#draw people off model without even realizing it but shes an exception to me because i have thoughts and ideas with her

[abimee]

i admittedly should get around to making a refference sheet for how i draw kaine cause even i get lost on my own design sometimes and have to look back on old art to see how smthn needs to be drawn at a certain angle LOL

[lividstar]

‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ㅤ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ㅤ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ㅤ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ㅤ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ㅤ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎THE CITY OF LOVE

‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ㅤ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ㅤ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ㅤ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ㅤ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ Chapter Two: Unexpected Encounters

‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ㅤ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ㅤ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ㅤ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ㅤ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ㅤ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ㅤ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ㅤ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ㅤ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ㅤ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ㅤ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ㅤ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ㅤ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ㅤ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ < previous | next >

masterpost

៚ wc: 8k (total: ???)

៚ fluff, angst, fashion designer!hongjoong x model!reader (ft. personal assistant!seonghwa & photographer!wooyoung), slowburn, strangers to lovers, soulmates au if you squint, do french people actually say bonjour irl?

៚ playlist !

៚ You were now on your fifth job hunt for the week, and even though you were hoping for it to, for once, actually turn out to be a success, indifference spreads through you as the search concludes on a dead end once again. Just as you were about to head home, a sudden surprise catches up to you, nearly out of breath.

a/n: i should probably make a taglist for this... let me know if you want to be added :D

You’ve never really realized how hard it is to go through days without losing your mind when you’re unable to write your thoughts down, which is the only way you know how to keep your mind in check. At least until now that you’re on your fifth job hunt for the week, and you’re still met with nothing but polite rejections.

You felt like you were one risky step away from going insane. First off, you had no one to confide in regarding your frustrations—Madame Dupont once tried coaxing you into opening up but you refused, not wanting to bother her, no quote unquote friend of yours from Arcadia Bay kept in check with you after you moved countries, and most importantly, you don’t want your parents to know how much you’re struggling because then that would only do nothing but taint the independent imagery of you that you want them to keep for eternity.

Your journal had always been your only companion ever since a classmate of yours back in your days as a highschool student recommended it to you as a potential way to be able to express all the emotions you’ve been bottling up—you could no longer remember his name, but you hope he’s currently living his best life, wherever he is right now.

It all began one day when you were sat in the very back of the classroom, eyes shifting back and forth between focusing and losing its firm gaze as you did everything in your power not to let the different emotions in your heart combined into a thunderstorm escape from your ribs you’ve grown to refer to as what serves as the metal bars that keep your feelings caged and away from whatever was outside your little bubble. Your ears rang in a volume so insufferable you swore blood was nearly being pulled out from the inside, and you did your very best not to lose control of your body, because then, the repetitive sounds of you rapidly bouncing your feet on the concrete floor would draw everyone’s attention.

What’s worse was you had no idea what was happening to you. You’ve never spoken past a word to any of your classmates, and the only moments they were lucky enough to hear the sound of your voice was if the teacher would conduct an eenie-meenie to choose who would answer the complex question he had written on the board and you ended up being the (un)lucky winner of his personal lottery. You never speak unless spoken to, and perhaps that was why a few of your fellow schoolmates raised suspicions about you being mute—because no one ever really bothered to talk to you.

So then, you thought you were doing an exceptional job at trying to put a faltering mask on and act like you weren’t nearly losing your mind. No one knew you well enough back then to see right through you and be able to notice if there was anything off about your usual behavior—the counselor would occasionally be your confidant, but her words barely helped with anything. You can’t blame her for only taking up the job for the paycheck, but if that’s her only purpose, she might as well be good at her job, no?

Thankfully, right when the last thin string was about to snap and let you fall down at a rapid speed, the bells rang, signaling the end of the school hours for the day. You could still remember the fear you felt when everyone around you was already packing up their things and walking towards their own separated friend groups, while you remained sat, unable to move. The way you tried to place your hands on top of your desk for support to stand up, but they wouldn’t budge off your lap as if they were glued to your skin.

You were nearly trembling in fear, yet everything seemed to have been put to a halt the moment you heard the sound of a chair being pulled towards where you sat, and a hand less than a centimeter away from landing on your tense shoulders.

You couldn’t turn your head to see who it was, but given how the person sounded, you believed it was a male classmate of yours—you knew his name back then, but now? Not anymore. He was nice enough to attempt to comfort you, but not a word was brave enough to slip out of your lips. You were sure he had no negative intentions because all you knew of this boy back then was he was one of the nicest and tolerable ones in your highschool, so it wasn’t like you weren’t responding because you didn’t like him. It was more of a matter of not knowing how to.

When he was on his third sentence and you still couldn’t muster up a response, he drew the light touch of his hand off your shoulder, and for a fleeting moment, you were afraid he had gone tired of attempting, and you left a horrible impression on him. Just then, he asked a question you don’t believe you would’ve been able to expect even right now that you’re fully grown.

“Do you have a pen and a paper with you?”

You could only respond with as much as a short nod, and much to your surprise, your hand was no longer tense when you lifted it off your lap and lightly shoved it into your bag, searching for the objects he had requested for. After half a minute, you settled a blank piece of paper on your table, preventing it from flying away by placing a pen on top of it. What he said next was even more unexpected.

“Could you try to write down how you feel right now? Only if that’s okay with you.”

You were afraid of turning your head and letting him see right through you even further, so even if there was a hint of hesitance spreading all over you, you gathered enough courage to pick up the pen and do as he said.

I don’t know what to call what I’m feeling right now. I can’t get myself to calm down, and I feel like I’m one step away from having an outburst. I don’t know what to do.

Once you finished writing your answer down, you laid the tips of your fingers down on the paper’s surface, dragging it towards your right, where he sat. He leaned in to read what you had written, and for a moment, you were half-expecting him to either laugh at you or get weirded out, but instead, you were met with the sound of an understanding hum.

“How long have you been bottling up your emotions?”

You could still vividly remember the initial shock those words sent right through the very core of your heart. It was a simple question, but it was as if he was able to see right through you—a first. You picked up the pen once more, leaning in as well without realizing your faces were only a couple inches away from each other.

Forever? I just don’t know how to let it out in a way that doesn’t make me feel weird. I was never taught how to be expressive about my emotions.

“Have you ever thought about getting yourself a journal?” was what he asked, and you responded with a mere shake of your head. A hum of understanding was heard from him once more, before he told you to stay still in your seat and wait for him. The moment he came back, there was a notebook with a vintage pattern of pink roses in his hands.

This time, your confusion was uplifted enough to fully turn your head to him. Right now, looking back at it, the memory provided a clear vision of everything except for his face—it was blurred, something you could no longer remember. But when you were in that very moment, you swear you nearly compared him to the clear view of the sunset you were granted with thanks to your seat’s position in class.

“Here. From now on, you can use this as your personal journal. When you can’t figure out what you’re feeling, or if you need to let it all out, the only thing you have to do is pull this out along with a pen, and from then on, you can start writing away. Let yourself get lost in your own world.”

You could still remember how you both found yourselves staring into each other’s eyes at least a little longer than you were supposed to, until he took it upon himself to be the one to break it first. He stood up, pulling the chair he sat himself on back to its rightful place, and began packing his things. All you could do that moment was remain in your seat, with a gaze refusing to let him go.

When he was about to leave the classroom, he turned his head back once more, sending a soft smile and a bid of farewell before heading out. Only then when you were left all by yourself did you realize everyone else had already gone home, and the whole time he was talking to you, you were both alone together.

He was the only fleeting memory of your highschool days that remains stuck with you even until now.

You stared blankly at your ceiling, letting yourself get lost in the serene calmness of the evening. Not only did you value your journal because it contained every single thought of yours that you would never consider telling a soul, but also because of the history it holds. You decided to re-customize it and turn it into a plain, pitch black over the years, but its value remains the same.

You don’t remember anything about him anymore, and your notebook was the only thing that served as a bridge between the chasm that separates both of you. It’s funny, because you doubt that moment was anything but a normal occurence to him. If only he knew he was the one who did the kickstart to your changes in life. Sighing, you closed your eyes, with the hope that your job search will finally come to a successful conclusion tomorrow.

Meanwhile, on the other side of Paris, the city was still young—full of life and vibrantly shining, a stark contrast to the quiet night sky above. There in a restaurant sat Seonghwa across Hongjoong, who had completely lost himself in sketching designs on a new notebook he bought just a day ago.

“You’re really serious about starting all over again with your designs?” Seonghwa tilted his head, leaning forward to see what Hongjoong was working on, only for him to get told off.

“Do I look like I have any other choice? It’s been nearly a week, Seonghwa. We’ve tried everything we can to look for it. Even the café’s workers weren’t able to provide helpful insight,” Hongjoong said, brows furrowed in focus and precision as he tried to come up with new designs.

Seonghwa leaned back, crossing his arms. “Has it ever crossed your mind that I took you here because I wanted you to take a break from your work, and not to make you stress over your work even more?”

“A break can wait. Fashion week can’t. I’ll be fine,” Hongjoong brushed Seonghwa off. After five seconds of Seonghwa not responding, Hongjoong sighed in defeat, closing his notebook and turning his attention back to the man who sat across the table. “Look, why don’t you just let me be, and I’ll give you all the time in the world to look for the girl you saw at the bus stop?”

“Why don’t you give yourself all the time in the world to take a break just once?”

Hongjoong slumped his shoulders, hunched over in his seat. “I get that you care about my well-being, but I really don’t have time for that right now.”

“You never have time for a break, Hongjoong,” Seonghwa countered, taking the notebook from Hongjoong before he could react. Opening it, he was met with exactly what he expected—a blank page with blurry lines from erasure. “See? You can’t use your imagination to its fullest if your mind’s a total mess.”

“Thanks for stating the obvious,” Hongjoong muttered, avoiding Seonghwa’s gaze. “You know how much that sketchbook means to me, Seonghwa.”

Seonghwa ran his fingers through his hair. “I know. I know that very well, Hongjoong. But that’s not the point. If you’re planning on settling on making new designs until you get your sketchbook back, then you have to at least clear your mind first so you’ll actually be able to come up with ideas.”

“And how do you suggest I do that?” Hongjoong asked, tilting his head to the side.

“Take a stroll around the city, maybe? It’s a good way to unwind,” Seonghwa suggested, shrugging his shoulders. “A recommendable time period to do that is during the hours of dusk till dawn.”

“Like… all by myself?” Hongjoong said, confused. “You’re saying all I have to do is walk around the city alone late at night, and it’ll magically lift my frustration off of me? Is there a hidden ulterior motive behind this?”

“If I wanted you dead, I would’ve already taken action upon it years ago, Hongjoong.” Seonghwa rolled his eyes. “And no, going alone isn’t necessary. You could always, you know… look for a companion—”

“I let you have your moment to convince me into taking a break and the next thing I know is you’re taking advantage of it by trying to bring up my relationship status,” Hongjoong cut him off, groaning in frustration.

“Oh, come on, you can’t keep being like that forever!” Seonghwa threw his hands up in the air. “You’re less than 10 years away from reaching your 30’s and you’re still insisting on being single?”

“Don’t look at me like that. You know why I prefer things to stay this way,” Hongjoong mumbled, gazing outside the window, a look of sorrow starting to form in his eyes.

Seonghwa sighed. “Look, I know you’re still hung up on her, but it’s been years, Hongjoong. She’s not coming back. You need to move on, you know…?”

“Easier said than done, Seonghwa.”

“What happened to her, anyway?” Seonghwa asked, his tone growing softer. “You never told me much about it.”

“I don’t know. It was like she was there, then the next moment, she wasn’t. She disappeared without a trace, without a word, not even a call, a letter—nothing. It was like she was nothing but a fleeting dream,” Hongjoong recalled, the pain in his tone evident.

Seonghwa pursed his lips, feeling guilty for bringing the situation up. Hongjoong was quick to notice, though, making him wave Seonghwa off. “Don’t feel bad for asking about it.”

Silence engulfed both of them, less of the awkward kind and more melancholic. After what felt like an eternity, Seonghwa finally spoke up, steering the conversation back into the main topic.

“I know you can’t bring yourself to be on the same page as I am, but trust me, taking a stroll works really well. I’ve done it a lot of times already.” Seonghwa leaned forward, trying to persuade Hongjoong. “Try it out sometime? It’s totally fine if you want to do it alone, of course.”

Hongjoong sighed in defeat. “Fine, I’ll try if I have time. If it turns out to be a huge failure, I’m no longer bringing myself to trust your words.”

“No need to threaten me. I can already tell it’ll turn out well.”

—

The sound of the birds singing their melodies as they sat by the tree in front of your window made your eyes flutter open, yet they closed shut just as quick the moment you turned over and nearly got blinded by the thin ray of sunlight passing through the tiny gap between your curtains. You rubbed your eyes, taking a moment before opening them once more. Once you were certain you were fully conscious, you sat up, stretching your arms after leaning back on your headboard. You looked at the digital clock you had placed on your bedside table, and it read: 8:01 AM. You sighed softly.

Another day for a job hunt with a 0.1% chance of ending on a good note.

You pulled the blankets draped over your figure off, letting your feet land softly on the floor as you stood up, this time stretching your entire body. You turned back to your bed, tidying it up before anything else. Once you were satisfied with the outcome, you made your way towards the bathroom, taking a minute to let your appearance sink in. There were light bags under your eyes, and you’re certain it wouldn’t take a stranger more than a single look to notice how tired you look. Sighing, you stepped inside the shower and took your clothes off, letting yourself melt away along with the warm drops of water that slid down on the surface of your skin.

After a thorough and refreshing shower, you dry off and wrap yourself in a soft, fluffy towel. The warmth of the shower water lingers on your skin, a small comfort in the face of the day's impending challenges. You take a moment to pamper yourself, applying a light moisturizer to keep your skin feeling smooth and hydrated. With each methodical step, you focus on maintaining a sense of calmness, trying to stave off the creeping anxiety of another potentially fruitless day.

Next, you move to your bedroom and open the closet. The selection is limited, a reflection of your dwindling budget, but you choose an outfit that makes you feel both comfortable and confident. You pull out a soft, cream-colored blouse made of a lightweight, breathable fabric. The blouse has delicate lace trim along the cuffs and neckline, giving it a touch of elegance. You pair it with a light, flowing skirt in a pastel floral pattern that falls just below your knees that sways gently with each movement.

You complete the ensemble with a pair of simple ballet flats in a matching cream shade. They are worn but still manage to look stylish, providing the comfort needed for a day spent navigating the streets of Paris. As a final touch, you choose a dainty gold necklace with a small pendant that rests gently against your collarbone, a gift from your grandmother that always brings you a sense of comfort and connection to home.

Standing before the mirror, you take a moment to brush your hair, allowing it to fall naturally around your shoulders. You apply a light touch of makeup—just enough to brighten your features and hide the evidence of your restless nights. Once you’re done, you give yourself a final, encouraging smile in the mirror, hoping that today will bring better luck.

Once dressed and ready, you head to the kitchen to make breakfast. Opening the cupboard, you’re greeted by the sight of only three cups of ramen left, a stark reminder of your dire financial situation. Your stomach twists with a mix of hunger and anxiety as you consider your options. You can’t keep surviving on instant noodles; you need to find a job soon, or you’ll risk running out of even the most basic supplies.

You take one of the cups of ramen and prepare it, boiling water and pouring it into the cup. As you wait for the noodles to soften, you lean against the counter, staring out of the small window above the sink. The morning light filters in, casting a soft glow over the modest kitchen. Despite the beauty of the Parisian morning, you can’t help but feel like the anchor of your struggles is weighing you down.

With breakfast ready, you sit at the small table in the corner of your kitchen. The steam rises from the cup of ramen, and you take a moment to appreciate the warmth it brings. As you eat, you let your mind wander, thinking about the places you’ll visit today in your job search, the people you’ll meet, and the potential opportunities that might arise.

Once you finish eating and begin cleaning up the dining table, a thought strikes you: the memory of the foreign, fancier part of the city you accidentally stumbled upon on your first day of job hunting. You hadn’t fully explored it, and given its apparent high status, it seemed like a promising place to search for employment. The only problem was you didn’t remember exactly how you got there.

Determined to try your luck, you step out of your apartment and begin your journey. Just as you reach the end of the hallway, you cross paths with Madame Dupont. Her kind eyes light up when she sees you, and she greets you with a warm smile.

“Bonjour, my dear! How is the job search going?” she asks, her voice filled with genuine concern.

You return her smile, doing your best to maintain a positive facade. “Bonjour, Madame Dupont. It’s been challenging, but I’m not giving up. Actually, I was planning to head to a specific part of the city today, but I’m not sure how to get there. I only stumbled upon it by accident the first time.”

Madame Dupont raises an eyebrow, intrigued. “Oh? Can you describe it for me?”

You nod, taking a moment to recall the details. “It’s a very elegant area, with wide streets lined with high-end boutiques and cafes. The buildings are all beautifully maintained, with ornate facades and large windows. There’s a small park with a fountain in the center, and I remember seeing people dressed quite fashionably, as if it’s a place frequented by those of a higher status.”

Madame Dupont’s face brightens with recognition. “Ah, I know exactly where you mean! That’s the Rue de la Paix district. It’s indeed a very prestigious part of the city. To get there, you’ll want to take the metro to the Opéra station, then it’s just a short walk down the avenue. You can’t miss it.”

Relief floods through you, and you offer her a grateful smile. “Thank you so much, Madame Dupont. That really means a lot.”

She pats your arm gently. “Of course, my dear. I’m sure you’ll find something today. Good luck, and don’t hesitate to reach out if you need anything.”

With renewed determination, you bid her farewell and make your way to the metro station. Following Madame Dupont’s directions, you navigate the bustling underground system with ease, boarding the train that will take you to the Opéra station. As the train glides through the city, you allow yourself to relax, the rhythmic clattering of the wheels providing a calming backdrop to your thoughts.

When the train pulls into the Opéra station, you step off and follow the signs to the exit. Emerging onto the street, you’re greeted by the sight of the magnificent Palais Garnier opera house, its grand architecture a stunning example of the city’s rich cultural heritage. You take a moment to admire the building before setting off down the avenue as Madame Dupont instructed.

The walk to Rue de la Paix is short and pleasant. The wide boulevard is lined with luxurious boutiques and elegant cafes, just as you remembered. The buildings are indeed beautifully maintained, with their ornate facades and large windows creating an air of sophistication and wealth. The small park with its charming fountain serves as a tranquil oasis amidst the streets.

As you take in the sights and sounds of the district, you can’t help but feel a sense of optimism. The people here are well-dressed and exude an aura of confidence and success. If you could manage to land a job in this area, it would undoubtedly open many doors for you.

With this thought in mind, you begin your search. You walk into several boutiques and cafes, inquiring about job openings and handing out your resume. Each rejection stings a little less, fueled by the hope that this district holds the key to your future success. You remind yourself to keep pushing forward, knowing that persistence is your greatest ally in this journey.

Well, even if you had your hopes up high, it’s still just as you expected.

Hours passed, and the sun was now setting, casting a golden hue over the picturesque streets of Rue de la Paix. You decided to head to the small park you’d come across earlier, seeking solace in its tranquil atmosphere. Finding an empty bench, you sat down, setting your resume on your lap and letting out a heavy sigh.

The weight of the day was heavy, and despite your determination, a sense of defeat began to creep in. As the sun dipped lower, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink, you reflected on the countless rejections you had faced today. Your heart ached with a familiar loneliness, a gnawing feeling that perhaps you were out of place in this glamorous part of the city. Each boutique and cafe you’d walked into had left you with a bittersweet taste of missed opportunities and the distant dream of success.

You couldn’t help but feel a little envious of the people around you, who seemed to glide effortlessly through their days, basking in the luxury and elegance of their surroundings. Your mind wandered back to the comfort of your journal, the one thing that had always been a steady companion through your struggles. But even that solace was out of reach now, leaving you feeling more vulnerable than ever.

Your thoughts spiraled, questioning your decision to move to Paris, to leave behind the familiarity of Arcadia Bay for a city that seemed to hold endless challenges. Doubts began to creep in, whispering that perhaps you weren’t cut out for this life, that the independent image you wanted to maintain for your parents was slipping through your fingers.

You sighed in defeat, thinking that maybe today wasn’t your luckiest day. Standing up, you were about to leave the park and head back to your apartment when you heard rapid footsteps behind you.

“Wait!”

