#bathroom editorial

[dr3amfyr-e]

brat. - j.v. ( w. 4.5k )

꒰ in which the boy you see every summer enrolls in the same university as you. ꒱ — modern!jacaerys velayron x reader

୨ ⎯ i cannot stress enough, football means ⚽️ not 🏈. childhood-friends-to-lovers, but you have to get through my 2000 word psychoanalysis and backstory first. light angst. mention of the death of a parent. lots and lots of talk about the velaryon-targaryen-hightower family dynamic. light make out action. reader's family is implied to be wealthy enough to have a summer home. almost everyone lives au. set in the uk, not westeros. omitted daemon rhaenyra marriage because there’s no way to to make it even semi-normal. realizing now i omitted daemon entirely erm sorry. pushing the laenor agenda bc he’s my favorite character. this is abhorently long. extreme overuse of the em-dash. uhh the perspective is wonky in a few places. will prob get a pt.2. ⎯ ୧

i had to write this twice. i'm offering this to you with shaking hands, like a peasent child begging for coins. i may write a part two because i have more to say, but i don't want to figure it out rn.

On the cold January morning that Jacaerys Velaryon-Targaryen was born, the media went into a frenzy. 

The Targaryens were old money, their fortune rooted a century back in good investments. Historically adept at finding their way into things, the empire had a string to pull in every industry. From art and law to technology and shipping, if business prospects looked good there would be a Targaryen investment.

And then there were the dogs — regal greyhounds, with long, thin bodies and sleek coats. The Targaryens bred them as far back as bloodline records went. The pups were never for sale; sometimes they were used as show dogs, and successful show dogs they were, but more often they were pets. It was a status symbol, to nonchalantly own such a coveted creature. 

The Targaryens were idolized in the public eye. They were all stunning, with sharp features and silver hair, and each member of the family seemed to possess a Midas touch. But, where Valyrian blood ran hot, so did the press. It was no surprise when magazines started to turn a profit from silver heads plastered across their glossy covers. It was the price that came with God-like aristocracy.

From editorials to gossip columns, people devoured the insider life of the untouchables. When Aemma Targaryen died, there was a four-page spread in nearly every magazine; complete with pictures and quotes. Business papers filled with opinion pieces about Rhaenyra’s inheritance claim to her family’s empire; magazines exploded with the announcement of her engagement to Laenor Velaryon, and subsequently Viserys’ marriage to Alicent Hightower, the daughter of his lawyer. 

When Jacaerys was born, reporters lined up outside of the hospital doors. There were cameras and microphones and crew trucks, and Rhaenyra hated it. It wasn’t the way she wished to welcome her child into the world — swarmed by people who didn’t know nor care for him.

Laenor had always been good at navigating the attention, and Rhaenyra was constantly grateful. So, when he pulled his gaze from the babe and steeled himself to deal with the onslaught of reporters outside, tears pricked at her eyes. Appreciation, exhaustion, adoration? She couldn’t be sure. 

Looking down at her son, she thought, he’s perfect. He had a smattering of dark hair, and he was quiet but not concerningly so. Wispy lashes fell upon his cherub cheeks, and when he eventually blinked up at her his eyes were dark. He looked nothing like her — she didn’t care. 

She refused to talk to anyone outside of her family, and had the curtains in her private room drawn. To expose her son, her heart, to the prying eyes of the bored masses with nary a care for his well-being was a nightmare. She wouldn’t have him exploited. 

At the time of Jacaerys’ birth, she and Laenor had been married for a little over a year. Laenor’s father, Corlys, managed the bulk of the import and export for Viserys’ company. Corlys was a good man, he hadn’t dreamed of marrying his son off. But Laenor and Rhaenyra were both in the same impossible situation: the wiles of youth mixed with the ever critical public. 

They had both fallen into scandalous relationships, both preyed on by paparazzi. If they married one another, it would save face for both of their families. Plus — both being the eldest and heir, this would clear the expectation of a dignified marriage. They agreed to leave each other to whatever youthful fun they wanted to have, as long as everything was discreet. 

Both the Velaryons and the Targaryens kept a summer home in Dragonstone, a private community in coastal Wales. It was the perfect place for Rhaenyra and Laenor to begin their life — far from her father, close to his parents, and out of the line of sight for any nosy journalist. 

The public eye had looked to other things by the time Lucerys was born, two years later. Again, Laenor dealt with the small gathering of reporters with the utmost grace, and Rhaenyra submitted a written statement. 

Alicent divorced Viserys that same year. 

As she watched her boys grow up, full of energy and life, Rhaenyra thought, there was no one better to parent with than her best friend — a title Laenor had rightfully earned. They hadn’t had much choice in knowing each other, and they certainly would never have chosen to be married, but he made a bearable roommate. They had things in common; they liked the same music, and the same men. They drank the same wine and frequented the same restaurants. And, they both loved their boys. 

As Jace and Luke grew up, they found the best company in each other — the school in Dragonstone was so small, though, that there were very few other options. They both played on the school’s small football team, and Jace took piano lessons while Luke learned to fence. Where Jace was driven by emotion, Luke was level-headed; where Luke was cautiously quiet, Jace spoke his mind. It was an ideal childhood, the Welsh coast was an idyllic backdrop to grow up upon, with the sea in their backyard. 

They were ten and eight when Joffrey was born, both excited for their new brother. Their mother brought him home, bundled in a soft red blanket. The boys sat on the couch beside Rhaenys and stared at him for upwards of an hour. 

Hardly a week had passed when Harwin Strong died. He was a family friend, a frequent presence in their home and life — Jace and Luke had been upset by this, of course. 

In time they came to understand the situation fully. Jacaerys first, fitting the pieces together with the evidence he found in the mirror. Neither Rhaenyra nor Laenor had dark hair, like he and his brothers. 

His matriline was uncontestable though, as he grew into himself. He possessed the same nose, jaw, brow, and high cheekbones that Rhaenyra wore. The comparisons between the two became more frequent as he grew older, and he found himself to be quite proud to look like her. 

Her attitude lived in him as well, the temperament she had been so notorious for as a girl festered in her eldest son. She had once been christened ‘The Princess of Dragonstone’ after flipping off a reporter at their summer home. Jacearys earned it for himself when he was fifteen, after loudly berating a reporter. He had been defending Luke, but no one seemed to care when they deigned him ‘The Prince of Dragonstone’. He took it with grace, claiming that he couldn’t help but be his mother’s child.

It instilled a sense of public propriety he strove to uphold. 

Rhaenyra remarried the same year — to Alicent Hightower — and moved her children from Wales to London. It took a while to adjust to the new life — Jace liked his new school, but he detested his step-brothers. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t come around to the idea of living with Aemond and Aegon, who took so much pleasure in making he and his brothers miserable. 

After the first month, Jacaerys fell in brilliantly. He performed well in school, quickly being enrolled in the advanced literature and history courses. He got on well with his peers, and made a number of friends. He joined the football team and spent his Sunday afternoons learning piano concertos. 

Living in London made him a more publicly prominent figure in his family's legacy. He knew how to play his role as heir; he carried himself perfectly — confident and charming and elegant. He didn’t particularly like being in the public eye, but there was a certain sense of satisfaction when he did something to receive positive public attention. 

King’s Landing, much like where he had grown up, was a community reserved for the upper echelon. Situated in Northwest London, and surrounded by wrought iron gates, it was regal and dignified. The house had high, vaulted ceilings, large stained glass windows, and more than enough bedrooms. It rained more, Jacaerys noticed in the first month. When it had rained in Dragonstone he would watch the droplets bounce off the sea, where it lapped at the sandy bay. Here the rain splattered unceremoniously upon the pavement. 

For as wonderful as life in London had turned out, Jacaerys found himself longing for what was left behind in Dragonstone. Laenor lived there still, and while he called often and visited as much as he could, it wasn’t the same. Jace’s childhood bedroom remained, along with all of the memories in the house he grew up in. And his friends. There was an assortment of people he only saw between late May and early September; the children of the other seasonal residents. The number had dwindled in years past, with fewer of them returning for break — favouring more interesting places, like Ibiza or Rome, as they got older. 

Far too few of his childhood friends he kept in contact with, especially after the move to London. You were the exception. 

He was grateful, on days when it stormed in London, to receive a silly text or too-long voice note. It made things feel less dull — you had a way of doing that. 

He took to reading theory around the time he turned seventeen. It’s queer theory, at the suggestion of his cousin Baela, who lent him his first Judith Butler book. He finished it that weekend. 

