kiss you the way you deserve, speak to you through the blinding sensation of his mouth telling you how he wants you, needs you, loves you, without using a single word, he is confident that his hollow cavities are beginning to be filled by your amber essence. He can tell you’re letting yourself finally take root in him, clearing out the wretched foliage so that you can curl up in the meadow of his soul and rest your bones within him.

Yeah.

You’re home.

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