You turned your head around, met with the sight of a seemingly familiar-looking man—the one you saw on the other side of the road the day you accidentally stumbled upon this area of Paris. You raised both your eyebrows, waiting for him to draw nearer to see if he was referring to you when he said to wait. When he was finally standing in front of you, catching his breath, your suspicions were confirmed.

“Sorry, I just—” he managed to say between ragged breaths, a hand on his heart as he tried to settle himself down. Looking at him blankly, you took out a bottle of water from your bag and handed it to him. He looked at you with both surprise and confusion.

“I think you need it,” you said, your voice calm and warm despite the exhaustion you felt.

He nodded, taking the bottle gratefully. “Thank you,” he said before chugging the water and then throwing the empty bottle in a nearby bin. He turned back to you, a mixture of relief and curiosity in his eyes. “Thanks again. I didn’t expect to run into you here.”

You offered him a small smile. “It’s no problem. But… what do you mean? Do we know each other?”

He chuckled softly, running a hand through his hair. “Not exactly. I saw you the other day, across the road. I work around here, and I’ve been meaning to approach you. I’m Seonghwa, by the way.”

You smiled, your curiosity piqued. “Nice to meet you, Seonghwa. What made you want to approach me?”

Seonghwa’s expression turned serious, though his demeanor remained friendly. “I’m a talent scout, specifically for models. I work with a fashion designer who’s always on the lookout for fresh faces. When I saw you, something about you stood out. You have a unique presence that I think could really shine in the industry.”

You blinked, taken aback by his words. “Oh, a model? I’ve never thought about that before…”

He smiled, sensing your hesitation. “I understand it might be a lot to take in, but I really believe you have potential. We’re actually holding an open casting soon, and I’d love for you to come by and give it a shot. No pressure, of course.”

You looked down, considering his words. It seemed like an unexpected opportunity, something that could change the course of your current struggle. “I appreciate the offer. It’s just… I’m not sure if I’m cut out for that world.”

Seonghwa nodded, his gaze reassuring. “I get it. But sometimes, the best opportunities come from stepping out of our comfort zones. You never know until you try.”

His words resonated with you, and you found yourself nodding slowly. “Alright, I’ll think about it. Thank you for the offer, Seonghwa.”

He smiled warmly. “That’s all I can ask. Here’s my card. Feel free to reach out if you have any questions or if you decide to give it a go.”

Seonghwa’s gaze was warm and sincere as he continued, shifting the conversation into something more casual. “Are you new here?”

You smiled, sheepishly rubbing the back of your neck. “Was it that obvious?”

Seonghwa waved you off. “No, no, that’s not what I meant. I just haven’t seen you around before. When did you arrive here, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“Just a week ago. I’ve been on a job hunt since then, so that’s why I went to this part of the city,” you explained. “I’m still trying to get comfortable with my surroundings, though.”

He nodded in understanding. “Paris can be pretty overwhelming. I remember feeling lost when I first moved here. But sometimes, it’s the unplanned encounters that make the journey worthwhile.”

You smiled, appreciating his attempt to make you feel at ease. “Yeah, it’s definitely been an adjustment. Every corner of this city feels like it has a story, and I’m just trying to find my place in it.”

Seonghwa tucked a stray strand of his hair behind his ear, his posture relaxed. “It’s a process, but you’ll get there. You seem like someone who’s determined and resourceful. That’s half the battle won already.”

His words were reassuring, and you felt a small smile forming on your lips. “Thanks. That means a lot. I guess I just need to keep pushing forward.”

He nodded. “Exactly. And about the modeling—no need to decide right away. Take your time. If it’s something you’re curious about, just give me a call. Sometimes, the most unexpected paths can lead to the most rewarding experiences.”

You looked at him, feeling a genuine connection. “I’ll definitely think about it.”

As you both stood there, the park’s tranquility wrapping around you, it felt like the beginning of something new. You realized that while today hadn’t gone as planned, it had led to an encounter that could open doors you hadn’t even considered.

“Take care,” Seonghwa said, giving you a final nod before turning to leave.

“You too,” you replied, watching him walk away, feeling a newfound sense of possibility.

As you made your way back to your apartment, you retraced the path you had taken to Rue de la Paix, feeling a mix of exhaustion and a glimmer of hope. The bustling streets began to quiet down as the day transitioned into evening, the soft hum of the city’s nightlife starting to emerge. You navigated the narrow alleys and charming boulevards, the flickering streetlights casting long shadows on the cobblestones.

The route took you past the quaint cafes where locals and tourists alike were enjoying their evening meals, and through the elegant shopping district, now closing down for the night. You glanced at the beautifully dressed windows, a reminder of the world you were trying to break into. With each step, you felt the day’s events replaying in your mind, from the polite rejections to the unexpected encounter with Seonghwa.

Finally, you turned the corner onto your street, the familiar sight of your apartment building coming into view. As you approached, you noticed Madame Dupont standing outside, engaged in a lively conversation with another tenant. Her presence was a comforting constant in your new life here.

When she saw you, Madame Dupont’s face lit up with a warm smile. “Was it a success?” she asked, her voice filled with genuine curiosity and concern.

You looked down at the business card in your hands, a soft smile playing on your lips. “Guess we have yet to find out, Madame Dupont.”

With a nod and a reassuring smile from her, you made your way inside, feeling a sense of cautious optimism about what tomorrow might bring.

Seonghwa then arrives at Hongjoong’s penthouse, and as he steps inside, the luxurious space contrasts starkly with the simple park where he met you earlier.

Hongjoong, who had been lounging in his living room with a book, looked up, his expression a mix of curiosity and mild irritation. “Care to tell me how good this news you have for me is? Just so that I know my alone time was interrupted for a good cause.”

Seonghwa grinned, the excitement clear in his eyes. “Oh, definitely worth it. You’re going to want to hear this.” He took a seat opposite Hongjoong and began to recount the entire encounter.

“So, remember the girl I told you about? I was at the park today when I saw her. She wasn’t just sitting there, she was actually about to leave. I noticed her standing up from one of the benches, looking like she was about to head home. I couldn’t let the chance slip by, so I ran towards her, calling out for her to wait.”

Hongjoong raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “You… ran? Like, ran after her?” he said, mildly appalled.

Seonghwa nodded, a bit sheepishly. “Uh, yeah. I mean, I must have looked a bit crazy, but I didn’t want to miss the opportunity. When she turned around, she looked a bit surprised, but there was this unique energy she held with her when I finally got to stand face to face with her. She has this presence—warm but with a sort of quiet strength. It’s hard to describe, like it’s something you’re either bound to feel or not.”

Hongjoong leaned forward, listening intently. “So? What did you say to her?”

Seonghwa smiled, remembering the encounter vividly. “I was a bit out of breath when I reached her, so the first thing she did was hand me a bottle of water from her bag. It was such a small gesture, but it felt genuine. I thanked her and explained who I was, and why I had run after her.”

He continued. “She was polite, a bit reserved, but there was this genuine interest in her eyes. She wasn’t trying to impress anyone; she was just herself. We chatted a bit about how she ended up in this part of the city. She told me about her struggles finding a job, and how she had hoped to find something in Rue de la Paix.”

Hongjoong nodded slowly, taking in Seonghwa’s words. “So she is new. What was your first impression of her?”

“Up close, she’s even more striking—there’s something about her eyes, they’re so expressive. She has this natural elegance that I think would be perfect for our brand. Despite her situation, she seemed hopeful, determined. She has this warmth about her that I think would resonate well with people.”

Hongjoong, though still skeptical, was intrigued. “Did you manage to get her name?”

Seonghwa winced slightly. “Oh. Well, no, unfortunately. But I did give her my card, and I tried to persuade her to consider coming to our casting. I think I made a good impression. She seemed interested, even if she was a bit unsure. I’m positive she’ll consider it.”

Hongjoong sighed, still not entirely convinced but trusting Seonghwa’s judgment. “Alright, I’ll take your word for it. But next time, try to get a name.”

Seonghwa smiled, relieved. “Will do. I really think she could be the fresh face we’ve been looking for.”

You, on the other hand, had lost count of how many times you had rolled around in bed. Sleep eluded you, and it felt strange because usually, it was easy for you to get tired and your body would yearn for moments of slumber. Sighing, you opened your eyes and sat up, leaning against the headboard. Reaching over to the bedside table, you grabbed your phone, the bright light nearly blinding you. Squinting, you quickly lowered the brightness to the lowest level.

Once the glare was manageable, you found yourself staring blankly at your lockscreen—a photo of Arcadia Bay’s lighthouse. You had taken the picture on the day you got fired from your job at a diner because the owner found out you were the one secretly eating the ingredients. It had been a horrible day—not because you lost yet another job, but because you really liked the way their potatoes tasted. You remembered walking home with your shoulders hunched over, feeling dejected. But then, the lighthouse came into view, perfectly highlighted by the golden hour. You couldn’t resist capturing the serene moment, and it became your lockscreen ever since. Maybe someday, once you’re properly settled, it would be replaced by a photo of the Eiffel Tower lit up at night.

Snapping out of your reverie, you unlocked your phone and began browsing the internet to pass the time. You scrolled through social media, coming across a variety of random posts and videos. There were adorable clips of cats doing silly things, travel vlogs showcasing beautiful destinations, and motivational quotes superimposed on scenic backgrounds. You watched a video of a chef demonstrating how to make a perfect soufflé, then moved on to a compilation of the vertigo effect being used in movie scenes.

As you continued your aimless scrolling, an article title caught your eye: ”Ever wondered why you can’t sleep at night?” Intrigued, you clicked on the link. The article opened with a brief introduction about how common sleep troubles are and how they can be influenced by various factors. It discussed the usual suspects: stress, diet, lack of exercise, and an irregular sleep schedule.

You found yourself nodding along as you read, thinking about how some of these reasons might apply to you. The article elaborated on how stress from major life changes, like moving to a new city and job hunting, could wreak havoc on your sleep patterns. It mentioned how certain foods, especially those high in sugar or caffeine, could make it harder to fall asleep.

The next section delved into the impact of screen time. The article explained that exposure to blue light from phones, tablets, and computers could interfere with your body’s natural circadian rhythm. Blue light suppresses the production of melatonin, the hormone that regulates sleep, making it harder for you to fall asleep at a reasonable hour. You glanced at your phone, feeling a twinge of guilt but continued reading.

The article also touched on the importance of creating a comfortable sleeping environment. It emphasized the need for a cool, dark, and quiet room to foster better sleep. It suggested using blackout curtains, earplugs, or a white noise machine to eliminate distractions. You made a mental note to consider some of these adjustments, thinking about how you could improve your current setup.

Then, as you scrolled deeper into the article, you reached a section that listed possible reasons for not being able to sleep at night. The usual reasons were there: too much screen time before bed, an uncomfortable sleeping environment, underlying health issues, and more. But it was the last reason that truly caught your attention: “Someone may be thinking of you.”

Intrigued, you read further. The article explained that some people believe in the concept of a psychic connection, where thoughts and feelings can be transferred between individuals, especially those who share a close bond. It suggested that if someone is thinking intensely about you, it could create an energetic disturbance that might affect your sleep.

The article elaborated further: “This idea, although seemingly far-fetched to many, has roots in various cultural and spiritual beliefs. The notion is that when someone thinks about you intensely, their mental energy can reach out across distances, subtly impacting your own energy field. This might manifest as restlessness, sudden thoughts of the person, or difficulty in falling asleep.”

You couldn’t help but wonder if there was any truth to this. The article continued to delve into anecdotal evidence and testimonials from people who claimed to have experienced this phenomenon. There were stories of individuals who felt a sudden, unexplainable urge to contact someone, only to find out that the person had been thinking of them at that very moment. Other accounts described how people would dream of someone they hadn’t seen in years, only to receive a message from that person the next day.

The article suggested that this psychic connection could be stronger between people who share a deep emotional bond, such as family members, close friends, or romantic partners. It posited that these connections might be more prevalent during times of emotional intensity or major life changes, when thoughts and feelings are more powerful and focused.

As you pondered this notion, you thought back to the day’s events and the unexpected encounter with Seonghwa. Could it be possible that his thoughts were reaching out to you in some way? The article mentioned that sometimes, when someone is intensely focused on you, their thoughts could reach you, creating a sense of connection or unease. You considered the possibility that Seonghwa’s genuine interest and focus on you might be the reason for your restlessness. Or was it caused by an entirely different person?

Nevertheless, since you were already thinking of Seonghwa, your mind eventually drifted to the card he had given you. You reached over to your bedside table and picked it up, turning it over in your hands. The simple, elegant card had Seonghwa’s name and phone number neatly printed. You traced the embossed letters with your thumb, feeling a mix of excitement and anxiety.

You thought back to your encounter with Seonghwa in the park. The way he had approached you, breathless and earnest, was still vivid in your mind. His genuine interest in you had been flattering, but also overwhelming. You had never seriously considered a career in fashion or modeling before. Sure, you had dabbled in amateur photography and enjoyed dressing up for special occasions solely for the fun it provides, but could you really make a living out of it?

Your thoughts spiraled as you weighed the pros and cons. On one hand, Seonghwa seemed convinced that you had the potential to succeed. His confidence was infectious, and you couldn't help but feel a flicker of hope. A career in fashion could bring about the major change you had always longed for. It would be a chance to reinvent yourself, to step out of the shadow of your past failures and truly shine.

The prospect of entering the world of fashion was incredibly appealing. You had always admired the creativity and artistry behind it. Being a part of this vibrant industry could open doors you had never even dreamed of. The connections, the experiences, the opportunity to travel and meet new people—it was all so enticing.

But then, doubts began to creep in. What if you weren’t cut out for the world of fashion? It was a fiercely competitive industry, and you had no formal training or experience. You imagined the rigorous casting calls, the endless critiques, and the constant pressure to maintain a certain image. Could you handle that kind of scrutiny? You had always been more comfortable blending into the background, avoiding the spotlight. Modeling would require you to be confident, outgoing, and resilient—all traits you weren’t sure you possessed.

You also considered the practicalities. How would you balance a demanding career with your other responsibilities? Would you have enough time and energy to devote to your passion projects and personal life? The thought of juggling multiple commitments was daunting.

There was also the fear of failure. What if you took the plunge and it didn’t work out? The fashion industry was notorious for its fickleness. One moment you could be in demand, and the next, forgotten. You had already experienced your fair share of setbacks and disappointments. Could you handle another one? The idea of putting yourself out there, only to be rejected, was terrifying.

As you pondered these questions, your mind drifted to the potential impact on your personal life. Moving to Paris had been a major step in seeking a fresh start. You had hoped to leave behind the suffocating familiarity of your hometown and create new memories. But diving into the fashion world might mean sacrificing some of the simplicity and tranquility you had been seeking.

On the other hand, this opportunity could be the very change you needed. It might be the catalyst that propels you toward a brighter future. You had always believed in taking risks and embracing new experiences. Maybe this was your chance to prove to yourself that you were capable of more than you ever imagined.

You thought about the kind of person you wanted to become. You envisioned yourself walking down the streets of Paris with confidence, attending glamorous events, and working on creative projects that inspired you. This was your chance to step out of your comfort zone and embrace a new chapter.

You also considered the people you might meet along the way. Fashion was a dynamic and diverse industry, filled with individuals from all walks of life. You could form connections with like-minded creatives, learn from seasoned professionals, and perhaps even find a mentor who could guide you on your journey.

Yet there was the reality of the unknown. Despite Seonghwa’s assurance, there was no guarantee that you would succeed. The fashion world was unpredictable, and you had to be prepared for the highs and lows. You wondered if you had the resilience to bounce back from setbacks and keep pushing forward.

But then you remember that you’ve been on your fifth job hunt for the week now and you’re still empty-handed. You can’t let yourself stay like this any longer—unless you want to starve and survive on ramen noodles for the rest of your life. Sure, you could ring up your parents if you were ever to come to that point, but that would defeat the whole purpose of proving to them that you’re brave enough to handle yourself, right? You wanted to show them, and yourself, that you could make it on your own in this new city. This was supposed to be your fresh start, your chance to reinvent yourself and find success on your own terms.

You sighed, feeling the weight of your situation. How long could you continue like this, barely scraping by, constantly worrying about where your next meal would come from or if you’d be able to pay rent next month? The thought of another week of rejections was almost too much to bear. You needed something to change, something big, something that would turn your luck around.

With a deep breath, you opened your phone once more, staring at the number written on Seonghwa’s card. The decision felt monumental, as if this single call could be the turning point you desperately needed. After a moment of hesitation, you dialed the number. It rang once, twice, three times. Just as you were about to hang up, a groggy voice answered, “Hello?” You felt a pang of guilt, realizing you may have woken him up.

But you couldn’t back down now. This was too important. Gathering your courage, you spoke, “Hi, Seonghwa? It’s me—the girl from Rue de la Paix. I’m sorry for calling so late, but... could you tell me more about the casting?”

🪞 — lividstar.

[miraculouscontent]

ML au I thought of while bored at work I think you'll enjoy:

Toward the end of the school year preceding the one Origins started, Marinette befriends Juleka, and ends up spending a good portion of the summer hanging out with her, and by extension, Luka. Over the summer Luka and Marinette develop feelings for each other, and by the time Origins comes around Marinette is planning on asking Luka out, making a gift for him and hyping herself up to finally ask him when they hang out after the first day of school. Everything goes similar to cannon, with the exception of the gift Marinette made getting damaged during the first Stone heart attack (it gets fixed when she uses the Miracle Cure the first time). There might also be a change where she considers Luka as the best choice to be the Ladybug Miraculous holder, but things still play out in a way that she chooses to be Ladybug. The end is where things get much more cannon divergent, with the Umbrella Scene being replaced by Marinette, brimming with confidence and maybe a bit of left over adrenaline after telling off a super villain and being an awesome superhero, takes off, running through the rain to get to the Liberty, and we get a cute scene of Marinette asking Luka out, and finding out Luka was also planning on asking her out and wrote a song for her.

So we just get Lukanette being the adorable couple they are for the whole series. Also, I just realized that skipping the whole Umbrella Scene means Adrien never gets to clear the air with Marinette about the gum incident, so she's probably won't be very friendly with him for a while.

YES YES YES.

ALL OF MY YES!!!

And if I may add to this (hopefully you don’t mind!), imagine that Marinette befriending Juleka was because of the picture in “Reflekta;” the one from a previous year where Juleka and Marinette (who had a bun and blue capris at the time) shared a class.

Marinette approaches Juleka later in that same week before class, a little shy and holding something in her hands. Juleka looks over Marinette, a little put off (this is Chloe’s main target after all; she’s not sure she wants to be involved with her), but then Marinette lowers what she’s holding for Juleka to see.

Juleka’s eyes widen.

“Um,” Marinette begins, “I know it’s not much, but I saw that Max’s hand blocked your face in the class photo, so I took a copy and edited it so your face was showing.” When Juleka doesn’t immediately respond, she gets nervous and stammers, “S-sorry if it’s kind of weird. I mean--I don’t know you and you don’t know me, but I still knew your face because you’re really pretty and do you model at all because--please say something so I can stop talking--”

“Thank you,” Juleka cuts in, her voice still quiet but also very genuine.

Marinette blinks, surprised; people usually have to strain their ears to understand Juleka, who is known for mumbling, but her voice could apparently be incredibly clear when she wanted it to be. “Y...you’re welcome.”

“Can I... have it...?“ Juleka asks, a bit hesitantly, her hand reaching for the picture like it’d burst into flames if she touched it.

“Huh? O-oh yeah! of course! I did it for you, so--” Marinette quickly hands it over.

Juleka takes it and stares at it, truly able to appreciate her appearance without needing a mirror flipping her look. She even moves her bangs aside with her free hand, wanting to appreciate it with both eyes.

“...It’s good,” she says, a bit awkwardly but she means it. “Um... you do this a lot?”

“Ah--” Marinette blushes. “Yeah, sort of? It’s uh--just a hobby though. I really like designing so I do all sorts of art and--”

She starts rambling a bit, but that’s fine because Juleka needs a moment to gather her thoughts. She feels lame for getting so emotional over a picture but she’s just so happy. Sure, it’s not “real” but it looks real and it’s the closest thing she’s ever gotten to a successful picture.

“...Can I see?” she finally manages to ask, letting her bangs drop back down.

Marinette stops talking, hearing what she said but not registering. “What?”

“Your designs,” she mumbles as she shifts awkwardly in place, feeling a little shyer now and internally panicking at having put herself out there.