His aunt Laena and her two daughters lived in London, and Jace found a close comrade in Baela. She played competitive tennis and listened to riot grrrl, she was much cooler than him and he knew it. Her bedroom held two massive bookshelves, and she let him pillage her collection for De Bouvier and Didion and Gay. Hours were spent lying across the floor in Laena’s house, studying, or reading, or talking. He enjoyed Baela’s company more than any of his school friends, favouring anything with her over anything with the boys from his football team. 

His youngest sister, Visenya, turned one around the same time. Baela, staying with Jacaerys while he babysat one night, inducted him into the eldest daughter club. 

“You’re so keen on driving your siblings around, and taking care of them. Plus, aren’t you your mother’s closest confidant?” She asked. 

True, Jace supposed. He was the oldest of Rhaenyra’s children, and the most responsible of his brothers and step-siblings. His mums both worked full time, they were busy but as involved as possible. Jace just did the menial things. He made Joffrey breakfast, picked Luke up after school, and watched Visenya when necessary. He didn’t mind.

Baela argued that he should mind. 

He had been a sensitive child, more so than his brothers, but it made him incredibly emotionally adept as he aged. So many boys his age prided themselves on stoicism, but that was never something Jace felt connected to. He always felt things too deeply to bottle them up — it accounted for the occasional temper that flared up when he was upset, but also how empathetic and kind he was. 

Jacearys was set to graduate with honours in the first week of May. It was three months before when college acceptance letters began to appear in the mail. He had applied to a number of places, and been accepted everywhere. The University of the Vale was where his hopes hinged though. 

Just after Valentine's Day, it showed up. The envelope was wide and stuffed full, and sealed with a wax stamp. His acceptance letter was on the very top of the stack of papers — the thick paper heavy in his hands, as he admired the blue printed border and silver flocking. 

Rhaenrya sorted through the informational packets while Jace reread the letter. Part of him couldn’t believe it was real.

He sends you a picture of the letter, and you respond in kind with one of an identical nature. 

You hadn’t planned to go to the same university, but it certainly was a happy coincidence. 

After graduation, he was beyond excited for the reprieve that Dragonstone granted. The promise of early morning hikes, and evenings spent on the beach — the once empty house, full of life and bustling with bodies. 

You were the first thing Jacaerys thought to look for when he set his bags down in the summer home. 

It was late May, and you were guaranteed to be out of school. I’ll text after I unpack, he thought, pulling clothes and books from his suitcase. 

His room in Dragonstone had once been his childhood bedroom. The walls were a warm tone of white, and the small bed was still covered with his blue and white checkered duvet. Piano scales and pictures of his brothers and friends adorn the walls. There was a soccer trophy on the back edge of his desk, something he had won when he was eleven. It was stuffy from nine months of stagnance, but familiar all the same. 

He pushed the curtains back from the window to let sunlight filter into the dusty room, gazing down at the beach, when he spotted your figure. He was quick to rush downstairs, out the backdoor, and across the stone path that leads from the patio to the beach. He greets you with a call of your name and a tight hug, sunglasses perched atop his head and linen shirt half buttoned. 

It had been a year since he’d last seen you. You had kept in touch during the school year; Jace favoured Snapchat and FaceTime, delighted with the pleasure of seeing the mundane things you were up to. There was a nearly constant text thread, and voice memos passed back and forth. But, it all paled in comparison to physical company. 

He abandoned his housekeeping duties, keen to sit on the beach and talk. And you did so for hours, about everything and nothing. He tells you about his last year of school and listens as you do the same. When the sun dipped past the treeline, he leaned back on his elbows, watching the water crest on the sand. He felt more at ease than he had in a while, enraptured by the ease of your presence. The conversation flowed, there were no awkward lulls and no pressure to talk about something dignified. It was comforting to be so close to someone who didn’t see much of his life in London — you knew the best version of him. 

Your friendship had always felt like that, from a young age. On days that smelled of sunscreen and sea salt in his mind, you would meet in the mornings and depart past dark and then do it again the next day, never tiring of each other. Your parents knew his, so you had always been welcome in his home — invited or not. You had shared a bed during sleepovers, drunk from the same cup, and fallen asleep on the couch during movie nights countless times. Quick glances and imperceptible expressions were a language you communicated in, reading each other without words. In your presence, Jace was the most comfortable.

The summer slipped away as it always did, taking long nights and leaving memories of sand and sunshine. The days were ambled away in the water, on rocky hiking paths, or in the meadow that sat a mile away from all of the homes. 

Jace had started The Hobbit before school ended — most days he found himself sprawled out in the park or on the beach, reading. He had also taken to running with his dog, Vermax, in the mornings. He relied on the serotonin boost to start the day, and with no football to play a jog was a decent alternative. 

When the summer drew to a close, the typical melancholy that befell the return to the real world wasn’t present in Jace’s mind. He presumed it had everything to do with the fact that he would see you every day now

You have one college class together — a nine a.m. medieval literature discussion. 

Clinging to familiarity in the new environment, he glued himself to your side for the first week of classes. He memorized the way to your dorm, meeting you outside every morning to walk together to your first lessons. The meandering conversation was a good start to the day, and he silently relished in your tired eyes and quiet voice, not yet used to the early schedule. 

On Friday he all but begged you to come back to his dorm after the discussion; it was your only class that day so you had given in. You hadn’t seen his living quarters yet, and he wanted to spend time with you, worried for when your schedules would fill up and you would lose room for each other. 

The discussion had been mind-numbing. You reviewed the same syllabus as the lecture, and went over the same rules and policies as every other class. With the thirty-five minutes remaining, the teaching assistant made everyone watch an incredibly monotone video about the history of medieval England. 

Jace linked his arm into yours in the hallway after class, pulling you to the doors. The cool morning air was refreshing, waking you up more as you walked across campus. His dorm building was new and modern, seventeen floors with grey siding and big windows. It was private housing, clearly expensive. 

He had a single room with an adjoining bathroom and a small common space. The walls were typical dorm white, with laminate wood flooring. Joffrey’s school photo is hung on one wall, the frame clearly decorated by the child with glitter and string. Scattered across the other walls were photographs in thin silver frames, a large world map, a clock, and a cross-stitch of a rainbow stag beetle.

Sitting on the couch, you observed the unframed photos that lay across the coffee table, inspecting a leggy grey dog as you plucked it from the pile, “Who is this?”

Jace leaned into your side, gazing at the photo, “My mum’s dog, Syrax,” He reached over you to tap the picture, “Syrax is my dog’s mum.” 

He slipped his hand into yours as you walked with him to his second class of the day.

In the third week of school, Jace asks you to attend a mixer for a pre-law society with him. He doesn't know anyone, and doesn't want to be alone at the party. You meet at his dorm at a quarter-to-six so you can walk to the event together. 

The dress-code is emi-formal, and when he opens the door to you his hair is slicked back with water and he smells like his cologne — musk, sandalwood, and amber. 

“Are your clothes pressed?” You ask, grinning at his freshly ironed slacks and the three buttons undone on his shirt. 

He rolls his eyes, locking the door behind him as he escorts you down the hallway. The walls of the elevator in his dorm are mirrored, and you laugh at him when you catch him taking pictures of himself. He makes you take one with him, and sets it as his lock screen. 

The mixer was in the dean of law’s massive house, buzzing with young people in smart outfits. Jace abandons you about fifteen minutes in, spotting a group of poli sci majors from his social psychology class. 

From his childhood spent between galas and his mother’s business meetings, Jace was good at navigating these situations. He was charming, leveling the professors with charismatic smiles and confident posture. He was good at holding an intelligent conversation, discussing theory and strategy. 

You were on the patio, watching the stars, when he found you an hour later.

His arms brushed yours as he leaned against the railing, “Sorry for leaving you,” His voice was quiet, and he stared at your profile, watching the way the moonlight illuminated your skin. 

You wave his apology off and make him buy you coffee in recompense on the way home. 

You’re stood talking together on the quadrangle a few weeks later, a cup of hot chocolate warming your mitten-less hands, when you realise just how cold it’s gotten. It's just too cold for the thin jacket that you try to sink further into, hiding from the wind that bites at your delicate skin.

Jace watches you shiver, observing your lack of appropriate attire. 

“Are you cold?” He asks, reaching out to run his hands up and down your arms, half to warm you, half to gauge how thick your jacket is. Not very. 

You nod, “I didn’t check the weather this morning.” 

He sighs with exaggerated exasperation and slides his arms around you, careful of the paper cup you held. Of course, he’s worn the right coat, and you feel the downy material of his hood against your cheek as he rubs your back to generate some warmth. You smell the cologne on his collar and the expensive shampoo he uses; he grumbled something about taking better care of yourself. 

Then, one particularly cold Friday morning he has forgotten his coat. Dressed in a hoodie, he mirrors your excuse from the week prior, smiling sheepishly — face flushed from the chilly air, dark curls blowing around his head like a halo. You take pity on him, slipping your scarf off. You loop it around his neck, tucking the ends down into the collar of his sweater, and leave him with a fond peck on the cheek; his skin is cold. 

He's appreciative, though the scarf does little against the cold wind cutting through his sweater. Still, he doesn't give the scarf back. 

With the cold, comes midterms. You’re the first person Jace asks to study. 

Your dorm room is closer to the central part of campus, and thus a shorter walk in the bitter cold. Jace brushes snow out of his hair as you unlock your door, ushering him inside. It's small. Two twin-sized beds, one on each wall, with nary enough room for two bodies between them; a desk is crammed into the small space between your bed and the window. You let him take the desk, spreading your books and notes out across your bed.

Your dorm is old, and the room has very little ventilation. Despite the frigidity outside, the room is stuffy and almost hot with both of your bodies inside. An hour into studying Jace shrugs off his heavy, knit sweater and pushes his glasses up into his hair. 

“What are you working on?” You ask, leaning forward. You’re bored, working on the same power point you started yesterday. You want to talk to him, though he doesn’t seem keen on the idea

He doesn’t look up from typing as he speaks, “Analysing The Art of War.” 

You shut your laptop, bent on distracting him, “The book?” 

He nods but doesn’t give a verbal response. 

“Who's that by?” You ask, fighting to suppress a grin

This time he does look up, glaring at you over his glasses, “Sun Tzu.” 

His tone is short, but it's amusing to annoy him so you grin, suppressing a giggle, “Sounds very interesting.” 

“What do you want?” He asks after a beat, still holding your gaze. 

You shrug, “Nothing. I’m bored,” 

The next time you study is even less productive, school work discarded on his floor in a matter of minutes. 

“We can’t be trusted to work together,” He tells you, watching as you calculate his astrological chart, geometry homework forgotten. 

You attend your first college party together in November. When you arrive at his dorm, he’s dressed much more casually than normal. 

You reach out to tug at the thin silver chain peeking out from his shirt collar, “This is fun,” You tease, giggling, “Aiming to impress tonight?”

He rolls his eyes in mock-offence, turning you around by the shoulders to shove you out of the doorframe. 

The lights in the house are dim, and they strobe slowly through different colours. It’s too dark and too bright all at once. The music is almost unbearably loud and people are packed in like sardines, it’s all incredibly overstimulating. 

When he senses your unease, Jace takes your hand, pulling you tight against your side to lead you through the throng of bodies. He’s looking for someone, but you’re unsure who, and he canvases the whole space before giving up on finding them.

The backyard of the house is quieter, but the ground still vibrates from the bass of the music. People are scattered about, smoking cigarettes and sipping from bottles of cheap beer. 

You both learn what Jell-O shots are, and make out in the bathroom back at his dorm. It’s not the first time you’d kissed each other, trying it a few times in your adolescence just to see what it was like. But this is different, tipsy and sloppy, as you giggle into his mouth. 

It's forgotten in the morning, when you wake up in his bed still dressed in your going-out clothes, head pounding.

But then it happens again, the week before finals.

You had stayed at the library far too late studying, leaving the pair of you to walk back to his dorm in the dark. It's positively frigid, cold December air whipping snow into your face. 

There are still snowflakes in your hair as you shed the thick coat you’re wearing, pulling off your gloves and hat. 

There's a bottle of wine in Jace’s freezer, left by Aegon the weekend before. It's expensive and rich and red, and Aegon would likely skin you if he found out you were drinking it — but, that's part of the fun. There's a baking show on the small television, and you’re curled into Jace’s side to steal some of the warmth from his body.

When the program lulls he brings his hand to your hair, combing through the tangled strands. You pay it little mind, leaning into his touch as you watch a contestant on-screen whip macaron batter. His fingers slide down to your jaw, turning your head so your eyes meet his. He’s studying your face, cheeks flushed from the wine or the cold. 

The attention is odd, and you giggle nervously under his gaze. His hands come to cradle your jaw as he leans towards you, nose brushing yours. The air is charged with an unusual tension, his mouth a breath away from yours. 

When he kisses you, he’s slow and gentle, his whole body angled into yours. Everything feels warm, a welcome contrast to the weather outside, and you chalk it up to the glasses of wine coursing through your bloodstream. 

It's pleasant, different from times past; this certainly doesn’t feel like an innocent, experimental kiss. It's heated, tinged with passion. He uses the placement of his hand to ease your jaw open, tongue sliding slowly into your mouth. 

There's a vibe, something you hadn’t felt before with him. It's communicated through the gentle touch of his hands, and how his breath hitches when you kiss him back with the same sort of force. 

The moment is broken by the announcement of a winner on the television. His hands slide down, resting on your shoulders, pulling your frame into his. 

You don’t talk about it afterwards. 

[uypt]

[venusimleder]

Document Journal, A/W 2023.

Ph. Mauro Maglione

[hannahleah]

Anja Rubik for Vogue Paris, March 2013 by Mario Sorrenti

[serenagaia]

[midnightcitymoon]

I am overjoyed because I am thriving in all areas of my life & have my dream beauty/travel/lifestyle editor job & I have a stable, healthy and wealthy family and tons of adoring, loyal, considerate friends & love interests whose company I enjoy & I have a healthy, optimally-functioning body with my ideal appearance of shiny hair, thick eyelashes, blemish-free skin, sculpted face and an hourglass figure with a tiny waist, perky boobs, and toned arms, torso, butt, and legs. So mote it be ✨✨✨

11:11 ☆MiracleMakeAWishComeTrueSpell🌙

Eleven-Eleven, This is a call to all angels in heaven, give me a miracle and make my wish come true!

🌜☄⭐🕤🕙🕦⭐🕯🕯📰🎁🎆🎈🎉🎖🔜🔝🔔🕯💰📰💳📧📭🔥🗝🔮🛡🌟☄🌛🌞🌈

Like to Charge, Reblog To Cast spell

[zorosdimples]

cw: mentions of breeding and some silliness. sweet choso!

choso’s vocabulary is ever-evolving. it’s a unique task, helping a grown man learn to articulate himself. (in spite of the half-cursed blood that thrums through his veins, you insist—always—that he’s a man, first and foremost.)

slang proves to be a never-ending area of education for your boyfriend; he often comes to you, phone in hand, plum eyes all but pleading.

it’s a sunny saturday morning and you’re lounging on the couch with him when he nudges your arm and thrusts his phone towards you. “can you tell me what this means?”

your gazes flits down to the screen. there’s a photo of jennifer lawrence in a sultry pose—likely an editorial for a magazine. “what’s this?”

“yuuji retweeted this photo. he likes her,” choso states matter-of-factly.

he peers over your shoulder and scrolls down to the replies, clicking on the one he doesn’t understand. it simply reads: she breedable af.

you brows shoot up and you swallow a giggle. “oh,” you say, attempting gloss over your initial surprise. “i see.”

“af means ‘as fuck,’ i remember that,” he offers before looking to you.

“that’s right. um, you know what breeding is, yeah?” you swallow, unsure of your own trepidation. perhaps it has to do with choso’s earnestness—his desire to learn, to embrace his humanity, to better relate to you.

he nods. “mating.”

“yep. so, if someone refers to jennifer lawrence as breedable, it means that they… want to breed her.”

“they want to procreate with her,” he asserts.

“uh—basically, yeah.”

your boyfriend seems content with your answer and presses a cool kiss to your cheek. “thank you.”

a few weeks later, you’re getting ready to go out on a date with choso. you’re dressed in a rich aubergine—the same color as his irises. when he knocks on the bathroom door and asks if you’re ready, you open it up with a smile; his eyes go wide.

“like what you see?” you tease, taking his wide palms and pressing them to your waist.

he swallows before nodding a little frantically, firmly holding you like a lifeline. “you’re beautiful,” he murmurs, smearing his lips against the crown of your head. “very breedable,” he adds before you pull him in for a heated kiss.

maybe it’s silly, but you can’t help but hope that his compliment foreshadows the evening ahead.

[existentialfailure]

Pairing: Touya / Reader

Length: Ficlet, 1105 words. 

Description: Touya's perspective regarding his relationship with reader. Not necessarily positive or negative. Slightly retrospective.

Warnings: Suggestive themes, swearing, Dabi being Dabi.

Notes: Pre-LOV, Dabi definitely doesn't have the villain thing sorted out.

When he first met you, he hadn't joined the league. He was a two-bit thief, and a compulsive liar. He gave you his real name, but his last name is something he pulled out of a shitty article he read in a pornographic magazine. He got a kick out of that- who writes editorials for fuckin’ skin mags? And who the fuck is reading them? Apparently losers like himself.