In an instant, Marinette’s eyes light up. “Y...yeah, yeah! Definitely! I--” She covers her mouth and looks around sheepishly, realizing how loud she’s being. Quieting down, she hurriedly adds, “M-maybe after class? It’s starting soon, but we could meet after--if that’s okay--”

“Yeah,” Juleka replies, her eyes drawing back to the picture. Then, more confidently, she repeats, “Yeah.”

[tobesobri]

Bust | Part One: Chisel (7.8k)

“Disappointed?” She tilted her head, smirking at him. She had no right to think he liked her better than Rose. She, herself, liked Rose better too. So she was sure he had to be at least a little bit sad to see Rose missing.

He smiled and the second she saw those dimples she was reminded of his Instagram all over again.

“A little,” he nodded, pinching his thumb and index finger together in the air and she painfully agreed.

“Well, you get me all by myself tonight.” She didn’t realize how it sounded until it was too late. Until she was cringing at all the sexual insinuations she’d just made for absolutely no reason. She could have said something else that wasn’t laced in an innuendo. But no, of course not. She had to continue her embarrassing streak when it came to Harry.

Instead of being creeped out by her, however, and pulling a confused and slightly terrified face, he laughed. And, on God, his laugh was the most amazing thing she’d ever heard. This wasn’t the first time the sound of his laughter graced her eardrums, but it was the first time he was laughing because of something she said that wasn’t about crooked penises.

“Lucky me.”

In which Y/N is an annoyance in Harry’s sculpting class.

story masterlist | my masterlist

It’s not her forte. Her hands don’t know how to hold onto things. They tremble under pressure. They mess things up no matter how hard she tries.

Not that she had really tried very hard to begin with.

Sculpting was just not something she saw herself doing. Ever. Not with her lack of agility and poor attention to detail. But to appease her whining best friend… she’d do just about anything.

The class was held in a little art studio with large windows for ventilation and tall ceilings to display the mass amounts of student artwork on butcher block shelves. She never thought she’d be back in a classroom type setting after graduating college, but here she was.

Learning, what she proclaimed as, a useless skill.

The studio was smack dab in the middle of an inclined street. Little quaint buildings that sat on an angle because why not pour foundations on a hill and make her weekly walks to the studio a little sweatier than she would have preferred. Even if it was winter in their little beach village town. Sweat still happened. It just happened underneath a scarf and a hand-knitted beanie from the sewing shop next door.

She could not deny, however, that the late afternoon classes every Wednesday and Saturday brought her way more joy than she’d anticipated. She looked forward to meeting up with Rose at the bottom-of-the-hill cafe, sharing the daily special with her before making their way up to the studio. It was calm in the middle and end of her hectic weeks that she most definitely needed.

What she didn’t need, however, what she most certainly did not look forward to, what she could have done without, what took her joy and smashed it against a wall was him.

The instructor.

Harry ‘I have nice hands and a misleading smile’ Styles.

It had only been two weeks into their classes and he had already told her one of her bowls was garbage. That the way she sculpted a face was terrifying. That she couldn’t draw for shit and that made her attempts at sculpting even worse.

So by Saturday of their second week, she didn't care anymore. He was a jerk and she would be the best pain in his ass she knew how to be.

While everyone called him Harry, like he’d asked them to the very first day, she called him Mr. Styles. Just to see the way his eyes rolled back into his head and his nostrils flared. While everyone asked him insightful questions, like what glaze was best to use or what tool sculpted eyes most efficiently, she asked him if she could use the bathroom.

She got a fucking kick out of irritating him. Knowing he went home after their classes just as irritated as she’d been. With clenched fists and a pounding headache.

It helped that he was insanely too attractive to be teaching a bunch of millennials about sculpting in his free time.

“You should really leave him alone, he might kick us out, you know,” Rose said on their first third week walk up Justice Hill. There was no justice in walking uphill, and most fucking certainly not in the humidity-ridden beachside town. She found the street name personally offensive.

“Oh fuck him. If he kicks us out, he’ll have to refund us.” Y/N did not, even for a second, bother to lower her voice as they neared the studio, knowing any one of the other students could hear her if they were to walk by.

“Refund us what? We got the class for free, remember?”

Y/N racked her brain like she’d completely forgotten that little detail before shrugging it off. “Whatever. He won’t kick us out.”

“How do you know for sure?”

Before she could make some stupid remark about how Harry secretly liked her pestering him or about how much he seemed much too impressed by Rose’s progress to ever get rid of them, the devil himself turned the corner in front of them.

He came out from an alleyway that connected the street to a tiny parking lot. And while they were going uphill, he was coming down. He was hard to miss and so were they, but still he attempted to not see them.

“What a prick,” Y/N mumbled under her breath as they got closer to each other. And almost as if he could read her lips, he rolled his eyes so fucking hard she thought maybe they’d finally pop right out of his head this time.

“Shush,” Rose warned as the three of them finally met in the middle, at the door to the studio that was decorated with a bright yellow ‘Open’ sign, children’s drawings, hand-painted hours of operation, and one too many polaroids of past students and their sculpting creations.

They all stood and stared at each other for a moment before he opened the door first, holding it as, to Y/N’s surprise, he let them go in first. And while she was still in shock at the gesture, his body language said it all. Like he was forcing himself to be nice to the dynamic duo, to the bane of his existence. While she was too distracted by Harry and his clay-stained trousers and cable-knit sweater with a cartoon deer embroidered on it, Rose walked into the studio first. Giving Harry a polite smile that he returned almost… genuinely.

And right when Y/N made a move to follow, Harry stepped in front of her. She jolted back as he just about let the door slam her in the face.

Today was going to be fantastic.

*                                              *                                 *

“Right, so,” Harry began, clapping his dry hands together as he took a seat behind his messy table at the front of the studio. “I know some of you haven’t finished your heads yet, but our focus today will still be on the bodies. We’ll have a catch up on Saturday to make up for it.”

Y/N sought out her head on the wall where she’d placed it last week beside Rose’s, realizing for the first time just how ugly it really was. And to think she’d been trying to sculpt Harry’s annoying face. Even more annoying that no matter what she did, he was always a lot more handsome than her hunk of polymer clay.

“... because, like I mentioned, we have special guests today who will be modeling for you.” Harry stood again while two very thin and very conventionally perfect people came out in white robes. Y/N couldn’t help but gag.

“This is Hope and Jordan.” Harry motioned as he introduced them, not getting any further in his instructions before Y/N raised her hand in the back of the class.

Rose attempted to get her to put it down, too, because Harry was clearly in the middle of something, but it didn’t really work out so well. Y/N was a stubborn son of a bitch.

“Yeah?” He pointed at her, sighing while planting his hands on his hips. He knew nothing she had to ask was going to be at all beneficial to the group.

She cleared her throat and just from the smirk on her face, he braced for impact. “Are they going to be modeling nude?”

She made just about everyone blush, except for Harry. He hated how she never took anything seriously. That the art he’d spent years perfecting enough to teach meant nothing to her. It was all just a primary school joke in her eyes.

“Yes, actually,” he answered bluntly and then returned to what he was going to say before Y/N’s interruption. “So I want everyone to get a piece of paper and while they’re modeling, do a rough sketch of what you might want the body of your sculpture to look like. The importance is to get the proportions down so that when you use the clay, you’ll know how much you’ll need for each part. Just like we did for the heads.”

Harry walked around the class once the models were stripped and the sketching began. Rose started immediately, concentration on her face as she flipped between the female model and her piece of sketchbook paper.

All Y/N had was a scratch piece of grey-toned mixed media paper she’d found laying on their table. And absolutely no clue where to even begin.

She stared at Harry instead of the naked models, watching as he helped others around the room, pointing at their sketches and where they could improve. His other hand behind his back that gave her perfect access to stare at his rings. Remembering how he’d taken them off guide their first few sculpting lessons. Remembering how his hands had so gently but so fucking firmly caressed the mound of clay into the exact shapes he wanted like he knew exactly what to do with those things.

“See it’s going just as I expected back here.” When his voice was at her ear, she jumped out of her skin and out of her daydreams. Twisting her head around to him as he stood behind her, she found him staring over her shoulder at her blank piece of paper.

She narrowed her eyes at him once she’d fully processed what he said. “Sorry I’m trying to figure out the best way to scale up that dude’s micro-cock, proportionally, if you don’t mind.”

He just about choked on his own spit, and rightfully so. But when he glanced to her eyes instead of her disappointing blank canvas, with his eyebrows furrowed and his cute little nostrils flared just the way she liked them, it was clear his reaction wasn’t for the reasons she’d intended.

He was quiet. Lips pursed, mind completely empty apart from hearing her say cock over and over again. Echoing against his skull. Making a home for itself in his hippocampus for later purposes. When he was not in a class full of students with their eyes on him, watching him get hard at the fucking way she said cock.

“Leave you to it then,” he cleared his throat and continued on.

“He may not kick us out, but killing you is still an option,” Rose whispered once Harry was a safe distance away from them.

Y/N leaned back in her seat to watch him walk down the rest of their row. His hands behind his back again, eyes wandering over shoulders.

As long as he had those rings on while he choked her out, she was okay with that.

*                                              *                                 *

Everyone had moved on to their bodies. Gathering the clay they needed from the front and using their sketches as guidelines to build around the pre-made wire and aluminum foil armature. Most everyone had some sort of a form being attached to the heads of their sculptures by the time Y/N even got started.

Because she decided on using Harry as reference after all and he would just not stand still.

With the models gone, they were on their own, with help from Harry of course. He played several videos and gave various demonstrations to aide them. It wasn’t supposed to be perfect, but after she gave it her all for about ten minutes, she was ready to give up. Her body looked like a very lumpy, very deformed version of Shrek.

She took a break again, watching Rose sculpt for a while instead. She watched Harry sometimes too as he walked around the class again in gloves this time. Smoothing out features and picking up tools to aid in the process of forming collarbones and wrinkles.

The studio was in its typical state of disarray. Random cups of milky water on every table, pieces of clay smushed into the tile floor, tools and used gloves strewn about with no rhyme or reason. Harry thrived in that kind of environment while Y/N well… she hated it.

She wanted organization and cleanliness. Her nine-to-five called for that kind of thing. But she was slowly getting used to it. To letting go and embracing the mess while she was here. She wasn’t the one that had to clean it all up anyways.

The only time she wasn’t daydreaming was when Harry started up their aisle again, walking in front of their table this time however. He helped a couple others at the end of their row, watched some of them work before eventually landing right in front of Rose’s station.

He cocked his head to the side while he watched her struggle to form an even pair of breasts on her headless lady. And even though Y/N was trying her best to look busy, she just couldn’t help it.

Rose handed her work in progress over to him with a frustrated huff after he offered his assistance. And like… no way was Y/N missing out on Mr. Harry fucking Styles fingering some clay into the perfect set of boobs. No way.

Especially fucking not when he removed his gloves and used those fingers in their bare glory the way she wished he’d use them someplace else. She watched while he slapped some more clay on Rose’s poor flat-chested model and proceeded to smooth it out with his expert fingertips. She watched the clay melt under his touch, watching him dip into their shared cup of water to aid the process. She looked away long enough to admire the concentration on his face, the way he bit down on his lip and furrowed his brows the way she was used to. She watched again while he fixed all of Rose’s mistakes just by gliding his thumbs over the two perfect little lumps on her sculpture that sure as hell hadn’t started out so perfectly.

She had no idea why Harry sculpting a tiny set of breasts on what would eventually become a mermaid got her so hot and bothered but… it did. It did so fucking much, she was almost salivating like a dog by the end of it, thinking about what his hands could do with the real deal. But then he handed it back to Rose with a content smile on his face and burst Y/N’s little bubble.

“Might be better,” he said softly and Rose nodded in agreement. She hadn't noticed before, but when he stood to his full height it was clear he’d been leaning over on their table. Closer to the both of them than he’d ever really been before. And she knew he was tall, taller than Rose, who was five foot seven inches herself. And not just that but his shoulders were broad and his arms were a humble amount of muscular. Almost like he was a sculptor that kneaded clay a hundred hours a week. Maybe that was why she was a soaking wet mess.

He stretched his gloves back onto his hands and glanced Y/N’s direction. Eyes going straight from her disaster of an art piece to her flushed face and back.

“Don’t even know where to start to fix yours up,” he commented while moving slightly to his right until he stood directly in front of Y/N this time.

She looked at her abomination, wondering if it would be her worst idea to push more of his buttons or not. But, she went for it anyways. Her lack of impulse control would definitely come back to bite her in the ass one day.

“It’s the penis. Still haven’t gotten that down yet.”

He nodded, amused rather than his previous reaction to her antics. “Can see that, yeah. He’s got a bit of a crooked willy there.” Harry poked at it with his index finger and she became hyper aware of his closeness this time while he leaned over her tabletop again. Because his hands were right there, almost touching her own. And they were big, bigger than she realized. She could see him perfectly through the transparent gloves, his long fingers with clipped nails at the end that were well taken care of, considering.

She would need to soak herself in holy water for a while after this.

“Oh, is that not what the male anatomy looks like?” She teased, not fully realizing they were getting along for the first time and it was because of dicks. Because she’d put an oddly shaped protrusion on her figure before she’d even done much else with the blob of clay stuck to her form.

“No,” he laughed, shaking his head at her and standing up straight again. “Maybe if you paid attention when the models were out here, you’d know that.”

“Maybe if you hired someone who’s cock I could actually see from all the way back here without a fucking magnifying glass.” She was only slightly aware of how fully immersed she was in the debate over this penis.

But all he heard was cock again. She really needed to stop saying that. Because this time his mind was a little more imaginative while he stared at her lips and thought about the way she might say that on her knees in front of him.

He shook his head clear. She was an insufferable nuisance that he just barely tolerated on a good day. He didn't need her clogging up his brain with her cock talk too.

“Just fix it.” He mumbled.

She huffed when he left her to her own devices, not even bothering to offer his help, but she really shouldn’t expect any less. If he helped her, he would be doing it all for her. And that was hardly the point of taking a class to learn how to sculpt if the hot instructor was just going to do everything for you.

“Is there a reason why you’re arguing with him about penises?” Rose asked, hushing her voice around the apparently taboo word.

“It’s fun. And if I’m going to sit here in this stupid class with you I’m going to have some fun.” Y/N, on the other hand, was not hushed or subtle at all, as she ripped off the phallic piece of clay from her sculpture.

Rose cringed when she glanced past Y/N to find Harry looking right at her. He had been helping someone a few seats down and clearly not far enough away to have missed what Y/N said. All of his features drooped and he looked genuinely upset. Rose wished she could put a filter over Y/N’s mouth to save everyone from her insensitive outbursts. Especially Harry. He always tried so hard and for Y/N to brush everything off and boil it all down to a ‘stupid class’ even broke Rose’s heart a little. So she could only imagine how Harry felt.

After their typical hour and a half was up, once everyone at least had some semblance of a body minus the legs and arms, Harry called the class back to order.

“Alright, that’s time. You can put your armatures back on the shelves, carefully. As always, I’ll be around for a little while after. Have a great rest of your night, I’ll see you all on Saturday.” He finished his spiel, turning away to help clean up before a lightbulb went off in his head and his voice rang through the studio again, “Oh, and make sure you bring your sketches back with you!”

Everyone worked on cleaning up, including Harry. And while Y/N took both her and Rose’s sculptures over to their respective spots on the shelves, Rose walked up to the front of the class without any warning whatsoever.

She tapped Harry’s shoulder and watched while his smile faded just the tiniest bit after he turned to find her. That Rose’s poor face had to be associated with the thunderstorm that was Y/N.

“I just wanted to say sorry… about Y/N.” Both Rose and Harry glanced at the girl in question near the back of the studio, playing with their two sculpted bodies like they were barbie dolls. “I forced her to do this with me so she hasn’t really taken it seriously. But I’m really enjoying the class, you’re a fantastic instructor.”

His smile returned again and if he was being honest with himself, it really did make him feel better to hear her say that. He had some sort of a reasoning for Y/N’s horrible attitude and while he wished it was her apologizing and not Rose, he figured it was good enough.

“Thank you. You’re doing really well so far. I’ll see you on Saturday, yeah?”

She nodded, giving him one last polite smile before trotting back to Y/N and helping her clean up the last bits around their workstation.

“Please do not tell me you were flirting with him.” Y/N gagged, using a ball of clay to gather the little pieces spread across their table like a magnet.

“No, actually, I was apologizing to him for your behavior.”

Y/N snapped her head up, first at Rose and then Harry all the way across the room from them. “You what?”

“He’s just trying to teach and you’ve been a fucking knobhead.”

Y/N gasped in fake offense, which was actually slightly real offense. “Excuse me, he made fun of my bowl the first day, you seem to have forgotten about that.”

“A toddler could have made a better bowl than that, Y/N, and you know it.”

She frowned, grumpily averting her eyes to the table with her arms crossed over her chest like she really was a toddler.

“I’m just saying,” Rose started, a bit calmer this time, “stop pestering him.”

*                                              *                                 *

Y/N thought about everything Rose had said. About how much she wished she could take things seriously and not constantly get on people’s nerves all the time, but she simply did not know how to. Taking the piss out of things and making jokes was how she got through her days.

But she did agree. Harry didn’t deserve her behavior. Maybe he was a bit of a jerk to her to begin with, but insulting his class might’ve been crossing a line.

Because she didn’t actually think it was stupid. She quite enjoyed listening to him. She liked learning something new and following his instructions as he walked them through some of his techniques. She liked being connected to all the people in the little studio, even if only briefly. Complete strangers all shared that one little thing in common and it made her all fuzzy and warm inside each time she met up with Rose at the end of every Wednesday and Saturday.

Hiding behind a bit of humor, however, was a lot more comfortable than admitting she found pleasure in anything as corny as sculpting classes.

On Friday night, boredom got the best of her and she took a chance upon searching Harry’s name on Instagram while she took her weekly bath. It had been Rose’s idea, the bath, not stalking her attractive sculpting instructor online. That decision was completely her own. But the baths at the end of stressful weeks had a little influence from her best friend, as did most aspects of her life. Baths were a waste of time, in her opinion, and she preferred the efficiency of showering. But Rose had given her nice smelling soaps and weird fizzy things for bath time and well… she couldn’t let them go to waste.

So, amid her regularly scheduled, once-a-week bath, she scrolled shamelessly through Harry’s feed. Because he did, in fact, have an instagram. And she only knew it was him because every fourth post was a video and in said videos were his hands. And, fuck, they were just as nice on film as they were in person.

He didn’t post much of his face, which she thought was an actual crime, but there was a lot about him and his sculpting. She found out it had been his sister’s birthday recently, who, when she smiled, looked just like him. He’d also just finished a piece he seemed really proud of, a clay head and bust of a pit bull, to which he linked in the caption about a local shelter who rescued the breed specifically and needed donations. Her heart nearly fucking melted.

Harry wasn’t much of an open book, though, unless he let his art do most of the talking. He seemed to enjoy sculpting women the most, which is probably why he’d been so good at de-lumping the breasts on Rose’s mermaid. But all the female sculptures he made weren’t sexual at all. They had meaning behind them. Like every single clay face she clicked on throughout his photos had a story. Like he was uplifting rather than fetishizing.

And not every single one of them was skinny and had perfect features. She was shocked to see at least half of the creations she’d skimmed through were of larger women with imperfect breasts at times and asymmetrical faces. Not sticking to typical European beauty standards as she may have originally assumed he might.

It made glancing down at her very much imperfect body feel a little less like an attack. Because Harry spent his time putting all his love into his little sculptures with diverse body types that she almost felt ashamed for ever hating hers.

Once she was done clicking on just about every single post he’d ever made, she finally found a selfie. Well… not really a selfie. Someone else had clearly taken it of him candidly while he had been working. But there was an awfully cute smile on his face and very familiar dimples poking into his cheeks that make her heart warm up again.

He wasn’t a damn thing like she’d assumed he was from the beginning. She thought his art centered around the ideal, and that maybe he was a little condescending because of it. But his Instagram told a different story about his art. And she wanted to know so much more about him.

She was completely lost in her dreams about him that just the smidge of distraction led to accidentally liking a photo of his from two years prior.

She’d have to move countries. Change her name. Delete everything. Never look back. Y/N? A distant memory.

Before dropping her phone in the tub and really making a complete ass out of herself, she threw it, instead, onto her furry rug in the middle of the bathroom and sunk herself down into the water. Wondering if it would really be so bad if she just drowned a little bit.

Because she desperately wanted to. There was nothing she could do. Not even unliking the picture would help. He’d still see the notification. Still click onto her page and realize who in the fuck had just liked a two-year-old post of his that he, himself, had probably even forgotten about.

She wanted nothing more than to sink her head under the pink-tinted water and never come back up. Her mind would not stop with the visualizations of what his reaction might be. Things he might be thinking. Like is this that fucking bitch from my sculpting class? Or whether or not she might find herself blocked by morning.

God, just make it stop.

But suddenly her phone buzzed and her heart just about stopped beating. It had to be the notification that Harry blocked her. Was that even a thing? Did Instagram notify you if someone blocked you? And why was her phone on silent? Because her Instagram notifications and her text messages made very different sounds. If it was just a text, she’d consider ignoring it. She’d continue marinating in all her shame a little while longer. But it ate her alive not knowing what the buzzing was from.

So, carefully, she pulled herself upright and reached across the floor until she had her phone in her hand. Before she clicked the screen on, though, she closed her eyes and inhaled a deep breath.

But when she opened her eyes and found out why her phone had buzzed, she let that breath out and settled her ass down again. It was Rose.

Hey, I can’t make it tomorrow for class. Felt like absolute shit at work today and had to go home because as it turns out I have the flu.

“Fuck,” Y/N mumbled to herself. She wasn’t sure if she wanted to go alone because facing Harry after she just did what she did was one thing, but doing it all by herself was another. But a part of her did still want to go tomorrow. The part before her horrific accident when she was full on getting a love boner over Harry. She’d wanted to see him again so fucking bad.

Okay. I probably won’t go too then

Y/N physically frowned at the idea of waiting another five days to see Harry again. Her brain really needed to make its fucking mind up about him. Did she want to see him or not?

No! You have to go and tell me what I missed!

Y/N rolled her eyes, but felt relieved. Even after her embarrassing slip up, her desire to see Harry again still prevailed. And she hated it. How was she even supposed to look him in the eye tomorrow, both of them knowing damn well she’d been stalking his Instagram back to two fucking years ago?

*                                              *                                 *

It was beyond weird sitting in their usual cafe on Justice Hill alone, even without the whole Instagram fiasco of the previous night she was trying everything in her power to forget about.

However all the desperate attempts to bury that awful experience were fruitless when she glanced across the room over her latte and found a very familiar set of grumpy-looking eyes already staring at her. But once she did notice him, he immediately looked away, stepping up to the counter to order his own cup of coffee.

She nearly choked on her drink, having to set it down and wipe what had spilled onto her chin off with a napkin she’d already used to sop up another one of her messes.

Of the three weeks now they’d been going to classes and frequenting the cafe just before, she’d never seen Harry. It was like he didn’t have a life outside being an instructor. He just popped up in the studio and she always left before him so she had no idea what he did after class either.

But seeing him here was like seeing a fucking unicorn in real life.

She couldn’t help watching him either, even if she knew she shouldn't. But, in her defense, he was wearing beautiful wine-colored corduroy pants with a tight white t-shirt tucked into them and a beige coat thrown over his arm to match. And for shoes he had on his usual white vans that had gained a few more scuff marks since the last time she’d seen him. His fashion would look terrible on anyone besides him.

He glanced her way again, briefly, when he left the counter with his cup, fighting his legs from walking in her direction but not exactly winning that battle.

And to her surprise, he stood right in front of her, behind the chair where Rose usually sat.

And when she looked up at him, he completely forgot why he had come over. He had no fucking clue what he was doing there. But it was too late now for him to back away and pretend like it never happened.

“Your friend's not coming?” His voice shook, but she didn’t notice with the way he finally took his fucking eyes off of her and gave her a chance to breathe again. He glanced at his watch just to confirm that it was, in fact, only five minutes until class started and it seemed reasonable to assume Rose wasn’t meeting her before then.

She pulled herself together and pretended like his close presence wasn’t intimidating her in the slightest.

“Disappointed?” She tilted her head, smirking at him. She had no right to think he liked her better than Rose. She, herself, liked Rose better too. So she was sure he had to be at least a little bit sad to see Rose missing.

He smiled and the second she saw those dimples she was reminded of his Instagram all over again.

“A little,” he nodded, pinching his thumb and index finger together in the air and she painfully agreed.

“Well, you get me all by myself tonight.” She didn’t realize how it sounded until it was too late. Until she was cringing at all the sexual insinuations she’d just made for absolutely no reason. She could have said something else that wasn’t laced in an innuendo. But no, of course not. She had to continue her embarrassing streak when it came to Harry.

Instead of being creeped out by her, however, and pulling a confused and slightly terrified face, he laughed. And, on God, his laugh was the most amazing thing she’d ever heard. This wasn’t the first time the sound of his laughter graced her eardrums, but it was the first time he was laughing because of something she said that wasn’t about crooked penises.

“Lucky me.”

He left her so fucking speechless, that after he started backing away from her table, reminding her to not be late, she still ended up being late. Because she sat in her chair for what felt like a century repeating his two words over and over again in her head.

Lucky me.

She knew he was only teasing but the way he’d just gone along with her original joke and how his voice sounded when he said it, she could not believe it. She could also not believe how Harry had some kind of massive hold on her that she sat staring at a wall for ten minutes trying to figure out how to operate properly again just to get up out of her chair.

Lucky fucking me.

She could scream.

If she wasn’t in public.

There was an extra pep in her step as she took Justice Hill alone this time, partially because of how giddy Harry had made her and partially because she was late… right after he told her not to be. But how was she supposed to be on time after what he’d just done to her emotions. And to the throbbing mess between her legs, but that's another story entirely.

Everyone was all over the place when she’d finally arrived, though, so it made slipping in the back that much easier. Not that she got past Harry’s watchful eyes, though, but at least she wasn’t interrupting anything while the class readied their workstations for another full night of going ham on their sculptures.

Harry kept his eyes on her mostly the entire time she did the same at her empty little area, watching as she tucked her purse under the desk for safekeeping and threw a couple tools he wasn’t sure he’d ever seen her use onto the table. When she wandered off to the wall of shelves to retrieve her absolutely horrifying work of art, he finally gave her some privacy again. But he couldn’t help the fact that he’d been worried sick when she didn’t show up on time after he’d just seen her at the cafe, thinking something horrible could have happened to her between there and here.

So making sure she was unscathed before he, too, got his area organized was essential.

She sat in her chair and stared at what she had made the past three weeks. They’d started with something simple on the first day, taking a pre-cut slice of clay and free-handing a bowl with a few tips from Harry thrown in here and there. Then they jumped straight in after he showed them a few clips of sculptors working, pausing to explain specific things about creating a head and face. They were given everything they needed to make sculpting a complete figurine of a human body as easy as possible.

And still, she managed to create a combination of Shrek and the abominable snowman.

She huffed, wondering if she asked nicely enough Harry would let her just start all over. But before she could even think to do so, he clapped his hands together and got everyone’s attention for today’s mini-tutorial.

He explained smoothing to them and how there were many different ways of doing it so that your end results weren't littered in fingerprints. He reminded them to use water to smooth out the initial shapes of the clay they wanted and if they were having a really hard time with too much warmth from their fingers to use the gloves.

He ventured a little into detail work of the bust, showing a short clip of another artist forming collar bones with just two tools and her fingers. He explained what tools those were and why they were the most efficient for details and went on some more about other detail tools that were good for different things.

And the entire time she was far too lost in his voice and how his eyes lit up passionately when he rambled to even think about the fact that she wasn’t taking a single note for Rose’s sake.

They’d done a few lessons on details for the face, but they had yet to really get that far, only having put on tentative eyelids, lips and a nose for their heads before he really dove deep into details in what she assumed would be a full class later on.

And when he finally took a break to ask for any questions, she was, of course, the first to raise her hand. He thought about ignoring it, knowing all too well that anytime Y/N raised her hand in the back of his classroom, she was up to no good. But he was too nice to do that to anyone, even her.

So he called on her by nodding his head and she cleared her throat while he grimaced, expecting the worst.

“So, um, for example if we were going to do bigger details like abs on a male figure, what would be the best tool for that?”

He could have sworn he was having a heart attack. He had to blink a few times just to make sure he wasn’t dreaming. She was actually asking him a legitimate question, and a good one at that. He had to repeat what she said in his head first, just to make sure it was real, before he answered, completely unprepared.

“Um… well after you lay out the clay where you want on the body, you can use one of the knives to blend the edges,” he held up an example of one for her, “and then a large ball or oval tool like this,” he held up another, “to smooth everything out. You’d probably want a more blunt pointed end to shape them, though, after you blend the clay in.”

She nodded like she’d been fully absorbing every single word coming out of his mouth and then he watched as she dug around quietly in the tool kit on her desk, in search of the types of tools he’d mentioned.

He could not fucking believe it though. She finally showed a stitch of interest in learning about sculpting. And he had no idea why she decided to right now. Maybe it was because she was without her partner in crime, but either way he was stunned. Absolutely fucking marveled.

After a few more questions and some demonstrations, he let everyone go and continue working on their projects while he circled the room as he normally did. And he found himself glancing at her from time to time, all by herself in the back with a genuine look of concentration on her face as she attempted making her creature a little less loch ness monster and a little more human.

Eventually, after he figured she was giving it enough effort for him to step in and help if she needed, he headed her way. And just as she sensed him walking down her aisle, while she was busy shaving off clay, a piece of it went flying into the air, completely out of control.

He stopped in his tracks after almost being smacked in the face with a chunk of clay and bent over to pick it up before someone squished it into the bottom of their shoes. He leaned over the edge of the table in front of her again, setting the piece of clay down next to her gently while she bit her lips between her teeth and tried to hide her embarrassed red cheeks behind her hands.

“Sorry!” She squealed at him, further digging herself into a hole.

He shook his head, “S’alright. Not the first time that’s happened.”

She laughed at the thought of him actually getting hit in the money maker with a hunk of clay and it eased her worries a little.

“So how are those abs going then?” He asked.

She stared at her sculpture for a moment before she sighed and turned it around to face him. It wasn’t as bad as it had been before, but it was still pretty rough.

“Mind if I…?” He held his hands out and she, without a single hesitation, handed it over to him.

He immediately grabbed the shaving tool she’d been using, and since it still sat next to her where she’d put it down moments ago, his fingers brushed against her hand when he picked it up. Sending every one of her nerves in the general area on a field day to mess with her nether regions again. It’s just… his fucking hands were an art form in and of themselves. His knuckles prominent, stretching soft skin around the bone. His veins protruding every time he made a more delicate move that required precision. Even the ones on his arms underneath the ink when he was a bit more rough with her sculpture sent her over the moon, while he shaved off bits and pieces with firm pressure to define the shape of the body and somehow create a human-like figure from her mess.

Then he started smoothing down the surface with a little water on his fingers and she went batshit. His hands while dry were one thing, but sparkling, wet, slippery fingertips? Lord have mercy.

She watched him spread a chunk of extra clay onto what would be the figure’s chest to build it up a little more with the knowledge of their previous conversations about dicks and abs making it clear she was attempting to make a male figure. She couldn’t help but watch his muscles flex underneath his tight white t-shirt. From far away across the cafe it had caught her attention. And now right here, she was definitely not letting it go unnoticed. It wasn’t too tight that he looked ridiculous, but just the right amount to show off every curve of his biceps and triceps and whatever other -ceps he had hiding underneath the shirt. He was normally in oversized tops so she was taking full advantage while she still had the chance to.

When he handed it back to her, it was like he’d done some kind of magic spell to get it to look so good after what she’d given him to work with. He leaned forward a little more and pointed at the figure’s chest and she was only halfway paying attention to him when he spoke, mostly focusing on how close he was and every single time he accidentally brushed his skin against hers.

“So if you want to make the abs,” he paused to glance over and dig through her pile of tools until he found the one he was looking for. “Use this to kind of sketch out the shape like we did with the faces,” he took the ball tool and rolled it down the middle of the chest, making a short indent to separate where the pectorals might be, “then you can add on the dimension like I was saying earlier.”

She took over the tool when he flipped it around and gave it to her so she could try for herself. And he watched for a short while as she did what he said to do, sketching out tentative abs, but not really knowing exactly what they looked like to come to any sort of realistic end. Her figure started to look like a shirtless Johnny Bravo.

He just giggled and pointed his stupid finger back into her personal space, smoothing down her mistakes until they disappeared, “Have you never seen a six-pack that wasn’t on a cartoon character?”

She racked her brain, trying to say something funny, but once she looked into his eyes, nothing came to mind. “Of course I have. I just don’t know how to make them look realistic.” She couldn’t exactly remember the last time she’d been faced with a naked man’s chest, but she had seen them before.

“Well…” Harry sighed, resting his head on his hand and staring at her sculpture sideways, “he doesn’t have to have abs.”

And then she said it. Something worse than her earlier set of words back at the cafe. She had no clue what was going on with her tonight, but she needed an ass-kicking for it.

“Do you have abs?”

“Me?” His eyes flickered up to hers in shock and it was far too late for her to backtrack, she was here and she had to face what she’d done. Even while he looked at her like she was fucking insane.

“Uh, well. I mean…” She had no fucking clue what she meant. And even if she did, she sure as shit wasn’t telling him.

Then it clicked in his brain. “You’re not using me as reference, are you?”

After a solid three seconds of just staring at him, she laughed. “No, of course not.”

“Hope so after you gave him that wonky penis.”

She sighed once they were through it. Once he’d proved, yet again, that he didn’t make her embarrassing statements feel as bad as they really were. He kind of just... went along with it.

But then she made it even worse.

“So yours isn’t wonky and crooked, then?”

Jesus, fuck Y/N just shut up.

His smile never faded, however, and instead, he leaned close again and whispered, “Maybe one day you’ll be lucky enough to find out.”

[thatsonemorbidcorvid]

I thought this was interesting - whether the programme is effective/inclusive/etc enough aside, there’s a couple of points in this article about women and alcohol that could be part of a wider conversation. Also like the nod to the Temperance Movement. Full text below the break.

Holly Whitaker, author of the 2019 New York Times best seller Quit Like a Woman, compares the moment she realized that a life without alcohol was possible to entering the Matrix. Whitaker has never been comfortable with the term alcoholic and didn’t necessarily drink to the extent we imagine many alcoholics do. She drank a lot — sometimes more than a bottle of wine a night* — but not enough, she thought, that it was a problem. Sure, she needed to learn how to moderate, but she wasn’t the sort of person for whom abstinence was necessary. “I really never loved alcohol,” she tells me, but “it didn’t even occur to me that I could quit drinking. I just had to control it better.”

If, in reading this now, you decide your drinking isn’t a problem because you drink less than a bottle of wine a night, Whitaker has your number; she did this too. As long as someone, somewhere, was drinking more than she was, Whitaker writes, she could count herself among the normal drinkers. But when she chose to stop, she decided there was no such thing as “normal” drinking. Friends and acquaintances were disappointed and oddly defensive. “I’m not an alcoholic,” writes Whitaker of reactions to that first attempt at sobriety. “I am someone who has broken our social contract.”

Whitaker’s sobriety suffered a few false starts; an office holiday party provided her a good enough reason to try drinking again after two months off. She quit for good on April 14, 2013, and two years later, she launched an online alcohol-counseling program called Hip Sobriety (later renamed Tempest, in part as an homage to the women-led temperance movement) for 13 members who convened on Facebook. The program was designed to help people — especially women — reach the same epiphany that she had: Alcohol is pointless, poisonous, and even anti-feminist. Six years later, Tempest is a small but mighty alternative to traditional recovery models like rehab and Alcoholics Anonymous. According to Whitaker, more than 10,000 people have joined as paying members. Countless more are fans of Quit Like a Woman — including Chrissy Teigen, who credited the book with her decision to get sober, prompting a rash in sales. Whitaker’s book has sold more than 265,000 copies, and that was before it appeared on a recent episode of And Just Like That … (when Miranda drunk-ordered a copy for herself). As Whitaker’s star rises, so too does the burden of proving her central claims: that Tempest helps women especially to stop drinking and that women especially stand to benefit from sobriety. In the meantime, she has found not only an eager following but an untapped market.

Tempest’s design is straightforward and draws primarily from two practices with established psychological benefits: cognitive behavioral therapy and mindfulness. The former seeks to help members rethink their relationship to alcohol, while mindfulness techniques have been used to reduce cravings for drugs and make practitioners less reactive to triggers. Within its overarching structure, Tempest offers members a number of ways to personalize their participation. Lessons are released on a weekly basis and take roughly two hours to complete on average. There are weekly, hour-long support-group calls, which function not unlike AA meetings (except for the expectation that one will introduce oneself as an alcoholic), as well as weekly, hour-long Q&A calls with coaches or clinicians, during which members may ask more specific questions regarding their recovery experience. Ruby Mehta, Tempest’s clinical director, estimates the average member’s time commitment is between three and five hours per week.

Until recently, Tempest offered a four-week intensive course for $399, which 1,000 people completed in 2021. The company decided to scrap the intensive to simplify its offerings and because it seemed to promote a sort of sobriety hierarchy, says Ruth Sun, who became Tempest’s CEO after Whitaker stepped down last year (she remains on the board of directors). “People were like, ‘Are you saying I’m not serious about my sobriety if I don’t take the intensive? Are you telling me that because I don’t wanna pay this big bill, I’m not as important?’” The intensive also, perhaps, gave members the feeling that they had “finished” working on their sobriety, which wasn’t intentional. Tempest conceives of its members as people with a chronic condition, which means membership is indefinite. Or as Queen Muse, the company’s communications director, puts it, “Core membership isn’t designed to be completed.”

Core Tempest membership begins at $41 a month with an optional coaching add-on ($299 for four individual sessions). Coaches are paid, but they’re peers, not therapists — a model not dissimilar from AA sponsorship, except Tempest coaches aren’t available to members outside of their weekly scheduled 30-minute sessions. Tempest employs seven full-time and five part-time coaches, each of whom is a Tempest member who has achieved at least six months of sobriety and completed a four-to-six-hour training session on techniques like empathetic listening and motivational interviewing.

Tempest also offers select free resources. In 2021 alone, 50,000 people signed up for its free newsletter, bringing the total readership to nearly 100,000. The company recently launched a new, free app called Rethink, which is designed to provide a low-barrier entry point to people who may later decide to join. The app “has self-guided mini-courses and challenges to help people jump-start their journey,” says Sun. “Then, when they’re ready, they have a friendly community they can opt in to through Tempest.”

“We offer a really robust program, whether it’s our group-support calls or our community space or coaching,” says Adriana Pentz, Tempest’s VP of member experience. “There isn’t one specific path that an individual takes as they go through the Tempest experience.” This, she says, is by design: Pentz’s own recovery journey began in AA, which she found “robotic” and rigid. Tempest aims to take a more holistic view, treating not only alcohol addiction but, when possible, the underlying factors that enable it. “I was diagnosed with postpartum depression, and I self-medicated with alcohol,” says Pentz. “A lot of traditional recovery modalities out there want to separate those two things, but I couldn’t heal by trying to separate those issues.”

Although Tempest’s official party line is that it’s not an AA competitor, it’s clear that the company markets and conceives of itself as an attractive alternative — i.e., a competitor. In 2019, Whitaker wrote an op-ed for the New York Times titled “The Patriarchy of Alcoholics Anonymous,” adapted from her book, in which she argued that AA’s foundation as an organization for upper-middle-class white men precludes it from serving women and other marginalized groups with equal efficacy. This is, to an extent, borne out by demographic data: A 2014 membership survey found AA’s membership was 62 percent men and 38 percent women; 89 percent were white. (Tempest’s membership appears to be mostly women, though the company declines to provide specific demographic information. It will say only that 30 percent of paying members belong to at least one of its four identity-group offerings: BIPOC, LGBTQ, people over 50, and parents.)

Particularly damaging, according to Whitaker, is AA’s formulaic humility. “If you’re a woman, you’re most likely not wielding an ego so big it can’t fit through the door or suffering from a pathological lack of humility,” she writes in Quit. “From the outset, AA felt like … the most oppressive thing I could do to my already oppressed spirit.” The first step of AA is to admit powerlessness; for women, Whitaker considers this concession redundant. Raised to question our every move, thought, and feeling, women don’t need to be further broken down. “To a woman or any other oppressed group, being told to renounce power, voice, authority, and desire is just more of the same shit,” she writes. “It’s what made us sick in the first place.”