He gave a weepy little song and dance about a shit childhood and growing up poor. A little bit of truth with enough lies to keep you from thinking too hard about anything. He worked at a convenience store (lie) you’d never have the opportunity to stop at (true, it didn’t exist), and when he wasn’t taking up space using your bed and amenities, he was at his own apartment (half truth, he was squatting).

Your purpose was originally survival. Easy meal, free water, free electricity. You kept his clothes from smelling like mildew, and his stomach from constantly caving in on itself, and he made sure you couldn’t walk straight in the mornings after he spent the night. 

You were a bit of a ditz. You didn’t read too much into things, and he was grateful for the bleeding fuckin’ heart you had for him to take advantage of. It was the perfect matchup; the greatest combination of give-and-take-take-take.

Then as time went on, shit soured somehow somewhere, and he found himself lingering a little longer. When he’d normally leave not long after you left for work in the morning, he caught himself fiddling around your apartment. Picking your shit up and putting it away. Fixing the blankets and pillows on your bed. Putting his excess clothes in a laundry basket instead of left out on the floor for you to deal with later. Cleaning up after himself in the bathroom after he showered. Things he never even blinked at before- it was always your deal, and you never complained about doing it. Now suddenly, he felt compelled to do it for you.

He started spending a little money here and there to leave crap in the fridge. That was usually your job, your problem- it was your fridge to keep stocked to feed you both. Now suddenly he was tucking away ice cream he knew you liked, random specialty drinks from the corner store you made an off handed comment about. Stupid nonsense with what little change he could spare. He’d stand and stare at it as he put your newest addition on the shelf of the fridge, brows furrowed and lips pulled into a frown. He was being fucking weird. He would still leave it there for you.

When he’d come back around you’d make a big deal about it, about his 'surprise for you', and he hated it. You made his stomach hurt.

It was worse when he’d bring take out. You’d act all grateful and excited like he did something special for you, and he’d have to insist he absolutely did not do this for you. He was just in the mood for some greasy fried garbage, he made the decision for himself. It was absolutely not so you didn’t have to cook tonight. No way. Stop looking all sly like that. Seriously.

Don’t mention him cleaning up after you both. He was just getting up and going to the kitchen first is all. Stop being a pain, and stop looking all giddy.

You’d be coiled around him like a snake later that particular night. Face smashed into his chest, and he’d be looking down at you with his chin in his shoulder wondering how the staples weren’t digging permanent pits into the fat of your cheek. Did he tell you before you have a gross taste in men? He thinks he did sometime around the third or fourth run in you had. He’ll brush his fingers beneath your eyes, and under your lips, marveling at the smooth skin and swallow the bile in his throat realizing he needs to get the fuck out of here before he burns you up like Touya Todoroki on Sekoto Peak.

[shanieveh]

REVERSE 03↺: love the player

wriothesley x fem!reader smau

now playing: laufey — above the chinese restaurant

After cramming so many activities, your mind in a daze and body almost collapsed, it was finally time to go to the after party. This is where the game actually starts, and you hated every bit of it.

Back in the days, he wasn't the center of attention, and these loud houses were quiet secrets only shared for two people. Now he took the center stage, where everyone worshipped his every move.

And you watched.

"And our star player tonight!" Childe drags Wriothesley to the stage where everyone could see him, you just clapped no time to cheer loudly. After all, your voice will be hoarse with no more for the presentation tomorrow.

Before, these events always seemed fun for you, but now, now...

You see them six, popular, untouchable group and know that you will never belong to it. Wait there's only five of them... where is...

"Need some fun, girlie?" The red head from earlier came to you and offered you some sweets.

"I'm having fun, don't worry." You politely took his offer with faked grin, you liked sweets anyways.

After him was a series of people, an obstacle od sweaty and immature highschool teens, where was Kaveh? Oh probably with Alhaitham.

Then there was Scaramouche bullying Childe, and there was Cyno with Dehya chilling.

It only leads back to yourself, all alone.

You then entered the room, the very room where everything started. It was filled with the duke's past trophies and awards, a lot of memories unwind.

Back then he was your suitor, a nobody who who was mediocre at best.

A lot has change, huh. He changed, but you stayed at this moment. Unlike him, you stayed with him.

Promises were made, and he was the first to break them. With the chance of being popular and glorified he left you, but that didn't really stop you did it?

He did say you were the love of his life, about a million damn times.

Until that stupid reverse everything was fine, he was supposed to be yours, after all that he did right, now... now you were the one chasing, you were the one who wanted him back, it was as if the world reversed!

"I'm afraid miss that this is personal property, you can only go past the ground floor." A silky velvet voice was heard from behind.

With that you looked at the source, she was beautiful. She was smart, she was, she was... all that he wanted.

"I'm sorry Miss Clorinde, I was just looking for the bathroom." I excused myself and went to outside.

You left hastily without seeing the look on her eyes, for it was not one of anger or indifference.

It was one of pity.

"Now why do you look upset in this beautiful night?" Kaveh chimmed it at the sight of your disheveled form. "I thought your wriobaby won the big game today?"

No reply was ushered, just the wind blowing, and the moon at the height of its glory.

"Cyno was right maybe I don't stand a chance against her. I'm just a nobody." You pout at nothing but your own misery. "And everyone thinks nothing of me beyond of him, she's spmething without him and I'm just no one!"

It was not long till the snoppy Charlotte saw you both, perhaps it was your loud exclaim.

"Want me to make an editorial about her so she will have a bad reputation?" That was her ideal of comfort, and in some degree it would work.

"Or better yet we will spread bad rumors about her at school?" Dehya joined in, wanting to cheer you up.

No. Clorinde does not deserve any of those, even if hatred panged your heart, you knew that she deserves none of it. She was always organized, she always knows what to do. She's just... perfect.

"The poor Clorinde, Lottie!" Kaveh reprimanded the journalist with his drunk boyfriend on one shoulder. How chaotic. "For me you should just get over the guy! It would also help your reputation at school! It's that furry's fault!"

You let out the heaviest of sighs, almost at the verge of just giving it all up. Clorinde's wrath just seemed to strong. But... you can't, you just can't let go, not today, not next week, and not even when everything changes.

You would always stay.

And in the fleet of defeat, you see Kaveh's drunk boyfriend finally holding his composure.

"Name, your phone is ringing." He gives it to you.

Oh.

'ONE MESSAGE NOTIFICATION'

My.

'WRIO BABY: DO YOU WANT TO COME? .... [see more]'

God.

Scrolling past your previous texts, you finally saw it.

———————————[ 02 —↺— 04 ]————————————

the whole campus knows about your 3 year crush on the student body president and basketball captain wriothesley. you were fine with his constant ignoring and rejections until something happened, until you stopped, and a reverse took place... now he won't leave you alone.

TAGLIST I (open): @vash-yuu @nayukiyukihira @aethion @whodissbitj @astolary @ayayaaayyiire @randomidk-123 @superdark-soul @sleepy-waffle @kittywagun @ceaether @ichorstainedskin @numwoon44 @eutopiastar @reni502 @fictionalfantasy17 @lucienbarkbark @kyon-cherri @huanator @jqnehr @yourlittlemissworld @zworllyx @unknownlololol @sara-midnight @jaguarthecat @we-wo-we-wo @duhsies @interstellar-equilibrium @ariparri @lolmeowing @aruatsu @k-cris @quacking-simp @vlamouren @semi-orangeapple @tamikahoshiko @imnotgoodwithnamessoidk @portgas459ace @r4yyyyy @vxnuslogy @kazuhasmaid @explosive-wuisa @falors @rirk-ke @shotovhs @aixaingela @ruhaxol @yelleloww @sc1twi @ash4ree

author's note: if you noticed from the spotify playlist, all the songs of the day are the tracks in order. this will grant you special privileges to see what the plot will be in the order of the songs! anyways, no update next week because its finals here in the philippines, gotta focus. love you all!!

[whoresidentevil]

Leon and Your Hair

a/n: I haven't written in years so this is very experimental 💀 I'm open to constructive feedback!

Also, I wrote this with the reader having type 4 hair in mind but I tried to make it as texture-inclusive as possible :)

General: 

Leon himself takes pride in his hair and appearance in general which is one of many ways you guys relate to each other.

 I imagine your shared bathroom would be full of hair products and tools more than anything else, though most of it is yours.

Leon isn't ignorant, he knew how important hair is to your culture way before you got together. Because of this, he respects how much effort your maintenance requires.

RE2:

This man 100% uses all your stuff every time he comes over. You start wondering if these containers have a hole at the bottom of them or something. Eventually, Leon just starts buying the shampoo/conditioner combo you use for himself at home because it's doing wonders for his hair. Plus the scent reminds him of you, it's a win-win.

Leon had nice hair before, but your presence in his life introduces him to products like deep conditioner, hair oils, etc that just elevate it further.

When you get your hair braided or styled Leon always wants to be the first person to see it! He even goes out of his way to pick you up from the salon so he can shower you with compliments right after. 

If he has time I can see Leon sitting in the salon with you for however many hours it takes the stylists to be done. He sits there flipping through the hair magazines he took from the waiting area, turning the pages over to you every couple of minutes. "Babe, you should try this next time." with the most genuine smile on his face. Even if it was some atrocious 90's editorial style, you smile and nod at every single one.

RE4:

Once Leon starts going on long missions he's unable to be your personal chauffeur 24/7, so he'd definitely want you to text him pictures every time you get your hair done. He always sets them as his phone wallpaper to have an updated photo of you everywhere he goes.

During his training I doubt he'd have the luxury of technology though, instead opting to get a Polaroid of you every now and then in the mail. He always makes sure to compliment you on something in the letters he sends back and keeps the latest Polaroid somewhere in his pockets while the older ones are tacked to his wall. (poor guy misses you so much)

When he's home with you he realizes how much he missed your silk pillowcases and bed sheets. He didn't think they were actually helping his hair and skin until he had to sleep in crazy locations during training/missions and noticed the difference. he silently thanks you for that.

RE6/ID/DI:

After so many years of being together, Leon knows about all your hair preferences, favorite styles, and even things he hasn't seen you in yet. (our boy is educated 👏🏾).

Sometimes you ask him to help pick what you'll do with your hair next which either ends with him saying "You look beautiful no matter what" or showing you very specific photos he found on Google.

It's been years since you've paid for your own hair because Leon insists on taking care of that for you. It doesn't matter how much it costs, he has no problem with it as long as you are happy.

He'd go into the beauty supply store with you and know exactly where to go and what to get, even reminding you not to forget some things along the way.

Leon has a huge soft spot for your natural hair, whatever texture it may be he's whipped for it. Loves being able to touch your hair (with permission) and probably asks to help you on wash days so he has an excuse to do so.

speaking of which, I can see wash days becoming an intimate thing for you two as you get older. He'd help you shampoo in the shower as a form of affection, or you're sitting in his lap while he helps you detangle when your arms get tired.

If you have locs I can see Leon looking up a tutorial on how to do retwists to help you out. Even if you tell him time and time again that you'd rather have your loctician do it he insists you give him a chance. Turns out he's not half bad at it and you let him do it a few times a year.

[appalamutte]

Eric turns into the baking supplies aisle, tapping his thumb against the cart in rhythm with the Christmas music playing overhead.

He hadn’t intended to stop at the grocery store on his way home; after slipping on a patch of ice in front of a school field trip on his way to work, dropping and shattering his favorite work mug in the break room between meetings, and being told for the umpteenth time that another client has gone with another publisher, Eric, if you don’t start showing improvement then we’re going to have to look at other alternatives, all Eric wanted to do was go home and take a long, warm bath. Start that food critic’s memoir he picked up at a flea market a few weeks ago. Maybe—finally—clean out and reorganize his disaster of a spice cabinet, something to take his mind off things.

Just forget this day ever happened.

But then his editorial assistant accidentally deleted one of their client’s manuscripts while performing a mass exodus of unused files, and just like that, Eric went and cried in the bathroom because the day officially got worse than he ever thought it could get.

By some miracle, Dex down in IT had been able to find an old save of the file on the system’s hard drive. It didn’t have most of the notes Eric added for corrections or changes, nor did it have any of his assistant’s annotations. Really, it was the most bare-bones copy, but it was the entire manuscript in it’s most recent glory.

For that, Eric would’ve kissed Dex right then and there.

He loves Nursey too much to do that, though, so instead he did what he always does: he hugged Dex tightly, asked him what his favorite dessert was (snickerdoodle cookies), and at five o’clock he took the Green Line to West End and walked a few blocks to the best Whole Foods in Boston.

“Now you’ve gotta be kidding me,” Eric murmurs, standing in front of the rather unfortunate-looking flour selection. Usually, there’s a complete inventory of all types—bread, whole wheat, all-purpose, self-rising, pastry—and that’s half of the reason Eric goes twenty minutes out of his way to shop here. Yet all that’s before him now is a couple of bags of all-purpose and a full row of cake flour.

Great. As if this day couldn’t get any better.

He pulls the shopping cart close as a family enters the aisle and considers his options. Normally, he prefers using a half-and-half combination of whole wheat and all-purpose, but after last week’s batch of pancakes, he’s out of whole wheat. He could get the cream of tartar and ground cinnamon now and stop at the Stop & Shop near his apartment for the flour, but that place is hit-or-miss at best, and with how his day’s going he doubts they’ll have any in stock either. 

Maybe he could forgo whole wheat flour this one time and just go with the all-purpose, but he really does love the taste it gives, not to mention it adds a bit more nutritional value. Nursey has been going on and on about how Dex is trying to eat healthier after losing his college-athlete physique, and—damn, maybe Eric should’ve offered to make something other than a dessert. Is it too late to call and ask if Dex would rather have some homemade protein bars? But then Nursey messaged Eric right before he left work with a bunch of crying emojis, thanking him and saying he was definitely going to steal some of the cookies from Dex, even though Eric’s pretty sure Dex would give Nursey most of them anyway, and—

“Bittle?”

Eric startles.

Looking up, he stares at the man before him for a moment before his heart skips a beat.

“Jack?” He asks dumbly, because it is Jack, standing there in an old, threadbare Samwell hoodie with a ball cap pulled low on his head. 

He’s a little soft around the edges and worn down in that way all professional athletes are after retirement, but he’s still unmistakably Jack Zimmermann with that small little quirk of a smile and the way his eyes are piercingly blue in the fluorescent lighting of the store. His hair still curls around the ear like it did whenever he used to let it grow out but there are flecks of gray in his temple now. His jaw, even after all these years, is still so pronounced but it’s not as sharp as it was back at Samwell, hidden under a layer of scruff. He’s still wearing god-awful yellow sneakers, except they’re a newer pair from a different brand, bright and spotless.

“Hey, Bittle,” Jack says, warmer and surer.

Eric uncrosses his arms. “Jack,” he says again, feeling himself smile, “gosh, I can’t believe it’s—it’s been so long! Jack! How are you?”

On a reflex, Eric steps forward to hug Jack, and there’s this absolutely mortifying moment where he realizes he’s going to hug Jack Zimmermann, the Jack Zimmermann he hasn't spoken to in seven years, the Jack Zimmermann he hasn't seen outside of the NHL Network in ten.

But then Jack meets him halfway, pulling him into a hug with both arms wrapped around Eric’s shoulders, and it’s like the last decade never happened, the weight rolling off his shoulders as easily as could be. It’s like Eric’s back in Providence, back in Samwell. It’s Jack’s apartment and the front porch of the Haus and the bed of Coach’s truck in the thick Georgia humidity.

(It’s being in love with your best friend.)

“I’m good,” Jack says, his chest rumbling. “Great, actually.”

He pats Eric’s shoulder once and with that, they pull away from one another. “That’s good,” Eric says, pulling his shopping cart closer so he can lean an elbow against the handle. “How’s retirement been? It’s been, gosh, almost a year now?”

“Just about. It'll be a year this February."

“You miss it?”

Jack tilts his head. “Eh,” he drawls out, “honestly yeah, I do. But, well…”

He gestures down toward his knee, and it takes Eric a few seconds to remember that Jack's retirement had more to do with an unfortunate check and less to do with the fact he was thirty-seven. Eric immediately backtracks. “Oh, shit—lord, excuse my language, I didn’t mean—”

“No, no, it’s fine,” Jack chuckles, shoving his hands into his pockets. “The knee has its days, but besides that, it's good as new.” He pauses. “Sort of.”

Eric’s blushing ‘till high noon, he’s sure of it. "Well that's good, then," he says.

It’s Beginning To Look A Lot Like Christmas starts playing overheard and they stare at each other for another awkward beat. Finally, Jack clears his throat. “But, uh, how have you been? I think Shitty said you were at…Morris…”

“Morris Press,” Eric says, pulling at the skin between his thumb and forefinger, mentally slapping his cheeks. He’s usually never this bad with talking. “But yeah! I’ve been there for six years or so now, it’s a really great job. Helping others do what I always dreamed of is just, you know, a really fulfilling feeling.”

“I bet,” Jack says, and he’s got the little smile on his face again.

Another, not-as-awkward beat.