Unlike AA, Tempest does not ask its members to identify as alcoholics, and in fact encourages them not to, preferring the term alcohol use disorder, or AUD. This is also increasingly preferred by addiction specialists, who find the term alcoholic outdated and marginalizing. “Across every mental-health condition, we’ve moved away from using nomenclature as someone’s identity,” says Ravi Shah, Tempest’s clinical adviser and the chief innovation officer at Columbia University’s department of psychiatry. Just as we no longer say someone “is bipolar” but rather “has bipolar disorder,” so too is it preferred to say someone “has alcohol use disorder.” “I think that’s just a much more inclusive way of speaking,” Shah explains.

However old-fashioned and inflexible, though, AA is also free. Tempest’s inclusive approach is therefore commercial as well as political. By targeting people who “struggle with drinking” or want to “reevaluate their relationship with alcohol,” Tempest casts a much wider (and more profitable) net than many traditional recovery programs do. And, perhaps, so it should. There are far more people who drink too much than will ever attend an AA meeting, and alcohol consumption continues to rise: According to the Journal of the American Medical Association, women’s heavy drinking rose by 41 percent during the pandemic.

The CDC’s standard for “excessive drinking” is likely lower than most Americans realize (or want to acknowledge): eight or more drinks per week for women, 15 or more for men. For women, this averages out to 1.14 drinks per day, a figure many of my women friends and acquaintances copped to meeting (if not exceeding) throughout the pandemic’s darkest months. Having a glass or two of wine a night is, as Whitaker writes, seen as normal, an appropriate way for adults to unwind before bed. But women who drink even that much incur significant health risks, including a 5-to-9 percent increased risk of breast cancer. Alcohol’s ability to cause cancer was established by the World Health Organization in 1988, yet less than half of Americans know it is a carcinogen. The alcohol industry is inclined to keep it that way, and the myth that “moderate” drinking is healthy persists.

It’s a tired millennial joke that everything causes cancer so some level of risk-taking is necessarily accepted as part of living an enjoyable life. Cancer happens later, and we want to relax and have fun now. But health problems among moderate drinkers (defined by the CDC as up to one drink per day for women) can set in much sooner: Alcoholic liver disease has experienced “off the charts” growth in recent years, particularly among people between 25 and 34 years of age. And these are the risks incurred by the drinker herself; harder to quantify are the interpersonal effects that drinking too much can have on the people around her. As Whitaker points out, there is no widely recognized term for the alcohol equivalent of secondhand smoke, though external consequences (among them increased intimate-partner violence, sexual assault, and drunk driving) are incontrovertible.

We tend to think of drinkers in binary terms: those who have a problem, and those whose drinking is normal. With Tempest, Whitaker wants members to ask themselves what, if anything, is so “normal” about drinking at all. “At the core basis of my belief system is that people, when given the right information and the right support systems, can make the best choices for themselves,” she tells me. “I think that extends to what drugs they put in their bodies.”

At times, Tempest’s free-spirited ethos can feel like a modern Moderation Management, a secular AA alternative created in 1994 to enable “non-problematic drinkers” to simply reduce their drinking, rather than stop completely. Whitaker says the Tempest goal is neither to teach people how to drink less nor to force them to stop. “We look at ourselves as a harm-reduction model but not an explicit harm-reduction model,” she says. “When they walk in the door, we’re not confiscating their drugs and giving them a pee cup and saying ‘Now it’s over.’ We start with the basis that it’s about you and how you feel and how your life is working.” Allen Carr’s The Easy Way to Stop Drinking was central to Whitaker’s recovery, and the Tempest approach, like his, aims to remove the wool from drinkers’ eyes — to help them see why they don’t want to drink and don’t have to.

It is, of course, not that simple for everyone; not all drinking results from a lack of information about its consequences. People suffering from severe physical dependence on alcohol may scoff at some of Whitaker’s sharp, if occasionally simplistic, proselytizing. Alcohol use disorder is a spectrum, and people on the severe end can experience withdrawal symptoms in as little as eight hours without a drink. In these cases, clinical intervention — which Tempest is not — may be necessary. That could include a prescription for one of three FDA-approved medications for alcohol use disorder, along with psychosocial treatments like therapy, support groups, and case management, says Edwin Salsitz, an addiction-medicine specialist and associate clinical professor of psychiatry at Mount Sinai. Tempest can’t help everyone with AUD, but it doesn’t have to. Or, as Salsitz puts it to me, “All treatments work for some people; no one treatment works for everyone.” Excessive alcohol use is so common and so damaging that anything aiming to reduce it is welcome to try. The real challenge, of course, is proving it works.

For decades, AA’s reputation relied largely on good faith and anecdotes. Not until relatively recently was there solid evidence that it worked at all. “It took a long time to accumulate proof, including intervention by the Institute of Medicine and the National Academy of Sciences to get some rigorous controlled trials done,” says John Kelly, a professor of psychiatry in addiction medicine at Harvard Medical School. “In the last 30 years, there’ve been dozens. There’s very strong evidence now that AA is an effective recovery support structure.”

Whether Tempest wants to be known as an AA competitor or not, AA’s efficacy is one standard against which Tempest will be measured. Because the company was founded just six years ago, many more years may pass before anyone can say with any real rigor that it works. In 2018, in partnership with the University of Buffalo and Syracuse University, Tempest conducted its first efficacy study, from which it prominently highlights the following findings in its marketing: Subjects who completed the eight-week program designed for the study reported a 50 percent reduction in alcohol cravings, 66 percent fewer drinks consumed on a typical drinking day, and a 25 percent reduction in anxiety and depression. These are impressive figures but are considerably diluted by the study’s design as well as the bias inherent in research done by a company with a product to sell. While the study’s initial sample size was 541 people, only 72 completed a full year’s worth of follow-up assessments, and there was no control group against which Tempest was measured. The study’s authors judiciously enumerate these limitations, noting that “observational research cannot discern causality.” There is no way to know that Tempest was responsible for the reductions in drinking, anxiety, and depression. Similar fluctuations might have occurred in any group observed over a year with no intervention at all. Furthermore, the sample is highly homogenous; the vast majority of subjects were highly educated white women with low average levels of alcohol use.

Shah, Tempest’s clinical adviser, has a different take on the study. “I thought it was a fantastic start,” he tells me. “If you look at much larger mental-health companies out there, they have very little if anything in the way of randomized control evidence.” That Tempest has done this kind of research at all, Shah says, is a sign the company is invested in proving what works and learning from what doesn’t.

It’s true, too, that Tempest can’t be faulted for what doesn’t yet exist; long-term conclusions can’t be expected from such a young company. Short-term conclusions can, however, be overstated, and with all addictions, there is a sizable caveat to short-term success. “It’s relatively easy, no matter what treatment you choose to undergo, to do well in the near term to either stop drinking or to reduce drinking or drink more safely,” says Salsitz. “The problem with AA is that people stop going, and relapse rates are very high over the long term. Relapse rates are fairly high in the long term in all addictions.”

Here, I expect Whitaker may balk at the perceived pessimism. One of the things she dislikes most about AA folklore, she writes, is that “admitting a drinking problem meant alcoholism, and alcoholism meant a life sentence.” It’s not that Whitaker doesn’t believe certain individuals are more vulnerable to alcohol addiction (she does, and she considers herself one of them); it’s just that alcohol is addictive for everyone, and if we start there, no sober-curious individual need consider herself uniquely predestined to fall off the wagon.

For Whitaker, this approach offered a much-needed alternative, and it has worked for her. “You could not have gotten me to go to a Twelve Step meeting, and even though I was making six figures a year, I could not afford the time or the expense of rehab,” she says. “When it comes to addiction, it’s not that we’re so flooded with options. We don’t have any.”

Addiction experts are inclined to agree with this assessment. Even if there’s more evidence that other methods are effective, says Kelly, they’re far from capturing the full range of heavy drinkers. Tempest may be especially attractive, and therefore useful, to people who, like Whitaker, are turned off by AA or unable to afford the time and financial costs that can come with rehab (which can amount to tens of thousands of dollars). “I think the key thing is not to get stuck on one form of treatment,” says Salsitz. “If one form is not working well, move to another form.”

Valentine, a 33-year-old Tempest member and former volunteer, tried so many alcohol recovery methods they’re now launching a podcast about it called Recovery Disco. “I was in AA for five years, in and out of homelessness, and it didn’t work,” they tell me. Meditation and Buddhism finally helped them get sober, but they struggled to find a community that could provide continuous, meaningful support — until they came to Tempest. “I was tired of running into so much sexism and homophobia and transphobia in the recovery communities I’ve been in,” they tell me. By providing an inclusive atmosphere and an alternate approach, Tempest enabled Valentine to envision long-term sobriety for the first time. That atmosphere has proven supportive in unexpected ways, too. “I didn’t start transitioning outwardly until I was in Tempest because I was in a community of women, and I was able to really honor that part of myself and my feminine gender,” Valentine explains, adding that they completed the Tempest intensive more than ten times (nine of them for free in exchange for volunteering).

A 46-year-old member named Olga rediscovered Tempest during the pandemic, when she found herself drinking to cope with the stresses of lockdown and remote schooling her two children. She had mentally bookmarked Tempest years earlier, back when it was called Hip Sobriety, but only recently decided she wanted to use it to stop drinking for good. She signed up in late June of last year, had a “last hurrah” for the Fourth of July, and then began the now-defunct intensive course; she has remained a core member. Olga was drawn to Tempest not only because it’s geared toward women but because it seemed to have a lower bar for entry, so to speak. “I don’t want to rag on AA because I know it really helps a lot of people, but for me it’s a last resort,” she says. “Tempest advertised itself as, We’re not for those who are in a health crisis when it comes to drinking; we don’t do detox. This is more for a lifestyle change.”

Whitaker’s marriage of feminism and alcohol abstinence is effective insofar as she has created a community in which women and queer people who feel unwelcome or unsafe at AA can explore a different road to sobriety. Less convincing are those parts of her book in which she veers into The Secret territory, imbuing the act of not drinking with values and powers I’m not sure it has. In a Rachel Hollis–esque chapter called “Working With Our Core Beliefs,” Whitaker performs a white feminist rite of passage: invoking not really comparable public figures of color. She writes that real power, like that acquired via questioning one’s relationship with alcohol, is “the kind of power that people like Nelson Mandela and Mahatma Gandhi and Martin Luther King Jr. and Rosa Parks and the Dalai Lama all had or have — a quality within unaffected by outer circumstances, an eternal flame that cannot be touched.”

It’s simply much healthier for women (like everyone) not to drink than to drink, but this fact alone can’t fill a best-selling book or launch a for-profit recovery program or, perhaps, convince as many people to stop. The belief that we can radically change our own lives for the better, as the direct result of some “new” philosophy or financial investment or weight-loss regimen, is essential to the self-help genre, and in that respect, Quit Like a Woman is no different. But where other gurus may encourage readers to spend money on what amounts to empty promises, Whitaker’s pitch — that your life will improve if you stop drinking or even drink less — is hard to object to, given alcohol’s many harms. Still, it’s unclear how, exactly, sobriety may confer the sort of sociopolitical influence Whitaker seems to envision (“What if we all rejected the poison — then what? I’ll tell you what: world domination, bitches”), particularly for women who aren’t already advantaged, as so many Tempest members are.

Sobriety is measured in ever-expanding increments of time: days, then weeks, then months, and then years. Getting good long-term data takes decades, as success tends to be defined by the absence of relapse; just because someone has stopped drinking for a month or a year doesn’t necessarily mean she won’t drink again. Overall rates of alcohol relapse are high but unevenly distributed, says Salsitz. People with homes, jobs, money, and support systems — people like most of Tempest’s members — are much more likely to have better outcomes than people without. And while it’s too soon to say how many of Tempest’s 10,000 (and counting) paying members have stopped drinking for good, its adherents are effusive, and that’s not nothing. What that number clearly indicates is a real need for support. Albeit prone to the occasional girlboss flourish, Tempest aims to provide it. Does it matter how exactly one’s sobriety is accomplished as long as one accomplishes it? As Salsitz so succinctly puts it, “It’s whatever works.”

*Correction: This story has been updated to more accurately depict Whitaker’s prior relationship with alcohol.

[write-orflight]

Like Real People Do. Chapter 3

*Gif not mine*

Prologue  Chapter 1 Chapter 2

Rating: M, eventually will be smut.

Words: 2.5k

Warnings: Sexual themes, talk about sex (not NSFW though), 

Request: OPEN/CLOSED

A.N Y’all are really benefiting from my insomnia rn. I do have a plan to go back to my regular posting schedule but for right now enjoy the things starting to happen. Much love, Cia

       Chapter 3: The bugs and the dirt  

You’ve been on the team for about 6 months now, and you were loving it. Sure it was long hours, constant danger, and mounds of paperwork but you couldn’t be happier. You felt like you were doing what you were meant to do. The team had fully accepted you in the family around month 2. You and Morgan had become close after your “personal day” in October. He expressed that he knew what it was like to lose a parent and though he’d never understand losing both so quickly he offered you condolences and free drinks with him and Prentiss that night. Since then, the 3 of you have become good friends. 

There was always the occasional girls night with Emily, JJ, and Garcia, Dinner at Rossi’s and afternoon picnics with Hotch and Jack(which eventually just turned into you babysitting Jack while Aaron took a deserved nap). Your favorite however, was Saturday’s with Spencer. 

The two of you had fallen asleep that Friday night him and Garcia came over to watch Doctor Who. You woke up laid on top of him, legs tangled while your head was resting on his chest tucked under his chin. His arms were wrapped around you, hand resting heavily on the small of your back. You try to get up without waking him but of course you do, he startles awake in turn startling you causing you to fall off the couch. 

“Oh, Y/N,I’m so sorry--” He starts, immediately flushing. He stands to immediately help you up.

“No worries, Spen. Not made of glass.” You laugh. 

He blushes more at the new nickname. “Spen?” he asks. 

“Uh, yea.” You say. “Do you not like it?” 

“No-no, I like it.” He says. 

“Ok then.” You smile. “Do you have plans today?” He shakes his head. “Well, Saturday’s when I usually get coffee and work on homework at a cafe down the street, do you maybe wanna tag along?” you ask. He nods furiously. 

And every Saturday you guys had free since Spencer would meet you in the small cafe near your apartment. He would order an Americano with an ungodly amount of sugar and you would get a cold brew, despite it being winter still and you would sit and talk while you did work. Often he would help you with your thesis, telling you things you should add or consider. Sometimes you would just sit and talk about books you’ve both read or often you would explain the plots to various reality shows you know Spencer would never watch but he would sit and listen intently just like he did with everything you said. He treated every word that came out of your mouth like it was the most important thing in the world, treated every minuscule fact he learned about you, like it was treasured information to solving the mystery in front of him. You had become his personal cryptid. 

Of course the rest of the team had caught on to your Saturdays together, you worked with profilers and a very gossipy tech analyst. The amount of times you two had walked in together from being called in for a case last minute was enough to give you away. You thought back to a very uncomfortable conversation you had with Hotch one morning. You had come to drop off files JJ just pawned off to you to take upstairs. You held up your hand in a small wave walking into the office door. You put the files on his desk, starting to walk out when he stops you. 

“Y/N, we need to talk for a second. Close the door.” Hotch says. You nodded closing the door. You immediately tried to rattle off everything you’d done wrong to Hotch that could possibly warrant a talk. I forgot his coffee order that one time it was my turn, I missed Jack’s birthday once, I took a nap in the file room. You thought, all weren’t good but none warranted a closed door talk. 

“Yes, sir?” you ask, he gives you a weird look before it dissipates into his usual scowl,  neither of you used to the professional formalities still. 

“I’m sure you’re aware of the FBI’s fraternization policy.” He says. 

“Yes, sir…?” You say, not knowing where he was going with this. You weren’t fraternizing with anyone and no one knew that more than you except maybe your right hand. 

“Now there’s things I’d be willing to overlook as long as you don’t let it affect your work. But you would have to tell me and you would have to fill out an office relationship form--” 

“Whoa-wait a second.” you say. “What’re we talking about?” 

“If there’s something going on between you and Spencer you would have--”

“Hotch! There’s nothing going on between me an--What?” You say, you knew you had to be beet red right now. God this is humiliating. You thought.

“Really?” he said. 

“Yes! There’s nothing going on.” 

“But you guys have been together every week--” 

God, how did he even know that. “He’s helping me with my thesis, Hotch!” you exclaim, if this conversation continued you were going to be the same shade of red as the shirt you were wearing. “Why do you even know about that?” 

“Garcia.” he says, matter-of-factly. 

Of course, Garcia. 

 “Well, there’s nothing going on so now you can save the fraternization speech for someone else.” You move to stand. 

“You want there to be.” He points out. “Something going on, I mean.” 

“Oh my god. Aaron, I have a deep amount of respect for you and I revere you very much as a role model.” you say. “That being said, I will not be discussing my nonexistent love life with my boss! Jesus!” You exclaim. You see the smile ghosting his lips. He always enjoyed embarrassing you. “Can I leave now?” you asked. 

He nodded, waving his hand to dismiss you. You walk out of the office back to your desk, conveniently across from Spencer’s. 

“What did Hotch need?” He asked you. 

“Nothing!” You say instantly. Spencer just shrugged, returning to the file he had been reading.

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

Now you were here in the present, at a bar with the team celebrating the final results you had gotten back on your doctoral thesis. The Diploma hasn't come in the mail yet but it was official, you were officially Dr. Y/N Y/L/N. 

“To Dr. Y/N.” Garcia said, raising the shots Prentiss had just handed to you, Morgan and JJ. Rossi and Hotch raised their beers and Spencer clinked his water he’d been nursing to your shot glass. You smiled at her, before taking the shot quickly grimacing at the harshness of the alcohol. 

“Thanks, you guys.” You say, smiling widely. Your plan before to celebrate your doctorate had been to draw a bubble bath and try not to think of the student loans you’d accumulated. But of course Garcia being the genius and snoop that she was found out your results and insisted on a night out. 

“Y/N.” Emily said, getting your attention. “I think you should get the next round of drinks because that guy at the bar has been staring at you all night.” She said, leaning close to you to point at him. You look up to see a fairly built, tan man, with brown eyes and a well-maintenanced beard. Due to the amount of drinks you had and your inhibitions lowered, you smile at him automatically. He smiles back, lifting his drink to his mouth still looking at you. You look back down. 

“I don’t know, Emily.” You say, looking down at your mixed drink. 

“Come on, Y/N. We both know it’s been a while and you said you weren’t going to focus on that until you finished your doctorate.” Emily smirks, nudging you. “Now you’re finished so, come on, write him a prescription, Doc.” She laughs, inducing a few giggles from the rest of the group. Except for Rossi and Hotch who weren’t paying attention and Spencer, who seemed bothered but you didn’t know by what. 

“Hold on, mama, I have to know what a while means.” Derek says, laughing. 

“It means a while~”  Emily says, exaggerating the last word so that it was extra long. 

“Yea, a long~ while.” Garcia says, joining in, giggling all the while. 

“Ok, didn’t know you guys were moonlighting as comedians.” You say sarcastically, rolling your eyes. You turn towards Derek, the alcohol clearly lowered your inhibitions enough to answer his question. “I mean, I went through the phase everyone went through in the first couple years of college. Partying, drinking, and unfortunately ending up in a frat guys bed, but after a while I realized that I had different goals then most of my peers so I put all my focus on getting my degrees. I’d say that was when I was what? 19?” You said, recalling. 

Morgan almost did a spit take, “6 years?” 

“Don’t make it sound so incredulous!” You say, drinking your mixed drink. “I was busy!” 

“Sounds like you and Pretty boy can start your own celibacy club!” Morgan says, patting Spencer back, laughing. 

“I’m not celibate, Morgan.” Reid says, rolling his eyes. 

“Pfft,” you blow a raspberry, incredulously. “When’s the last time you’ve gotten any?” Whoa, you had to have been drunk because you never would’ve asked anything like that sober. 

“It certainly hasn’t been 6 years.” He says back to you, smirking over his glass of water. 

“Whatever.” You roll your eyes. “Seriously, When?” 

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” 

You would. 

You would very much like to know. 

“Whatever, it doesn’t matter because I’ll still be the last one after I go get that guy’s number.” You say, downing your drink for liquid courage before standing to go to the bar, towards the guy who had been looking at you before. Sure, your game was a little rusty but you were a profiler and now a doctor of psychology, men were...simple. 

Reid watched  you go, your hips swaying way more as they usually do as you sauntered towards the man her and Prentiss had been talking about before. He saw you smiling at the guy who had just purchased you another drink. You trailed a hand down the man’s chest, as he moved closer into your space. Spencer looked away, he was going to be sick if he kept watching that. 