“I mean, I never thought I’d go into publishing, but��,” Eric starts, and he doesn’t mean to ramble, really; it’s an accidental slip that he starts going on about his job and his coworkers, the projects he’s helped publish, how publishing his own cookbook right out of Samwell led to now, just talking Jack’s poor ear off in the middle of the store. Jack gives his little comments here and there, like he used to, and doesn’t once make Eric feel like he’s holding him, and that—that’s exactly why Eric finds he can’t stop himself. The easiness of it, how natural and comfortable it is. How the warmth of a dormant love flares somewhere in Eric’s chest because it’s different but it’s not. 

He doesn’t stop until an older woman cuts in asking to get to the flour, and Eric takes a breath. “Goodness, I rambled there,” he laughs. “I suppose things haven’t changed all that much.”

Jack hums, looking at Eric with this unreadable, nearly intense expression that Eric would describe as soft, probably. If he looked into it too much. He’s nearly about to let Jack go so he can go home and panic-bake a pie and call Lardo about this entire day when Jack suddenly says: “Would you want to get coffee or lunch or—or something, sometime?”

Eric falters.

Then he decides that, maybe, this day isn’t a total bust.

[utahlive]

But uh. Their not lying though, you do look like dabi in some parts- (Sorry wilbur-)

Well, look at what you've done

[ transcript below ]

Anonymous Caller:

But uh. Their not lying though, you do look like dabi in some parts- (Sorry wilbur-)

Wilbur Soot:

[editorial note: Wilbur Soot excused himself to the bathroom and stayed there for at least 15 minutes]

[camaro-and-smokes]

A Shot for Life

A Harringrove fic by Suometar / camaro-and-smokes

Rating: Explicit Warnings: No warnings Characters: Billy Hargrove, Steve Harrington, Robin Buckley, Heather Holloway, Maxine "Max" Mayfield, Eddie Munson, Original Characters, Other Character Tags to Be Added Tags: No Upside Down, Modern Setting, Model Billy Hargrove, Photographer Steve Harrington, Bisexual Steve Harrington, Gay Billy Hargrove, Age Difference, Other Tags to Be Added

Chapter 2: Scared of love, but scared of life alone

Summary: It hadn’t been intentional, not dating anyone after healing from the heartache that had gutted Steve raw in the ancient past. He’d escaped the hurt into his work and then just…his career had taken off and there never seemed to be time to make space for anyone new. Then the years had passed, one after another, and here he was, still fully emerged in his work—and all alone.

Read on AO3 >>

::::::::::

The studio was dimly lit after bathing in the brightness of spotlights all day. A single table lamp cast a warm glow on the wall in front of the table by which Steve Harrington was reviewing the shots from the day’s photoshoot.

Today had been the last session with a stunning model for his upcoming exhibition at the Los Angeles Center of Photography. The theme was curiosity, and the star of today’s photoshoot was none other than a delicate praying mantis.

Having a model that cared more about the day’s dinner than anything he was doing, or the fame that would be bestowed upon them once the exhibition opened, was refreshing. He could’ve worked all day long with creatures that were blessed with ignorance of expectations and things like success.

“Wow. Those are amazing,” Robin Buckley, Steve’s assistant and friend, said as she appeared on his side to look at the photos on his screen.

Steve stretched and brushed his silvery hair off his forehead. “For once, a model who doesn’t ask for a bathroom break when I’m on a roll,” he snorted before turning to look at her. “Hey, did you get a reply from the art director of the Givenchy campaign? It’s next week, and he still hasn’t confirmed the location.”

“Yes, Gavin replied to me. I forwarded that email to you, but in short; they’ve chosen the model, and the shoot is going to be in the Bahamas. He apologized it took so long for them but you know how it is sometimes. They’re arranging everything for the shoot, including crew. All you need to do is to be there with your camera. I already booked our flights. Oh, and hey, the editorial team for ‘Verve Magazine’ wants to discuss the possibility of an exclusive on the exhibition.”

“That should be taken care of this week,” Steve said sternly. “I don’t want to think about other things than the shoot next week.”

“Alright,” Robin said and scrolled through Steve’s calendar. “You have nothing on Thursday at noon.”

“Book a call with them then,” Steve said as he kept going through his photos.

“Consider it done,” Robin replied and started tapping her phone to make the arrangements.

.

A half-an-hour later, Steve took a break from editing and went to the small office kitchen where Robin was drinking tea. “So, are you going to tell me who the model is?” he asked her as he made a beeline to the fridge.

Robin grinned. “Billy Hargrove.”

Steve closed the fridge door and, leaning on the counter, he unwrapped his sandwich. “Remind me what he’s done before?”

Robin snorted at his way of saying I have no idea who that is, please enlighten me. Knowing he would remember better who he was going to be working with if he saw the face of the person, she opened Instagram on her phone to find Billy’s profile, and handed the phone to Steve. “He’s been mostly on editorials and on runways. Just walked for McQueen the other day. Fresh face, only two years in the business, started off quite late. But hardworking like no other I’ve seen in a while.”

Steve took the phone and scrolled through Billy’s profile. Blond, short hair with longer curls on top, sun kissed skin, a nice smile, a bit of bad boy attitude in his presence. Steve tapped one photo to see it better. It was a shot of Billy’s face in perfect detail, taken on a beach at sunset. He was looking past the camera at the sinking sun since the shadows on his face were almost nonexistent and behind him deep and dark. The text said ‘Someone to reach within’.

Most of the comments said they were ready to reach Billy’s within or allow him to reach theirs whenever he wanted. But something in the text, along with the mood of the photo, caught Steve’s attention. Despite the peaceful setting, there was something in Billy’s expression that hinted at a deeper story. Billy’s gaze seemed hard as he looked into the distance, his smile not quite reaching his eyes.

Steve could tell that Billy was not just another model, but someone who clearly had a talent for visual storytelling. Something told him they’d get along.

He gave Robin her phone back. “Will you make sure he knows how to…”

Robin interrupted him. “Already sent him an email when Gavin told me. You want to talk with him before the shoot or…?”

“I don’t think I have the time from the exhibition work. Just make sure he knows what to expect and what I expect from him. You remember…”

“…what happened last time, yes. I wish I could forget. He knows to be on time and respect everyone equally on set. I hope that doesn’t have to be said every single time from now on. I have zero tolerance for divas.” As she scrolled through her phone, a reminder popped up on the screen. She let out a frustrated groan and muttered, “Oh fuck. I forgot that.”

Steve glanced up from his sandwich, raising his other eyebrow. “Forgot what?”

Robin looked at him sheepishly. “The opening of the Gucci flagship store is tonight.”

Steve looked at her for a moment, dumbfounded, before wiping the corners of his mouth. “How can you forget something like that? I’ve done all their major photoshoots for…”

“…years. I know, Steve! Fuck! I set the reminder, but didn’t remember to set it to alert more than once, for just now. I’m so sorry!”

“Okay, what time?” Steve asked.

“In thirty minutes.”

Steve shook his head and dropped the rest of the sandwich to the trash. “Jesus, Robin! You’re the one who’s supposed to remember these things because I’m the dingus who forgets everything—your words, by the way,” he scolded her as he left for his office.

“I know, I’m sorry,” she said. “The charcoal turtleneck is in your closet with the black trousers. I think the Gucci boots should be there too,” she shouted after him. “Unless you’ve taken them home with you.”

“Can you find me a belt to go with the slacks?” Steve shouted back to her as he rushed to his office, pulling off his shirt. “I don’t think I have one here now.”

After a while, Robin brought Steve a black vintage belt. “This is the best I could do now. Not Gucci, sorry.”

She then left to find something for herself, leaving Steve to finish his outfit.

He pulled the belt through the loops in his slacks and looked at himself in the mirror as he buckled it. For someone who was a few years shy of fifty, he looked pretty good. The only thing that revealed his actual age was his hair that was now more or less bright silver rather than brown. That change had happened earlier and quicker than he’d hoped, which was why he liked to keep it longer on top and short on the sides, to keep himself looking a bit more like he felt—younger than his age.

He grabbed his jacket and turned off the light from the office. Robin was already waiting by the front door, wearing her black, ankle-length fake-leather jacket over some of the designer clothes she probably hadn’t had yet time to return from some photoshoot.

When she saw Steve, she smirked and threw his car keys to him, opening the door and leading them to the corridor and towards the elevator that took them to the garage. “You scrubbed up well.”

“You don’t look so bad yourself,” Steve said with a smile. “Which photoshoot is the shirt from?” he asked with a lilt.

“From the shoot for the Fashion Institute. I know, don’t start,” she said, holding her palm up as they stepped into the elevator. “I will take it to the dry-cleaner first thing tomorrow and return it. And I’m going to bring some of my own clothes to the studio for something like this, though. Because this shirt tickles and it isn’t exactly my style,” she continued with a laugh.