“Hey, Emily, do you see that?” Garcia said.

“No, Penelope what is it?” She said indulging her. 

“It’s our friend, slowly turning into the green eyed monster.” Garcia said looking back to Reid, the table erupting in laughter. 

Reid leaned back. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

“Sure, you don’t.” Emily says, rolling her eyes. “Look Spence, If you like her you should say something and if you don’t, you can’t get upset about her looking for something else out there.” Spencer didn’t say anything to that, opting to turn his attention back to you. He watched you laugh at something the guy had said and a smile crossed his face. That wasn’t your laugh, he knew your laugh. Your real laugh, and thanks to his eidetic memory he could (and did) replay it whenever he wanted. He knew your laugh and that wasn’t it. 

He watched as you sauntered back up to the group. He already had trouble focusing on anything that wasn’t your body most of the time and the dress you wore tonight didn’t make it any better. A simple, deep blue dress that held your curves perfectly with a large slit up the leg that was probably to make it easier to walk in though right now all it was doing was distracting Spencer. You slid into the both back next to Prentiss. 

“So…” Emily said, smiling. “How’d it go?”

“Oh, I got his number.” You say, nonchalantly. You knew you would, it’s not like regular men were a challenge to you. Every man wanted 2 things; to think they’re funny and to think they’re smart. 

“Nice!” She says, holding her hand out you instantly slap it with your own. “Are you going to call him?” 

“Probably not.” You shrug. “We’ll see if I get bored this week.” 

That causes all the girls in the group to giggle. The night continued, more drinks being put in your system by your friends who want you to truly celebrate. Eventually Rossi and Hotch leave, both hugging you tightly, Hotch whispering a quick “I’m proud of you” in your ear. You smile brightly back at him.

Towards closing time you all leave, you’re a little more sober than before but you’re definitely still tipsy. You all say your goodbyes, promises to see each other at work then Spencer stretches an arm around your waist, ushering you to his car as he agreed to be your DD before.    

He slides you into the seat before climbing in on the drivers side. 

“Thanks Spen, I know you hate driving.” You say, patting Spencer on the leg. 

“No problem, Y/N” He smiles back at you, before turning his attention back to the road. You notice your hands still on his leg. He hasn’t tried to move it or move away from it so the alcohol in your system decides to take a risk and inch your hand up his thigh. One of his hands leaves the steering wheel immediately grasping your hand. 

“Stop.” He says, not sounding entirely convinced that’s what he wants himself. So you ask. 

“Do you want me to stop?” You say, innocently. 

“Obviously, I don’t want you to stop but you’re not sober so you have to.” He says, moving your hand back to your own lap. You decide it’s probably best to concede and lean your head against the cool glass of the window as street lamps roll by. 

Eventually, you make it back to your house. You sigh before turning to Spencer. 

 “Thanks again, Spen.” You say, moving to grab  your bag and the door handle. “I’ll see you at work.” Before you can move fully, Long fingers are circling your wrist. 

“You shouldn’t call him.” He says. 

“What?” You say, dazed by the close contact between you two. 

“The guy from the bar. You shouldn’t call him.” He says. 

“Why not?” You ask. You know the answer, or you think you know the answer but you have to hear him say it. You need to hear him say it. 

“Because I-” He cuts himself off. “I don’t know.” he says, looking down very dejected. 

“Well…” You say. You lean close to him. You guys are close, so close if you wanted you could kiss him and you know he would let you by the way his eyes flutter, pupils dilating instantly when you do. “Will you tell me when you figure it out?” You ask. 

He nods, letting go of the wrist you forgot he was holding. 

“Well then.” You say, getting out of the car and leaning through the open window. “Goodnight, Dr. Reid.” You smile. 

“Goodnight, Dr. Y/L/N.” He smiles back, before driving into the night.

Taglist: @haylaansmi​     @yoruebeautiful​ @kianagilder-blog​ @l0ve-0f-my-life​ @bihoeofmanyfandoms @dreamer7black​ @baby-banana​ @drreidshands​

[destiniesfic]

Folktober 01 — for @jurdannet/@jurdannetrevels, and for spooky season: an AU where Jude and Taryn were never taken to Faerie and grew up in blissful ignorance of the fair folk. Mostly.

I count four of them. One, two, three, four. Four of them have taken my sister.

They took some others, too. It’s easy to tell them from the ones they’ve taken. Even as silhouettes, there’s something wrong with them. They move too gracefully, like they’re dancers who can hear music I can’t. And when they’re still, they’re too still. They’re all tall and lean and wear what looks like Renaissance Faire cosplay, and if I wasn’t looking right at them I wouldn’t think they were real. I still don’t think they’re real.

In addition to my sister, my twin, there seem to be three more people. Real people. A college-aged boy playing guitar, staring without seeing. A couple of hikers. The entire macabre party sits or stands or reclines around a massive bonfire, flames licking up a cage of tented branches. We learned about Guy Fawkes Night — Bonfire Night — in AP European History. If that’s what they’re celebrating, they’re too early by a month, and also on the wrong side of the Atlantic.

A shiver goes down my spine that has nothing to do with the autumn chill.

I recognize my sister’s silhouette. Taryn sits back on her heels, her hands on both knees, her back unusually straight. She doesn’t seem hurt. If she were herself, she’d scold me for following her here. After all, she was just sneaking out to meet some boy she bumped into at the mall today. I couldn’t explain my suspicions, the way the hair prickled at the back of my neck. Her smile was a little too dreamy. But I let her go. And I followed her.

Taryn stopped wearing the berry necklaces our parents gave us when we were thirteen or fourteen. Even though I am also too old to believe in superstitions, I never did. Now the string of dried rowan berries loops around my neck, hidden under my black turtleneck. I touch the fabric, feeling it through the cotton. Maybe it will save me tonight.

I draw a breath and step out from the bushes. In my hands, I am carrying the biggest stick I could find. It’s not as thick as a baseball bat — I should have brought a baseball bat — but if I have to hit someone, it’ll hurt. That’s what counts.

“Hey!” I shout.

The guitarist doesn’t stop playing. In fact, none of the humans look at me. But all of them do. The faeries. They are so beautiful they turn the corner into being terrifying. Like otherworldly models, specifically the ones from the nineties, with the cheekbones. Heroin chic, kind of, except they all have this glow that has nothing to do with the firelight. Their ears are pointed. Their fingers are too long. Their smiles are too sharp. My brain hurts.

At least they’re easy to tell apart. There are three boys and one girl. The boys all have different-colored hair: red, blond, black. The girl has long blue hair. She reclines on a cushion near the red-haired boy. One of the hikers combs her hair with a carved seashell, a glazed look on her face. The other hiker offers an apple to the blond boy, perfectly subservient. The last boy, his hair blacker than the dead of night, wears a silver circlet and lounges on two more cushions. He has a cup — a goblet — raised to his mouth. Dark liquid shines at the corners of his lips. I am afraid it’s blood, but I realize it’s probably wine.

I know very little about faeries, because faeries weren’t real until tonight. I take stock of what I do know: don’t accept food or drink from them; don’t trust them; they can’t lie; something about iron. That’s all. It’s not much. I hope it’s enough.

Standing there, brandishing my stick, it doesn’t feel like enough at all.

The black-haired boy squints at the contents of his goblet. “It’s too early for me to have drunk so much already,” he murmurs, almost to himself. Then he addresses the blonde boy. “Am I the only one seeing double?”

“No,” says the redhead, the one sitting next to Taryn. He looks fox-like in a way that I can’t quite explain. The color of his hair, maybe, or the point of his chin. “I see her, too. Kin?”

“Twins,” says the girl, sounding vaguely intrigued. “How very mortal.”

The blond boy knocks the apple out of the hiker’s hand. “Well? Go and get it,” he says to the hiker, but he is watching me. Apparently the people they’ve already caught are no longer as interesting as I am.

The first boy sighs, but then he grins at me, a cat who’s cornered a mouse. “Welcome, twin sister. Won’t you join us? Come and sup at our fire.”

There’s something under his words, like a hidden current in still waters that might pull me out to sea. But it just washes over me. I ground my stance and raise my stick higher. “Let Taryn go,” I say. “Before I decide to play softball with your heads.”

The boy frowns. Something tells me it’s not because of my threat. The girl looks slightly nervous. “Cardan?”

“Perhaps a charm,” the fox boy suggests, but he is now interested too.

“Mortals don’t know enough to wear charms,” snaps the blond boy. He stalks over to me, and I prepare to swing, even though I think it will just make him mad. “Perhaps if we strip her bare—”

“I will scream,” I threaten. The bark of my stick digs into my palms. I try to sound angry instead of scared. “I will scream and someone will hear and they will call the police.”

“Let them,” says the girl, tossing her shining hair. “More guests.”

The black-haired boy, Cardan, raises his hand. “Peace, Valerian,” he says to the blond boy, who scoffs and sits down cross-legged by the fire. “What kind of hosts are we? Surely we must extend to her some hospitality. What is your name, twin sister?”

Name. Something about faeries and names? Why does that strike a chord? I press my lips together and shake my head.

“This one knows something of our kind,” the fox boy remarks. “Enough to know there is power in names. Don’t be afraid.” His voice is gentle. I almost want to believe him. “Mortal names grant no power. We must call you something.”

I bite my lower lip. “Jude,” I say. It’s just one part of my name. Harmless, I hope. “And yours?”

“Locke,” he says. “My companions are Valerian, Nicasia, daughter of Orlagh, Queen of the Undersea, and Prince Cardan of Elfhame. Can we not convince you to join us? It is an honor for any mortal to dine in such esteemed company.”

“That’s fine.” My mouth is oddly dry. “I just want my sister back. Then I’ll leave you to… whatever this is. And I won’t tell anyone what I saw.”

“But we had such plans for Taryn.” Nicasia reaches up across Locke’s lap to wrap her finger around a lock of Taryn’s hair. “She’s such a soft thing. So fragile.”

My sister doesn’t move, and I shiver. Some kind of magic? Every single nerve in my body is screaming at me to run away before I’m spelled too. But I can’t leave Taryn. I refuse.

I shrug. “You’ll just have to cancel your plans, I guess. It happens.”

“Does it?” asks Cardan. His eyes, blacker than his hair, fix on me. He chuckles. “Perhaps we can make a deal, Jude the mortal. Answer one riddle for us and your sister goes free. How does that sound?”

“Good,” I say before thinking. My brain catches up a second later. “A little too good, actually. What happens if I get it wrong?”

“We keep the pair of you,” Valerian sneers. There are chuckles among the group, and I don’t like it. They seem to know something I don’t.

“The terms are more than fair,” Cardan prompts, smiling at me. “Do you accept?”

I want so badly to wipe that smile off his face, but I am outnumbered. I would lose a brawl. I would never get Taryn away. At least if I play this game with them I stall for time. “Do you swear she’ll go free?”

“I swear it.”

I give him a sharp nod and lower my stick. Faeries can’t lie. “Then I accept.”

He leans back against his cushions. “Tell me, then, what it is that never drinks but grows when fed?”

I wait for the rest.

“That’s all,” he says, with a flutter of his hand. “Well?”

For a moment, my mind goes completely blank and I’m sure I will fail. Then a breeze stirs my hair, and the bonfire crackles. My brow furrows. It seems too easy. “A fire?”

“Well done,” says Cardan. “Locke, send the sister home.”

Nicasia pouts, but Locke leans over and whispers something in my sister’s ear. Taryn stands and turns away from the fire, toward me. I am so relieved to see her whole, with the blush she’d put on before she went out still pinking her cheeks, that I don’t notice Valerian until he’s grabbed me from behind.

“What the fuck!” I yell, trying to kick his shin, to step on his foot. He is much stronger than I thought, and his grip doesn’t break. Taryn, seeming to notice nothing, walks into the trees and out of my sight. “You swore! You said—”

“I said we’d send your sister home,” says Cardan. “And home she goes. I said nothing about letting you go with her.” He raises his goblet to me in a mock-toast. “You must really be more careful when striking bargains.”

Next

[grxceblqckthxrn]

TDA characters as types of tiktokers

y’all KNOW i’m bored when i’m doing this shit lmao 

i’ll get around to doing the other TSC characters eventually TDA was just the first to come to mind also if you’re not actively on tiktok some of what i say might not make sense ahaha

also i named some tiktokers who yall can use for reference for some of them and from what i’ve seen they’re all fairly unproblematic so you should check them out!!

EMMA CARSTAIRS

okay so she’s DEFINITELY super popular and she uses her platform for good

she’s really funny and a lot of her audios go viral posts videos of her dancing saying that she cant dance but she’s actually really good at it

6M followers and growing fast 

 hypes up her boyfriend’s account ALL the time

calls out misogynistic/racist tiktokers through duets and KEEPS THEIR TAG IN THE CAPTION  

 she is not afraid of starting drama lmao

occasionally hops on POV and transition trends but its usually satire 

emma can’t act for shit lmao 

super active on tiktok and has a spam account

people are always asking her to drop the skin care routine but she doesn’t have one?? 

*pushes Zara down* “and no one’s gonna help her?? WOW some world we live in”

JULIAN BLACKTHORN

there’s no way he doesnt  have an art account lmao

a lot of his paintings go viral but 90% of his comments are 14 year old girls thirsting over him

yall know that pottery guy on tiktok?? the cute one?? (i searched up his account just for this post he’s @/daxnewman769) that’s the best way to describe him

literally all the famous tiktokers commission him

probably has like 4M followers lmao

will occasionally make about how respecting women doesn’t make you a “simp”

doesn’t get into tiktok drama tho

posts candid videos of emma and all his jealous 14 year old fans get so pressed but he shuts down anyone who says anything bad about her

sometimes does painting or drawing tutorials and he’s really good at teaching stuff lmao

CRISTINA ROSALES

omg okay so like yall know those really pretty girls on tiktok who are literal models and are always dropping tips on how to frame your face for pictures and best clothes and poses and whatever  ( @/ameliezilber is the first person that came to mind as an example)

thats her

alot of her content is just for the aesthetic

BLING EFFECT

GRWM’s all the time

10 step skin care routine 

GOOD VIBES

has a pretty decent following?? like at least 2 million

has a spam but it’s exactly the same as her main lol

also calls out problematic tiktokers but not by name

her entire account is full of body positivity and does a bunch of stuff on loving yourself

sometimes does POVs and all the comments are like “@ netflix hire her rn”

sometimes posts crack videos with emma and cute vids with mark and kieran

MARK BLACKTHORN

does a lot of reaction videos and duets

a lot of his videos go viral but he doesn’t have a huge following like maybe 800k

 everyone still knows him

gets at least twenty “are you wearing only one contact” comment about his eyes every post

he’s really funny without even realizing it 

sometimes goes inactive for weeks at a time and just forgets that tiktok exists lmao

shows off kieran and cristina ALL THE MF TIME AND EVERYONE IS SO JEALOUS LIKE HOW ARE ALL OF THEM HOT

KIERAN 

doesnt have a tiktok lmao sorry

but shows up so much on mark’s and cristina’s that a lot of people know who he is

DIANA WRAYBURN

unironically does POVs but is actually good at them??

lots of videos talking about the struggles of minorities like LGBTQ+ and POC and women

posts a lot of those vidoes that are like “what to do if you ever get kidnapped” “red flags in relationships” “most powerful parts of the body” etc

probably has like 500k followers 

at the end of the day she doesn’t really use tiktok that much tho ahaha

LIVVY BLACKTHORN:

does a little bit of everything??

posts dance videos sometimes 

omg her transitions are SO good

everyone is in love with her and she has to remind them that she’s a minor (i’m just a kid plays aggressively in the background)

posts videos that are just vibes?? like her skating at night, dancing in traffic with dru/her friends, walking through the city at night etc

lots of lip syncing videos to whatever sounds are popular and all her comments are like “i wish i looked like this” “guess im not eating today” and she gets so upset :((

she wants everyone to know that they’re perfect the way they are!!

also posts POVs sometimes and she’s not that bad at them ahaha 

probably has like 1 million followers 

doesn’t even need a spam just posts everything on her main 

shouts out her sibilings accounts all the time

overall just great energy

TY BLACKTHORN

never posts his face on his main but he does on his spam

yall know those accounts that post fun facts or psychology facts?? his is like that except he talks to explain them and everyone finds his voice SO calming 

he posts a lot of content of animals and everyone is in AWE with how good he is with them

his username is probably theanimalwhisperer or something djkfskjd

every single time he posts Kit on his account all the comments are like “OOH ICU” and “SHIP” and “ASK HIM OUT ALREADY”

he gives 0 shits about popularity on tiktok he’s just posting for fun because he likes teaching people about his interests

so he has like maybe 500k followers

lots of philosophical questions that has everyone questioning their existence

ugh i love him

KIT HERONDALE

be honest this is what y’all were waiting for 

yall know those unproblematic ppl that everyone refers to as the “king(s) of tiktok”???

yeah thats him

SO FUNNY

LIKE HIS CONTENT IS GENUINELY HILARIOUS

lots of sarcasm and satire

think @/adamkindacool  ?? (one of my favourite tiktokers lmao)

does reaction videos for those “pov: im the annoying hot cheeto girl sitting next to you in math class” videos

dark humor (not like rude humor but actual dark humor)

like “i put the baby in the oven and the pizza in the bed” type of jokes back when those were a thing

has like 4M followers but almost every single one of his posts go viral so he’s gaining fast

lots of pranks

starts a bunch of trends

any video he posts of Mina goes viral

sometimes he posts some really weird stuff that has everyone laughing so hard irl (@/benoftheweek)

he NEVER thirst traps but still gets a lot of those weird sexual fairy comments on his posts (iykyk)

TO BE CLEAR I MEAN THE FAIRY EMOJI ONES NOTHING TO DO WITH HIM BEING FAE 

reacts to the comments with a video of him just staring at the screen with the “oh to see without my eyes” or “im just sixteen” audio going on in the background which only encourages them to make more weird comments

anyways everyone loves him

any of his povs are pure jokes meant to make fun of pov’ers

posts maybe one serious tiktok every 5 months that talks about being respectful and using your platform for good

“i miss old tiktok”

posts a lot of random videos of Ty where, again, all the comments are shipping them except even more so on his account because everyone can see his heart eyes for Ty

collabs with Dru a lot and does a bunch of duets of her videos

everyone loves him bye

DRU BLACKTHORN

SO many memes

she deletes any hate in her comments bc she honestly doesnt care to respond to them and doesn’t need that kind of negativity in her life

but one time she got a “the f in women stands for funny” comment and she WENT OFF

does really dark povs sometimes that are really interesting

CLOWN MAKEUP + SCARY CLOWN TIKTOKS ( think @/avani ‘s clown make up posts

REALLY good at makeup and sometimes gets julian to do scary makeup on her for tiktoks and povs (like those ones with stitches over the mouth or skin peeling off)

huge ally!! posts a lot about minorities struggles and white privilege, and acknowledges hers

does movie reviews and stuff sometimes

“types of” videos

pulls a lot of pranks on her sibilings with livvy and sometimes with Kit

lots of body positivity + self love

calls out back-handed compliments

also has a lot of content like Livvy’s of just vibing in LA

julian and emma and mark go off at anyone who sexualize her in the comments

probably has like 650k followers

posts a couple of times a week

BONUS: 

JAIME ROSALES

lots of skateboarding videos idk he just gives me that vibe

doesn’t post that often but is super popular

like maybe 1.5M followers

really passionate about systematic racism

HATES all those privileged white boys using the “this is america” audio to pretend they’re oppressed ( this is a may 2020 thing so it probably wont make sense to anyone who sees this after lmao)

POSTS A LOT OF THIRST TRAPS LMAO 

also posts lots of videos that’s just him yelling about stuff but they’re really entertaining to watch ( like that guy sebastian @/sauceyogranny)

everyone thinks he’s super hot he always shows up in those “hottest boys on tiktok” videos except sometimes he’s just the token POC boy and it makes him mad :( 

DIEGO ROSALES

HIS ACCOUNT IS SO PRACTICAL LMAO

lots of tips 

“what to do if you’re trapped in the desert” “what to do if you’re kidnapped and stuck in the trunk”

doesnt reply to comments EVER unless it’s to clarify a point he made in the video or answer a question

has like 200k

okay thats it lmao im done bye this took me like an hour to make

i’ll get to all the other characters from the other series’ eventually 

also if yall are wondering abt the lack of f*ckbois in this post they’re coming dw

TMI CHARACTERS AS TYPES OF TIKTOKERS

TID CHARACTERS AS TYPES OF TIKTOKERS 

TLH CHARACTERS AS TYPES OF TIKTOKERS

[teaspoon-full-of-sugar]

tangled up in blue

pairing: harry styles x plus size!reader

warnings: fluff, comfort, mentions of anxiety, kinda angsty

word count: 4.4k

synopsis: harry has a rude encounter with a fan

author’s note: sorry for another rushed ending, but other than that, i hope you enjoy xx all the love

masterlist

—

It’s his first day off in weeks, and he is taking full advantage of it. After such a stressful few months, he wants nothing more than to spend this short break with his girlfriend. 

It’s two in the afternoon before he gets out of bed, and that’s only because the weak little grumbling in his stomach became too much to ignore. With no real food in the house, Y/N called in an order to their regular place, as long as he is the one who picks it up. 

He decides to walk, since the restaurant is only a few blocks away from his home, but when he catches a couple paps trying to get pictures a little ways down the road, he knew he should have driven. He’s glad Y/N stayed home, since photos of her rarely get out, and he knows that she wouldn’t have been comfortable with it. 

He sighs, trying to not let them ruin his first relaxing day in a while, but it’s hard. Harry likes his privacy, and sadly, he chose the wrong career. He would never say that he hates what he does. He loves being able to bring joy and kindness to people who really need it, even if it is just for a couple of minutes. 

He just wishes he could have some more space and privacy and freedom to do his own thing. He wishes he could go out on his day off without being stopped or having people trying (and failing) to take a sneaky picture of him, which, again, is an absolute invasion of his privacy. 

He would never snap at anyone, well, no one except the paparazzi, not only because he was taught early on that he shouldn’t do that, but also because he wasn’t that type of person. While he still may not be used to the significance of his stardom, he still understands that he is a role model to many people, and he needs to act as such.  

“I have an order to pick up,” he says to the hostess, who just stares at him for a second, jaw dropped slightly. It’s not the usual woman who gives him his orders, so he gives her a moment. She bounces back rather quickly. 

“Uh, what’s the name?” She asks, trying not to draw any unwanted attention toward him, which he appreciates. 

“Y/N.” 

She taps away at the register, tells him the total, and he pays. 

“I’ll go check and see if your order’s done. If not, it should be just a couple of minutes.”

“No problem.” He smiles. 

“Harry?” 

He turns to see a nervous looking girl with a bright tee knotted around her middle and a pretty pearl necklace tight around her neck. She brushes a tuft of brown hair over her shoulder, fiddling with her fingers. She’s only a little shorter than him, but she still doesn’t meet his eye. 

“C-could I get a picture?” 

He honestly doesn’t want to. 

He knows that one photo will lead to dozens more, and he just wants to get his food, go home, and cuddle up with Y/N, but she looks sweet, and the hopeful look in her eyes makes him cave.

“Sure,” he says weakly, taking a quick photo. 

“How’s Y/N?” The girl asks when she puts her phone away, desperate for a little more time with him. A beaming smile takes over his features, and he sits on a stool at the bar, feet tucking behind the bottom bars. It’s not very often he gets asked about her, but whenever he does, he takes full advantage of it; that is, of course, if the person seems genuinely interested and not just asking him for the sake of conversation. 

The public was a little less than understanding or supportive of their relationship when it was, forcibly, made known. Being friends and neighbors since childhood, Y/N has been a present figure in the early parts of his life. They grew further and further apart after he left for The X Factor, to the point where they didn’t even speak to each other. It was tough because she wanted absolutely nothing to do with the life that he led, and he couldn’t just give up everything he worked so hard toward. 

They reconnected some years ago when he was visiting home, and she had a break from uni. It was a slow build to what it is today, mostly because Y/N was hesitant about everything that came with being with him, like distance between them, negative publicity, and, of course, his fans, but, as she always said, he made everything worth it. 

When their relationship was leaked in the press, they had to prematurely address the rumors. Not that Harry is embarrassed or ashamed of her, quite the opposite, really, but he just had one too many relationships fall apart due to the pressure the media put on them. He didn’t want to put Y/N through that; he didn’t want to see her to realize that, perhaps, he wasn’t worth the negative attention. 

“She’s great,” he says. “We’re gonna go hiking later this evening, hopefully get a good view of the sunset.” 

“That’s nice,” she smiles, happy that he’s happy, and he breathes out a sigh of relief. It’s refreshing to meet someone who is actually 

His smile fades when a girl behind him scoffs. 

“That’s surprising.” 

He wants to believe that she’s not commenting on his conversation, but he knows better than anyone that she’s listening in; hell, he could feel the eyes of everyone in the diner the second he stepped inside, but just because he’s been doing this for years doesn’t mean that he’s not immune to the voices and the stares. He’s gotten pretty good at being able to ignore them, and he tries his best to do the same with her. 

The brunette, who also seems to have noticed the girl behind him, flushes red, pity apparent on her features. He gives her an uncomfortable, closed mouth smile, trying to focus back on their own conversation. 

“I mean, have you seen her?” The girl behind him continues, laughing lightly. 

It makes his chest ache, anger settling deep in his stomach, burning and vengeful. Never has anyone made such blatant comments about her; they normally say that sort of stuff behind the safety of a screen and certainly not right in front of him. He knows what people say about his love. They make negative comments every little thing about her, the biggest one being her weight, and he never says anything because Y/N thinks that it would make everything worse, but she’s not here to hold him back. 

He turns to face the girls behind him. The one whose back is still facing toward him, leaned in close to the other, as though that’s enough to hide what she’s saying. 

“I beg your pardon?” 

They’re both young, but surely old enough to know better. One of the girls, with brown hair with a pink strip in the front, blanches when he catches her eye, an apologetic look on her face; she looks close to tears, even, stuttering hopelessly. 

“Dee—” 

“I didn’t expect him to be a chubby chaser.”

“Excuse me?” 

The girl with bright red hair, Dee, he assumes, finally turns to face him, a shameless smirk on her face. 

“I am so sorry,” the brunette begins, but her friend, fueled by desperation and spite, cocks her head to the side, chest puffing out beneath a “Treat People with Kindness” shirt, the rainbow colored words taunting him. 

How ironic. 

“I mean… am I wrong?” She asks, looking at him expectantly. 

“How dare you?” He seethes, standing fully, towering over her seated figure. He knows he shouldn’t be giving her the slightest bit of attention. That’s exactly what she wants, to get a reaction out of him, and he’s playing into her game, but he honestly doesn’t care. A heated red paints his skin, trailing up from his neck to the tip of his nose. He can barely breathe, let alone speak clearly, frustration and anger choking him. 

He struggles to find his voice, but when he does, he can’t stop them from spilling out, malice and disgust dripping with every word. 

“I have never been so disappointed and ashamed in someone who claims to be a fan of mine. How can you wear that shirt while passing judgement on someone I love very much, who you have never seen or met? And I pray that you will never meet her because she doesn’t deserve such vile things being said about her.”

He turns to see the hostess with a large paper bag in a stunned silence, and he takes it from her wordlessly. 

“I’m sorry,” he mutters to the sweet girl, ashamed that he snapped like he did, but she gives him a proud smile and moves, so he can leave. 

—

Someone apparently recorded the encounter, and the video is trending on Twitter by the time he gets home. Jeff is the one who told him about it, sending him a link and a long message about how much of a PR nightmare it’s going to be. Especially when the reception is less than positive. While some think he was being too nice, others are saying that he shouldn’t have lashed out (their words, not his) at someone who is a fan and supports him, but Harry knows that there is no winning. Everyone always finds something to say about things that are clearly none of their business. He even saw a few comments about Y/N, how she should fight her own battles and not have Harry do them for her. 

They make him feel nauseous. 

“Hey, babe,” he says as he enters their apartment, Munchy, Y/N’s cat, weaving and purring between his legs. Whenever he gets home, he can feel the stresses of the day shrink to nothing, and he’s finally able to relax. A smile creeps over his face when he sees her, leaning against the counter with a mug of tea cupped in her hands. She hasn’t changed out of the boxers and the large yellow tee from that morning, but her hair is still wet from a shower, the scent of her fruity soap strong. 

“Hey,” she says softly, and he leans in for a kiss, only for her to turn at the last moment, lips unfortunately pressing to her cheek. She takes the bag from him. 

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” she says, tugging the takeaway boxes from the bag, not even offering him a glance. 

He knows that she’ll tell him what’s really wrong in her own due time, so he can’t push her; that makes it worse for everyone involved. However, he has gotten pretty good at coaxing it out of her. All it takes is a little patience and affection, and she’s putty in his hands. 

He presses kisses to her temple, tracing his lips down the length of her tender skin to the shell of her ear, nibbling playfully. He dips his hand beneath her shirt, feeling her stomach tense beneath his touch. After such an exhausting day, he just wants to be with her, feel her warmth and love. He’s never really been able to find comfort or safety in any of his past lovers, and when he found that in Y/N, he never misses an opportunity to shower her with affection, teasing and biting at her skin. He just wants to melt and forget about his problems, to just be there, in the present, with her. 

His little bubble is popped when she shoves his hand away, probably harder than she really meant to, but it hurts him, nonetheless. She turns and gives him a weak little smile, her eyes, glassy and unable to meet his gaze. She looks like a shell, nervous and empty, and he knows exactly why she’s acting the way she is. She must have seen the video and probably the nasty comments people left about her. 

“Baby—” 

“Let’s eat, yeah?” She changes the subject, pulling out some silverware from the drawer.  “This one mine?” 

“Yeah, your usual,” he says softly. 

They eat in an awkward silence, old sitcom reruns playing in the background, tension thick in the air. He can’t focus on anything but her breaths, shaky and shallow with anxiety. He knows that this entire situation is weighing heavily on her mind, and he needs to get everything off his chest. He wants to pull her into his arms, stroke her hair, and tell her to not listen to anything anyone says, that she’s it for him. 

It's going to happen, all in due time; he’ll get nowhere if he doesn’t go at her pace. 

“You shouldn’t have done that,” she mutters suddenly, picking at her food. “Not that I don’t appreciate it, but I don’t want you putting your career at stake by standing up for me.”

He understands; he knows what it feels like to constantly be worried about what other people think, to have it impact every single decision you make. He’s mulled over everything he’s done for the past decade, but, at the same time, he’s her boyfriend first. He could honestly give a damn about his public image if it meant he had to stand by a listen to people say those nasty things about her. 

“You would do the same for me,” he says, and she sighs. 

“It’s not the same thing.” 

“I don’t understand why we're arguing about this,” he says abruptly, placing his food onto the side table and turning fully toward her. 

“I’m not—” She breathes out quickly, standing up. She tugs her clothes down, loosening them, and she crosses her arms, feeling vulnerable for some reason. Harry has never passed any judgement to her for the way she looked, knowing full well that she’s struggled with her weight her entire life, but this entire situation is making her feel insecure and weak and anxious. She feels like he is going to think that she’s being too sensitive about it, melodramatic about the severity of their comments. 

“I’m not trying to start an argument. I just don’t think you understand that there’s going to be a lot of backlash for this.”

She’s embarrassed that he even needs to stand up for her. He should be with someone who is used to being in the spotlight, and, most importantly, he deserves to be able to go out with someone without people commenting or staring. He shouldn’t be with someone who makes people wonder why he’s with her, of all people. 

It’s not only her physical appearance that people comment on; she’s seen fans talk about how Harry doesn’t go out anymore, how she is never present at any concerts or any other special events, even though they don’t know she has severe social anxiety and a career that keeps her from being with him all the time. She truly wishes she could be all of those things for him, but she can’t, and that’s what breaks her heart the most. 

Harry deserves nothing less than the world, and he settled for her. 

And with everyone else in the world questioning why he chose her, of all people, why wouldn’t he think the same? 

“There would be even more backlash if I had just ignored it, right?” 

“Yeah, I guess you’re right,” she says, “but, it’s not like it’s going to stop people from saying—” 

She can’t even say it, their all too familiar words leaving a bitter taste in her mouth. No matter how many times Harry tells her to pay no mind to their comments, she can’t help it. She truly hates how much other people’s opinions about her impact her, with paralyzing fear and doubt filtering through her thoughts on a daily basis, but she can’t help it. 

“Saying what?”

“You know,” she whimpers, eyes glassy. “No matter what you do, there will always be people who say that I don’t deserve you. There will always be people out there who think I’m ugly o-or too fat for you and—” She chokes on her words, tears finally breaking through. A weak sob leaves her lips, faint and broken. “It’s not like it’s not true, so there’s no point in fighting it if it’s going to ruin your reputation.” 

She starts to pace, one hand tucking into the curve of her waist while the other pinches the bridge of her nose, feeling a headache forming.

“Whoa, hey, okay,” he stutters, standing. He holds onto her arms, hands rubbing over her cool skin, trying to comfort her, but she weakly pushes him away again, rubbing her nose. She pulls at the bottom of her shirt and wipes away her tears, leaving it wrinkled and wet. She sniffles, struggling to keep the panic from growing any further in her chest, heart racing painfully. 

She moves into their bedroom, and he follows close behind, their food long forgotten as she tries to control her breathing. 

“What’s this really about?” He asks. She pauses, her shoulders visibly sinking, and she sits on the foot of the bed, hooking her feet on the footboard. She cradles legs to her chest and tugs her shirt over them, forehead pressed against her knees. 

She’s exhausted at this point. Ever since she saw the video and the comments, she’s been torn. She’s grateful that Harry said something; it made her hopeful that maybe it would make them stop, even if it was for only a day, but when she saw people actually defending the girl who said those terrible things about her, all of that pride was pulled away, leaving nothing behind other than debilitating anxiety and bone-chilling fear. 

She just wants the day to be over, as if that will make everything go away. 

She knows that they need to talk about it, but she’s afraid. She’s afraid of what this conversation could lead to; he could realize that he doesn’t want to deal with everything anymore or that he doesn’t want to deal with the strain that it puts on his relationship with the public. 

The bed shifts as he kneels beside her, hand pressing against the small of her back.

“Y/N, please, don’t shut me out,” he whispers. She whimpers when he kisses her temple, an attempt at trying to ease her out of this miserable hole she’s dug for herself. She finally looks up at him with swollen, burning eyes, tears threatening to fall. 

“I just don’t want you to wake up one day and realize that I’m not worth all of this. You shouldn’t even need to say anything to people.”

“You’re right. I shouldn’t have to say anything to them, but that has absolutely nothing to do with you. I have to say things because of all of the judgmental people in the world, who body shame the woman that I love, a woman who they know absolutely nothing about.” 

“I don’t want you to start believing them, and I just don’t want you to regret me.”

“Why would I ever regret you?” 

“Why wouldn’t you?” She snaps, her lips quivering. “I’m not like the others.” 

“That’s what I love about you.”

“I’m not cut out for this,” she cries.

Hurt passes over his features, and the words die on his tongue. A pinch of fear starts in his stomach and spreads up to his heart, which races painfully, chills rushing through his spine. 

“What are you saying?” 

She doesn’t answer; she can’t. She didn’t mean for it to slip out. It’s usually just a passing thought when her insecurities come at full force. She’s never actually said it aloud, for fear of its repercussions. She doesn’t want to lose him. Even if she isn’t cut out for this sort of lifestyle, he is worth absolutely everything. 

“Y/N,” he says, cupping her cheeks. He wipes away her tears with his thumbs, but more fall to replace the ones he tried to clear. He hates how much this has affected her, and he hates that it’s his fault, too. She holds onto his wrists, fingers trailing up and down his heated skin, from his calloused hands to his elbows, their gaze never breaking. 

“I love you. Nothing anyone says will make me feel differently. Would you still love me if I gained a ton of weight or if I was just skin and bones?”

“Of course,” she says quickly. 

“This is no different,” he smiles. “I do regret many things in my life. I regret some choices I’ve made, I regret things I’ve said, and I regret being selfish. But you?” He shakes his head. “You will never be one of my regrets. You are beautiful inside and out. You make me want to be better, you make me look forward to every new day, and you give me strength.” 

Her heart swells at his words. Harry has always been a very emotive man when it came to her. He was never ashamed to let her know exactly how he felt, probably because of the years where he felt hopeless and couldn’t express himself fully. He leans in a little closer, his forehead resting against hers, and she can feel her worries tapering off with every shallow breath. 

“My love, you have no idea what you do to me,” he whispers, rubbing his nose against hers. He brushes away her tears, leaving her skin sticky. “Not one fuckin’ clue about the nights where I wanted nothing more than to be just with you, to be able to see you and laugh with you. Remember the night before my audition? And I asked if I could kiss you because I’d never kissed anyone before, and I didn’t want to seem like an absolute dud.” 

She nods. 

She pondered over that night for years. He was rambling and nervous, but she didn’t hear anything after he asked if he could kiss her, her mind going completely blank. Of course, she said yes. She had a crush on him for years, how could she say no? Even if it was just once, if it was just one fleeting moment in her life, she held onto it with everything she could. 

It was her first kiss, too, and she was so nervous with trembling hands and clammy skin. It seemed too good to be true: the boy she’s liked since as long as she could remember was going to kiss her; perhaps, there was hope for them after all. 

When they pulled apart, his hair messy and cheeks rosy, she thought that he was going to kiss her again. From the look in his eyes, he seemed like he was completely enamored with her, at a loss for breath with a soft gaze, but he didn’t. Her mind was playing tricks on her because all he said was “thanks”, and he laid back down, on his side, not even facing her. The hope she felt was crushed. Then, he left the next morning, and they never spoke about it again. The memory of that night leaves her heart aching. 

“Bullshit, all of it. I jus’ wanted to know how your lips would feel against mine, how soft and warm your body would feel. For months, I would think about that night, and I wished I could go back and tell you the truth, that I loved you. You have no idea how grateful I am to have you back in my life, to have you here, by my side, to hold and love.” 

As she gazes into his eyes, she can feel the truth in his words, the dedication, and the pain, most of all. 

He doesn’t want to lose her like he did all those years ago. 

He felt the same during those years apart, hopelessly wandering into the arms of various lovers to try to replace what he felt for her. He’s spent nearly an entire decade, searching for that one person to fill the void in his heart that Y/N claimed when they were just kids, much like she had with him. He yearned for a person, who would support and loyalty him just as she had, but they never cared as deeply as he did, nor did they feel and love just as strongly as he did. 

“I love you for everything you are, not just your heart or your mind but also your beautiful body, babylove. Don’t let anyone tell you any differently.” 

His lips tease over hers, just barely touching before she finally catches his lips after such a painstakingly long moment of silence after his confession, and they both are overwhelmed with the feeling of absolute relief, like they’re finally able to breathe.

He guides her onto her back, his knee nestling between her legs, blue sheets bunched up around her waist. He gently eases his hand below her shirt, fingers faint on the soft and pliant skin. She combs her nails through his hair, scratching and teasing. Her body alive and heated beneath his touch, they melt into each other, forgetting everything wrong with the world and focusing solely on each other, the pinch of teeth biting lips and the rush of chills down her spine. He feels up her thighs, tender touch on her soft skin, but she pulls away from him, fingers still latched in his hair, hesitation clear on her features. 

“Please,” he whispers. “Jus’ wanna make you feel good.” He kisses her beneath the curve of her jaw, the warmth of his breath leaving her heart racing. “Wanna make you feel loved, make you feel as beautiful as you are.” 

There’s not many things Harry can find safety with. Since his life in the public eye, he’s had to make a lot of sacrifices. It’s difficult to find considerate strangers, safe refuges, and genuine friends, but he knows that he can always find solace with her, in their home, together, blanketed in warmth and tangled up in blue. 