Steve pressed the button to the garage level and leaned against the railing. “Well, that should remind you to remember to return things on time and set up reminders to remember to do so,” Steve quipped.

“Oh, bite me,” Robin said, jabbing Steve with her elbow.

“Ow! No need to get violent,” he replied with a laugh. He was happy Robin was working with him. They had such an uncomplicated relationship, even though, technically, Robin was his employee. But they were equals, friends, and both poking at the other playfully—but also supporting each other. Which was more Steve could ever ask for since there weren’t that many people around him nowadays.

.

At the Gucci store they mingled effortlessly with the who’s who of the industry.

Steve didn’t really care about these events. He would’ve rather been at the studio choosing the last photos for the exhibition and preparing for the Givenchy photoshoot. But Gucci was a major client, and unless he was anything less than out of the country or deceased, he couldn’t miss an event like this.

“I’ve been here for fifteen minutes and I’m already exhausted,” he murmured, leaning toward Robin.

“Stop complaining. I know you don’t like these events,” she replied, “and neither do I. But you haven’t been seen in one of these in months.”

“I know, I know. It’s important to be seen,” Steve muttered. He should’ve gotten used to having to go to events like this over the two decades he’d worked in high fashion, but for some reason, they never got any easier.

She patted his arm and pointed to the other end of the store, where the lead designer for the brand was talking with some people. “Let’s go say hi.”

“Steve!” Michel André, the top designer of Gucci, greeted him with a thick Italian accent, holding his hands up in the air theatrically. “I was hoping to see you here,” he continued. “Your exhibition in Milan, it was the talk of the town for months!”

“I’m flattered, as always,” Steve responded, with a modest tilt of his head.

“I heard you’re shooting the Givenchy campaign. We have to come up with something new for us, too, or we don’t stand a chance in competition!”

“You know I’m always at your service. Just let me know when,” Steve said with a genuine smile. Gucci was the only client he still frequently worked with because he had pretty much free hands with their campaigns. He knew what the brand stood for in a way a few photographers did.

“I’ll have my assistant send you the plans for next winter collection and we’ll talk,” André said, grinning. “I hope you’re coming to fashion week this year?”

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Steve assured before he was released from the discussion by a group of fashion editors who wanted to talk with the designer.

When Robin after a while brought him another non-alcoholic drink, he went straight back to work-mode. “Could you check tomorrow that the smoke machine is working? I didn’t remember to check it and the last time when I needed it, it didn’t work. And if it doesn’t…”

“…I’ll buy a new one. Yes, I can do that.”

“Thank you,” Steve replied and looked around the space that was pulsing with people and music. This scene of posturing and meaningless pleasantries was an image of his life for the past twenty-five years, a hollow summary of what had still made him a ‘rock star’ among photographers; one who made garments come to life like no other.

But he wasn’t just a fashion photographer. He had a skill of taking stunning photos anywhere, anytime, of anyone. He’d held several exhibitions all over the world and won several contests, including the most prestigious ones; the World Photography Award and the BJP International Photography Award.

Despite his success and recognition, it was especially in events like this where he felt more alone than at any time in the solitude of his studio. The constant buzz of conversations and clinks of glasses reminded him of the loneliness inside him. He had achieved everything he had ever wanted in terms of career, but it had come at a cost.

Steve looked at his drink, not feeling like drinking it. He’d done what he came here to do; to be seen. “I think I’ll head home,” he said to Robin.

She looked at him knowingly. “Could you at least try to enjoy this for a bit longer? Please?” She bit her lip, her eyes pleading with him. “Maybe get to know some new people?”

Steve knew what she meant and smiled wearily. “You know I can’t. This scene…” he grimaced and vaguely pointed around with his finger in the air, “there’s nothing like that for me here.”

Robin looked at him with concern, like so many times before. “You know, these are the circles you move in. It’s been so long. Why not just give it a chance…”

Steve’s expression turned firm as he cut her off. “We talked about this. Nothing has changed. Not yet.”

Robin sighed in defeat and didn’t push further. “Okay. I’ll stay for a while longer,” she finally said with a soft smile, placing a comforting hand on his arm. “I’ll report to you later if anything comes up.”

.

Steve walked out of the store into the cool evening air. The New York heat wave had finally given in to a summer shower and the air smelled fresh as he walked towards the parking garage where his car was. Perfect for forgetting what Robin was once again hinting. What she’d been pushing on him at an exceeding rate lately.

He knew she meant well, and he admitted she had a point. He didn’t want to spend the rest of his life alone, and he was already halfway in and it felt more difficult each day to find someone.

It hadn’t been intentional, not dating anyone after healing from the heartache that had gutted him raw in the ancient past. There was a reason why colleagues shouldn't date and Steve had learned it the hard way. He’d escaped the hurt into his work and then just…his career had taken off and there never seemed to be time to make space in his life for anyone new. The years had passed, one after another, and here he was, still fully emerged in his work—and all alone.

But it was scary to get himself out there after all this time. What if he'd forgotten how to even date? How did it even work nowadays? And could he ever have the courage to share his innermost self to someone else? Could he ever trust someone that much?

Despite it all he’d signed up for both Tinder and Grindr, but deleted the accounts after a short while. He’d worked long enough with well composed, half-veiled appearances for not wanting to be chosen solely by his looks alone—or, god forbid, by his name.

He hardly ever went out, except at industry events, but a while back, Robin had lured him out of his studio to go dancing with her, and it had been fun. After who knows how many drinks, she had told him she had a new girlfriend who apparently was the one and that Steve would meet her sometime soon. The new relationship had made her more resolute to make him open up to the idea of finding someone who mattered more than his camera.

And she was right. The most likely people he’d connected with were in the fashion industry because those were the circles he moved in. But last time he’d only found pain, and a field that concentrated on just the looks rarely helped couples to stay together.

Robin always told him he was too soft for his own good. So, he was an artist at heart, sue him.

.

His phone ringing snapped him out of his thoughts. It was Eddie, his best friend since high school. He was one of the few people Steve truly enjoyed being around, even though Eddie from time to time went into chipmunk mode about his projects and not shutting up even when Steve had already lost him half an hour earlier. Steve shot all Corroded Coffin’s promo shots and, in return, Eddie had modeled for him several times. Eddie’s nude black and white portrait from fifteen years ago was still one of Steve’s most recognized photos.

They hadn’t talked in a long while, so getting a call from him was a pleasant surprise. “What’s up, Munson?”

“So, hey, uh…Are you in town this weekend?” Eddie asked nervously.

“Yeah. But I’m working and flying out on Sunday. Why?”

“I was wondering if you…I’d like you to meet someone.”

Steve stopped in the middle of the pavement, his heart sinking a little. He was quite sure where this was going. “Who��s the lucky girl today?” he still asked sarcastically, since Eddie was notorious for his short-lived relationships.

“Oh, ha-ha. She’s uh…” Eddie’s voice trailed off, and he fell into silence. “I really want you to meet her. I think she might be, you know…” he confessed, leaving the rest up in the air for Steve to catch.

Steve couldn’t help but feel a twinge of jealousy. Eddie had only once before introduced someone to him like that; his ex, who he’d been with for over a decade. It stung to know that Munson, who even was a year older than him, had found someone who truly saw him for who he was, not just his fame as a rock star. Sure, of course Eddie was known worldwide too, and there was a pool of takers for him that grew all the time, but still finding one who wanted to see the real person and not the mask wasn’t easy.

“Oh. Uh, well, I’m really stuck with work until the end of next week. How about Saturday a week from now?”

“Perfect. That’s perfect, yeah. At my place. Does eight work?” Eddie asked eagerly.

“Sounds good.” Steve smiled as he walked into the parking garage, but inside, he was torn. “You’re head over heels, are you?” he asked, trying to push down the feelings of loneliness that were surfacing once again.

Eddie chuckled. “Um, you could say that.”

“I’m happy for you, man. I really am,” Steve said, not feeling quite as sincere as he'd wanted to.

“So, what about you? Still looking?”

Steve sighed. “Yeah.”

“You must be looking in the wrong place.”

“I’m starting to think so myself, too,” Steve admitted, feeling a little bit defeated.

“Hey, maybe one of those work trips of yours will produce someone who you’d like to stick around for,” Eddie suggested optimistically.

“Oh, I think the problem is the opposite; who’d want to stick around with an old guy like me,” Steve replied with a half-hearted laugh.

“C’mon man, you’re not old!” Eddie encouraged him. “I know you’ll get lucky one of these days. I can feel it.”

Steve smiled weakly as he opened the car doors and sat inside. “Thanks for the pep talk.”

“I wish there was something I could do,” Eddie said, his tone warm and sympathetic.

“You enjoy what you have and leave that dilemma to me for handle,” Steve said and took his driving gloves from the glove box. “Hey, I’m going to take a drive. Keep me posted on that Saturday if something changes.”

“Yeah, I’ll do that.”

.

After ending the call, Steve sat for a while in the car, not yet starting it, his hands on the steering wheel. He should be happy for Eddie, and the fact that he couldn’t be made him feel like a lousy friend. But now two of his closest people were having someone special in their lives and he had no one. It stung.

But maybe Eddie was right and the someone he was looking for was just behind the next corner. All he really could do was to trust that and not lose hope.

[jlf23tumble]

Please supply your end of year fic rec!! All fandoms, all pairings! Happy New Year Jen!!!

anon 2: Just under the wire...fav fics of the year? I always love your recs!

------------

I've got you both, my loves, under the cut!

MAN, this is a wild list, and it could have been MUCH longer, just based on what I've bookmarked and read/loved, but I wanted to have some kind of high-level cut so that it feels somewhat editorial, so enjoyyyyyy!

H/L (One Direction)

Save Me One Last Sip, onlylearsfool/ @suesheroll, 1.3k

Like sweat dripping down our dirty laundry, louisthiccsexygliltteryass, 1.4k

Is this for me? yeah_alright/ @uhoh-but-yeah-alright, 1.5k

Anarchy In You, red_panda28, 2k

don't know how you taste, larrysh0me, 2.4k

Marionette, anonymous, 2.7k

Meet Me In the Bathroom series, red_panda28, 3k

Not Conditional, tiredtiredtz, 3k

(drippin' on me) till my feet are wet, justanothershadeofblue, 3.2k

we got to, away, berzerkshires, 3.3k

One Touch Is All It Takes, jesshallvol6, 3.4k

did I upset you, daddy? cuckootrooke/ @larrydoinglaundry, 3.5k

Peaches and Cream, banaanipoika, 3.7k

So Be Good for Goodness Sake, kikiberoski16, 3.7k

learning to believe in what is mine, bluestgrey, 3.8k

With the Bomb Lighting, letthemusicmoveyou, 4k

U-Pop Truck Stop, @kingsofeverything, 4k

On the Pull, @homosociallyyours, 4.2k

Let Me Taste Your Silhouette, letthemusicmoveyou, 4.7k

Purity Piercings, @jaerie, 5.3k

Dirty Bunny, larry_hiatus, 5.5k

Never Thought I'd Be Missing the Heat, larry_hiatus, 5.6k

Your Ink, My Skin, larry_hiatus, 6k

I'll Show You How Good It Could Be, @lovingstheantidote, 6.2k

A Social Construct, YesIsAWorld/ @louandhazaf, 7.2k

Ride My Sleigh Tonight, @kingsofeverything, 9k

to be a better man, devilinmybrain, 9.9k

it all started with a suggestion, anonymous, 10k

getting yourself wet for me, me_her_themoon, 10k

laur's nutvember 2023 series, me_her_themoon, 51k

Center Stage Whore series, larry_hiatus, 57k

H *or* L/others (One Direction)

new ways and new maps, dragmedown, 1.6k

everybody wants a taste, lhhome, 1.8k

makes me feel alive, lhhome, 2.3k

Let It Go, anonymous, 2.5k

Follow My Lead, anonymous, 2.7k

Shoulder 'n' the Load, yeah_alright, 2.8k

hidden in heartbeats, justanothershadeofblue, 3k

Putting on My Music While I'm Watching the Boys, onlylearsfool, 3.2k

sea view, takesaboatout, 3.7k

The Birth of Love, jesshallvol6, 3.7k

Lives in Daydreams, lhhome, 4.4k

Use Me Like a Fantasy, homosociallyyours, 4.9k

Mangia Tucci, yeah_alright, 7.3k

Wenny, wabadabadaba, 8.5k

for your eyes only, muldxr, 9.3k

too into you, @disgruntledkittenface, 11k

Other fandoms desire paths, glasscushion, 1.1k

Fast Food Fuckin', anonymous, 2k

send vibrations, sionisjaune, 3.6k

Glory, objectlesson, 3.7k

both hands tied on the wheel, kayshea, 3.8k

lost in my own incidents, glasscushion, 3.8k

trust exercise, withfeathers, 4k

What do you want of him, I ask myself, toxic_androgyny, 5.7k

The 33 and 1/3 Days of Sodom, anonymous, 6k

For Here Is Penance, objectlesson, 14k

Saltwater and Gasoline, Kaytheologie, 15k

he's the one, matchmesidney, 16k

this is only a play, matchmesidney, 21k

starving works, matchmesidney, 23k

[vro0m]

Hello dear vroom, i'd like to sincerely apologise for being the source of all evil tonight with the discourse and bring the light to some stuff (and hopefully bring you out of the misery)!

To start it off, it's quite an old thing (based on the timeline from discord when I shared that with the gc, it was around Japan last year) and it has nothing to do with Marcus, because my comm slash driver discussed it (fun fact he is ferrari driver in gt3 and actually hates his guts because he kinda stole the seat in f1 from him when they were both in contention) not Marcus himself. Although the people who misunderstood and freaked out about him made me lose it qudhebshjwen

Second of all, he mentioned it as a sort of... fun medical fact because he spoke about what causes Charles' frequent bathroom breaks (we won't run into details). Let the world know that he did NOT just start explicit gossip, but actually tried to have a serious discussion about trouble some drivers face because of the way drivers are sat in the cockpit of newer f1 cars.

And finally, as a lesbian who saw your post in the F1 tag and also has no stake in the game, scrolling through your blog was a wild ride today 😵‍💫 Sorry again 😂

Oh my god absolutely do not apologise because it was hilarious!

Now I'm curious what the dick size has to do with the bathroom breaks but I imagine the bathroom breaks aren't necessarily to actually pee but you're right let's not go there I can't get piss discourse on my blog the dick thing was enough

I'm gonna jump on the opportunity to tell the dozen new people who got to this blog thanks to you that this is NOT the normal editorial line of this blog and the hangover might hit you hard sorry not sorryyyy you are warneddd

[justforbooks]

Dear God, the Parthenon is still broken is a photographic vignette by Yorgos Lanthimos. Although created on the set of the film Poor Things in Budapest, the book inhabits a separate world, untethered from time and place.

The photographs drift between black and white and colour, giving the impression of a waking dream between past and present, whilst multiple layers between reality and fiction are gradually revealed. The film was set in various late 19th century locations including London, Lisbon, Marseille, and a cruise ship—all recreated in Budapest. These constructed cities and interiors provide the backdrop for the photographs. The characters populate these imagined cities whilst the precarious screens, scaffolding, rigs, lighting and crew are divulged on the periphery of the images. Lanthimos has intentionally widened the frame to show the workings of the construct, fabricating a new story within the story. To mirror this, the publication is designed with foldouts to reveal these constructs within the cast of characters—the reader opens a book within a book.

In reaction to the fast-moving creation of the film, Lanthimos embraced the opportunity to use a large-format camera to make these images, focusing on stillness, tonality and light. Deciding on a composition and not changing this until the exposure was complete, each picture provided him with a meditative time of focus. The creative process of making the images extended to collaboration with the actress Emma Stone who played the role of Bella Baxter in the film, for which she was awarded an Oscar. Through working together on previous projects, Lanthimos and Stone have developed a unique creative partnership. After a busy day of filming, they would develop the colour 6x7 negatives and the b&w 4x5 sheet film together in a makeshift darkroom in a bathroom. This alchemic act offered them both a creative outlet beyond the realm and constraints of the film.

The title of the book ‘Dear God, the Parthenon is still broken’ comes from a postcard that the character of Bella Baxter was to send to her father, God, from Athens. The scene was cut from the final version of the film.

The book opens with a previously unpublished poem by Patti Smith, inspired by the film.

Yorgos Lanthimos, was born in Athens, Greece. A versatile creative, in addition to directing dance and music videos, TV commercials, short films, and theatre plays, he has also photographed editorials and fashion campaigns. His breakthrough came with the film ‘Dogtooth’ (2009), earning an Un Certain Regard Prize at Cannes and an Oscar nomination. ‘The Lobster’ (2015) won a Jury Prize at Cannes and the European Film Awards. This was followed by ‘The Favourite’ (2018) which earned Olivia Colman an Oscar. His latest film, ‘Poor Things’, won Venice's Golden Lion and four Oscars. ‘Dear God, the Parthenon is still broken’ (Void) is Lanthimos' first photography monograph.

Daily inspiration. Discover more photos at Just for Books…?