—

[sepublic]

Eda learning to be Luz’s teacher

           You know what? I have to wonder if the reason why Eda was initially so hesitant about teaching Luz magic, and constantly procrastinated on this fact… Was because she already knew that humans couldn’t do magic, and didn’t want to break the girl’s heart by being upfront about this fact? When Episode 2 starts, basically right after Eda sort of agrees to teach Luz without taking it too seriously, she’s in no rush. Eda even laughs off Luz’s dreams of being a chosen one, because she didn’t realize it meant that much to the kid! But then Eda sees how her cold rejection and mockery of Luz’s dreams led her to fall for Adegast’s trickery…

          And after reassuring Luz with ideas of determining one’s fate, Eda realized that learning magic really DID mean a lot to Luz; And after the Adegast incident which she feels responsible for, Eda doesn’t want to disappoint Luz again, especially after initially being so harshly dismissive of Luz’s dreams. Eda was a kid who was very disappointed that she couldn’t learn all nine forms of magic, and she’s someone who’s determined not to put others through the same experiences that she had to suffer, first-hand and without guidance. I can see Eda wanting to avoid being the ‘Bump’ in this situation with Luz (especially since she kind of was), not wanting to trample on Luz’s dreams by being upfront that she can’t learn magic…

           And considering how fond of Luz she is… I have to wonder if Eda deliberately procrastinated on the truth, because she also wanted to keep her around? This could parallel how Luz lied about knowing two spells to Amity in Adventures in the Elements… Eda could’ve also lied under the impression that Luz would no longer want to hang around with her anymore, because Eda might think that Luz is interested in Eda only for her ability to teach magic. If Eda can’t teach Luz magic, then what reason does Luz have to stick around, especially given Eda’s liability as a criminal… And later on as revealed in The Intruder, someone who can transform into a dangerous beast.

           Eda’s used to being rejected by others because of her curse, because of her views on magic, etc. She’s used to rejection, so it’s what she naturally assumes that Luz is inclined towards… That she’s only hanging around Eda because she has no other choice. It’d recontextualize Eda’s grief upon seeing Luz seemingly enroll at Hexside in Episode 3, only to have some relief and even triumph when Luz is banned. Obviously Eda doesn’t want Luz to be indoctrinated, but I wonder if there’s some selfishness about wanting to keep Luz close, or at least a fear that Luz would show disinterest in Eda in favor of a more ‘traditional’ institution.

           Which, again ties into how Luz was afraid that Amity wouldn’t be impressed by her lack of spells, and her assumption that Amity is only interested in Luz because of her unique skills as a witch… Because like Eda, Luz is undervaluing her own personal worth, and how THAT’s what draws people to her, not necessarily her skill in Magic! Luz and Eda could both have an issue with assuming their someone’s last choice, and not their deliberate first one… After all, it’s not exactly wrong of Eda to assume that whatever’s back home for Luz isn’t all too good, given how she chooses a random stranger who’s a criminal over it. To Eda, she could’ve assumed that Luz was driven more by a desire to avoid her home, than a desire to hang around Eda… And Eda doesn’t want to make Luz leave the Owl House, if Luz is apprehensive towards her home that much- Eda wants the best for the kid!

           And while avoiding the Reality Camp was definitely PART of the reason, there was also Luz being genuinely enamored by Eda’s care for King, and her sentiments on weirdoes sticking together! Luz really wanted in on that dynamic! It’s another reason why Eda is so dazzled by Luz after she sticks around… Because even after knowing that there are different schools to learn magic traditionally, even after knowing that Eda’s criminal status could endanger her… Even after knowing that Eda couldn’t even teach her magic, and that Eda was a potential threat because of her curse- Luz still sticks around, because she likes Eda that much.

           In Agony of a Witch, Eda makes a point of how she wants to pay back Luz for all of her kindness by giving her the Witch’s Wool Cloak. I think that after The Intruder, Eda legitimately invested time, effort, and research into Glyphs… Because not only did Luz show her that they existed and they were possible, thus kindling a hope in Eda’s heart to actually teach Luz magic; But I think Eda felt indebted towards the girl. That she really wanted to prove herself to Luz, and be the role model that Luz thinks she is… Like the Good Witch Azura, ironically- Despite Eda’s apprehension towards the saccharine sweetness of those books, she’ll gladly be Azura for Luz, if it makes the girl happy.

           And, this realization of her bond with Luz, could’ve played a part in Eda getting over her apprehension towards Hexside, swallowing her pride to enroll Luz in. Because by the end of the day, Eda recognizes that she just wants the best for Luz, that she doesn’t want to selfishly keep the girl to herself, and inhibit Luz in the process (which could be antithetical to how Lilith felt about Eda but I digress). It’s that “If you love me let me go” meme, except it’s Eda feeling like Luz is better off without her, to an extent… And while she IS right about her own shortcomings as a teacher, or at least that Luz deserves to learn from more than one source- I think there’s still that lingering insecurity that Eda has to live up to what Luz wants her to be, that cool, powerful witch.

           That makes it sweet when Luz makes it clear to Eda, mutually, during the Season Finale –when the two reunite at the Conformatorium- that she really loves Eda for who she is, and would give up everything for her… And Eda sees that Luz’s love for her has become unconditional. And similarly, Eda reassures Luz that she loves the girl, that Luz doesn’t have to feel like she owes her anything… Just being with one another, or at least seeing the other be happy, is enough. When Eda tells Luz to save herself, it’s not a rejection of their companionship as Luz fears; It’s Eda prioritizing Luz. Regardless, both Luz and Eda learn that while they want the best for the other, they shouldn’t disregard how much they meant to their loved one either- That maybe their loved one isn’t better off without them, because they DO care…! Eda may prioritize Luz, but she should also value her relationship with the girl as well, because Luz appreciates it too. Even if Luz’s safety comes above her companionship with Eda, who’s to say Eda has to choose between Luz’s safety, and being with the girl- Why can’t she have both, as Luz would defiantly ask?

          There’s nothing to worry about, you’re not parasitically dragging down your loved one with your connection to them, you don’t have to worry about being good enough for them, or being on their level… What you’ve got going on, is good enough just as it is! You’re not holding them back from a better choice, you ARE that loved one’s choice, first and foremost, and you should remember that they had agency when they decided to stick with you! Don’t undersell yourself, and trust in your loved one’s judgment if they decided to hang around with you after all- They have good taste too, believe it or not. Luz is special to Eda, because she validates Eda by seeing her as someone to look up to and emulate, and that encourages Eda to be a true role model in her own right, and live up to those expectations. It gives Eda a purpose in life, when up until then there was that lingering regret that her existence had been wasted. Of course with Luz, she encourages Eda to be the best she can be, but doesn’t necessarily hold it against her if she isn’t…

           So when Luz discovers glyphs and does the impossible, Eda is inspired to do the same- If this kid can do it, so can she! Eda CAN learn to teach magic to this human, after all… So she does her research off-screen. It’s worth noting that Covention happens immediately after The Intruder, as a follow-up to Eda’s change of heart as she decides to be truly serious about teaching Luz magic… And how Luz and Amity are set up to duel one another as representatives of their teachers’ own skills. Eda’s pride comes into play when Lilith assumes that Luz is a terrible Witch, and it also comes into play when Luz mentions how Eda’s apprentice not knowing two spells is a bad look for Eda herself…

           But at the end of Covention, Luz asks Eda if she’ll ever be a great witch. And we see here that while Eda may have her pride play a little into making Luz learn magic… In the end, she doesn’t expect Luz to be a great witch, just for Eda’s pride. She’s not going to be disappointed in Luz, nor herself. She tells Luz that she’s not beholden to anyone else’s definition of a witch, and that Eda doesn’t truly expect Luz to win on her behalf, for the sake of making Eda look good. Luz can fail all she wants, do her progress at her own pace- It’s why Eda reassures Luz about being a quitter in The First Day, or how she tells Luz that it’s okay that she wasn’t able to take on Grom singlehandedly like she thought she could! It IS also worth noting that Luz wouldn’t be allowed to do magic at all if she lost the Covention duel, so Eda could’ve had that altruistic reasoning behind making Luz cheat- She doesn’t want Luz to lose her chance at magic, after having just discovered it!

           Regardless, it contrasts with Lilith, who DOES have that expectation for Amity to do well, to live up to Lilith’s image and pride… And how Lilith cares so much more for maintaining her own reputation as a teacher, that she makes Amity cheat without her knowledge nor consent, instead of being genuinely interested in gauging Amity’s current skill and progress, and working with that. Lilith was more interested in how she looked to Eda and others as a teacher, than Amity’s actual ability at magic. The possibility of Amity losing is inexcusable for Lilith, that she really goes out of her way to attach the Power Glyph even though her victory should be guaranteed, amidst Lilith rightfully suspecting Eda would cheat of course.

          And that, of course, tells Amity that she is not allowed to lose, that failure is no option… And it just contributes to the pressure and expectations on her, and how she’s not allowed to make mistakes and learn from them, and when she DOES make mistakes, Amity thinks it’s the end of the world and that there’s nothing to salvage from the situation, whatsoever. It conditions Amity to see everything she does as a reflection and extension of others and not her own skills and belief in herself, and that she can’t just enjoy things for the sake of only her happiness. And Amity really undervalues how it’s a lot of her own skill that got her where she is, and not JUST the guidance of a great teacher.

          Lilith was showing a disrespectful lack of confidence in Amity, that she doesn’t really trust the girl, not enough to do something that should be so easy and simple, and it hurts because to Amity it means she’s never good enough, and that maybe there’s something wrong with her that sparks this kind of distrust in her ability; To the point where Lilith can’t even be upfront about her lack of faith in Amity and the application of the Power Glyph, because she doesn’t think the girl can take criticism. That will just make Amity question if people ever really mean it when they praise her; And in turn, lead her to assume that people are secretly lying whenever they tell her that she did good, or at least didn’t do wrong.

           But, I digress. Eda reiterates to Luz at the end of Covention that she doesn’t really care if Luz would’ve won or not (unless it meant Luz losing her chance at magic), which connects to how Luz and Amity’s duel had no definitive winner and was a tie, and a total mess of a match. In contrast to Lilith, who neither reassures Amity, nor does anything to actually check up on the girl afterwards, instead focusing on Eda… Which, Eda IS her sister and she misses her a lot, and Lilith doesn’t get to see Eda often so she’ll milk every last moment with her, but still.

           Either way, Eda considers how she just wants Luz to learn magic for Luz’s own sake, not for Eda’s expectations of her- And while there is the joke of Luz playing into Eda’s pride by getting her to take her to the knee, it’s worth noting that Eda clearly had done her research well before this was brought up, and also that Luz actually needs to know two spells so she can avoid the Baby Class, and learn Magic as she’d like to. And Eda, Eda is a very tsundere character when it comes to affection- So I can see her passing off bringing Luz to the knee as just wanting to look good as a teacher, when in reality it’s because Luz really cares about this and Eda wants to provide.

          I could also get into potential insecurity on Eda’s behalf on failing Luz as a teacher, so she tries to avoid teaching lessons to begin with… You get the idea. Like I said, Luz brings up Eda’s pride because she’s using every reason to learn a second spell because of how desperate she is, as well as the fact that she still has insecurities over paying back Eda for her kindness, through being a great student and thus a reflection of Eda’s skill as a teacher, until Eda reassures Luz once and for all that her love is unconditional in the Season Finale.

           Which, connects us to the idea of Eda not being able to be the conventional, magical teacher that Luz wanted… But she’s still an incredibly potent mentor in her own way, in the important life-lessons she instills Luz with. Amidst Luz proving her own worth as a self-taught learner, making her progress with magic all the more difficult and painstaking to further the disability metaphor, and the idea of Luz and Eda mutually teaching and learning from one another, because they respect one another. It’s all tied up in the final moments of the Season Finale, when Eda can no longer be the teacher she wanted to be for Luz, and is now just a student alongside her- Frequently learning FROM Luz, in fact!

          And Luz… not only does Luz love Eda regardless of magic, but the two of them mutually look forward to the lessons they could have, together. Eda doesn’t have to be the magical teacher that Luz wanted- That frees her up to express vulnerability by being a Magic Student like Luz, acknowledging her shortcomings so Eda can get Luz the best teachers she can… And Luz recognizing Eda’s value as a teacher in a different sense. Luz and Eda both show, teach, and illuminate one another- Individually great on their own, but when combined, Luz and Eda make an unstoppable pair! Before losing her magic, Eda was already learning about glyphs with her research; Now she gets to do it alongside Luz, and has a reason to for both of them.

[kaypeace21]

Hey Kay! I was wondering... I'm thinking of writing a Byler fic. Is there anything that's missing from the current fic library that you think would be good to see, in terms of tropes, characterisation, things to explore, etc? I would also appreciate hearing from your followers. Just any ideas that people would like to see in a fic.

yeah sure ...

1)We need more povs from Mike’s perspective. (Almost all are from Will’s pov - let’s mix it up sometimes)

Mike in canon is the pinning-gay -(overly romantic) whipped one , but we never see it. And he’s pretty much never written this way! Mike in s3 has 6 drawings from Will on his wall  (he kept them up since s1-for years- despite replacing the poster on the same wall). Has even caressed extra drawings of Will’s that he’s kept in his binder.  In s1 wrote a whole story for Will about defeating a monster and giving the king it’s  7 heads (cause Will rolled a 7 when the demogorgan attacked him.) And as a Star Wars fan he had his own character be given a medal by the king (like how leia gave the medal to Han for his heroism.) He attacked people for insulting Will. Literally hates apologizing -but is quick to do so for Will . Boy ran in the pouring rain twice for Will- disobeying cops, the government, and his parents to do so. He initiates every byler moment (arm thing, hand touch, ‘best thing i’ve ever done’, ‘crazy together, right?’, always asking Will “what’s wrong?” or “are you ok?” etc). And was upset at Will dancing with a girl + insecure about Will replacing him -after he moves away.

-but 90% of byler fanfics (don’t get me wrong some are good) are from Will’s pinning perspective. Also do people realize Mike is clearly the more romantic/ emotional open of the 2 while Will is clearly the more emotionally closed off/aloof one?  He loves Mike too- but he’s def less obvious about his feelings- based on how he behaves. Will rarely opens up to people (Mike being an exception). But, it’s never written that way (usually it’s the opposite).  

2) as a gay women all the reductive stereotypes annoy me. it’s obvious when fic writers try to have the gay romance be modeled after het romance- and try to make one into the ‘girl’/ ‘guy’. Duffers don’t stereotype  Mike or Will but a lot of fanfiction writers do in order to make the gay romance resemble a straight one more (canon character traits, be dammed). Please, stop pushing heterosexual dynamics on gay and lesbian couples and trying to make one “the girl” and “the guy”. It’s very offensive and innaccurate.

Because he’s taller and most people head canon him as bi they make Mike a jock (despite in canon having horrible aim and not being able to run as fast as the rest of the gang). And Will (since most see him as gay) is weak/ sucks at sports compared to mike...despite knowing how to use a bat, shoot a gun, and being able to tear castle byers apart with his bare hands . Also nothing in canon shows Will likes to wear makeup and dress in drag (but it’s a constant thing that i’ve heard come up or heard others mention). It would be fine if he wanted to express himself in such a way. And if it only came up in an occasional fic it wouldn’t be a big deal. But it’s such a common theme that comes up (despite no canon evidence) that in most cases it just screams ‘straight writers trying to make Will into “the girl”’.  Not to mention the huge emphasis of their height difference (shows this too). It can get annoying calling him “short” & “petite” (a term used for women) when will isn’t even the shortest guy member- and now his actor is way taller than gaten (dustin) a bit taller (I think?) than caleb (Lucas) and barely shorter than finn (Mike’s actor). But writers even in future fics write him as short...ok? ya’ll really can’t let go of making Will “the girl.” Cause ya’ll incorrectly equate shortness to femminity. It’s tiring. Some writers straight up say he’s “pretty “, “feminine” or “looks like a girl” 🙄

3) it’s not byler if it’s unrequited- stop tagging it as such

4) more emphasis on Will’s passions(art, writing, horror movies). Maybe in his upbringing with Lonnie.And jon being a good bro to him. Will’s Mental health issues maybe ?

5) mike is a socially awkward, clumsy, unathletic, (caring) science/sci-fi /D&D loving nerd. In au whatever- but mike is not a bro-y jock, or a cool bad boy. 😂 plus , more writer mike would be nice to see

6) headcanon him all you want -but at this point it’s pretty obvious (to me at least) Mike never loved el,and was just lying/confused/ projecting Will on her. And El is/was also confused and never loved mike.   so it would be nicer to see that instead of Mike just ‘falling out of love’ with her. Mike is gay. people say in s3 Will saying “a day free of girls” is gay coded but everyone ignores Mike in s3 saying “BOYS ONLY”. same energy. writers even threw in a telemarketing joke so Mike says in s3 “El? no. sorry not interested.” And Mike has more rainbow refs than Will.  Boy is clearly gay not bi (way too much evidence to talk about here) .  They even  compare mileven to ted/karen who “never loved each other.”   The  writers make fun of mileven constantly and say over and over it’s not actually romantic - (if you choose to read just 1 link read this one  and get with the program) . plus, most Bi dudes  wouldn’t stop being attracted to a girl the more fem she gets (and only be attracted to her when she looks like a “guy”(specifically their guy friend).which yes the characters in s1 said over and over again that El looked like a “boy”/“will”.  And then they have him Makeout with her while putting up a  drawing of said male bff on the wall (cause now she looks less like him) and so he needs to look at said bro, to stomach the makeout seshes/ and in an effort to transfer said romantic feelings from guy friend to gf. Then push his gf’s hands off himself during the kisses- sing to stop kissing, and  kiss to mostly show off how straight he is. And without said pic- not kiss back and just keep his eyes open and not reciprocate. Nor would they have Mike equate het romance to something he thinks he has to do as a part of growing up . Bi dudes consider falling for a girl as simply romance not a foreign idea that has to be done cause there’s no other option and that’s ‘just what old people do’. Mike claims el is the only girl he’s ever had feelings for - but like dustin said mileven is “bullshit “ (stancy parallel -where nancy was not in love but faking it). So mike’s never been into a girl and is also into Will... so...

7) it’s the 80s they can’t just be open/ have pda in public (you could have gotten k*lled or beaten severely.) And most of their friends/fam would not take it well initially. (I think jon, Karen , and steve/robin would take it well... but not most of the crew.) although they’d all prob come around eventually . -Takes me out of a fic to have such historical revisionism when everyone is just totally fine with byler and they’re out to the public/strangers.

but that’s just me. What about you guys?

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

But You Can Never Leave [Chapter 15: Midnight Manhattan]

A/N: Hi y’all! Thank you so much for your patience and support. I think it’ll be worth it...this chapter has something you’ve been waiting for. Only three more chapters left after this one! 💜

Chapter summary: A family visit turns awkward, Chrissie loses her cool, Roger and Y/N have a difficult conversation, John tells the truth.

This series is a work of fiction, and is (very) loosely inspired by real people and events. Absolutely no offense is meant to actual Queen or their families.

Song inspiration: Hotel California by The Eagles.

Chapter warnings: Language, babies, miscarriage, cute kids, drama, angst, more drama, more angst.

Chapter list (and all my writing) available HERE

Taglist: @queen-turtle-boiii @loveandbeloved29 @maggieroseevans @imnotvibingveryguccimrstark @im-an-adult-ish @queenlover05 @someforeigntragedy @imtheinvisiblequeen @joemazzmatazz @seven-seas-of-ham-on-rhye @namelesslosers @inthegardensofourminds @deacyblues @youngpastafanmug @sleepretreat @hardyshoe @bramblesforbreakfast @sevenseasofcats @tensecondvacation @queen-crue @jennyggggrrr @madeinheavxn @whatgoeson-itslate @brianssixpence @simonedk @herewegoagainniall @stardust-killer-queen @anotheronewritesthedust1 @pomjompish @writerxinthedark @culturefiendtrashqueen @allauraleigh​@deakydeacy​

Please yell at me if I forget to tag you! :)

They say losing a child will destroy a marriage, and you’re sure that’s often true; but it didn’t destroy yours.

Roger is the only one who can truly understand—who can feel that same aching and eternal, ravening absence in his bones—because he’s the only one who lost her too. He mourns with you, he stays awake through long nights with you, and when the future seems too oppressively bleak to imagine he drags you back into the light with tired daybreak smiles exchanged over mugs of tea and songs plucked on his acoustic guitar by the roaring fireplace, stories and jokes, walks through the green trellises of Hyde Park and the marble halls of the British Museum filled with ancient treasures stolen from Egypt and India and the Yucatan Peninsula, Italy and Greece, leaving craters of hollow memory littered across the planet like the imprint of the asteroid that killed the dinosaurs.

Together you bury her ashes in the garden behind the Surrey house. John brings you a pot of white calla lilies, and when the weather warms you plant them beside the small black stone carved with two names you never speak: Joan Aurora. Together you watch the blossoms grow up and grow old and wither back into the earth like everything does when the clock runs out, when the universe claims back the debt of life we borrow thinking that we own it. And through it all Roger is so persistently kind and patient and present that you’re willing to try for another pregnancy, despite the odds stacked against you like moving boxes, despite the crushing heartache that another loss would entail; despite your fearful, growing suspicion that in both casinos and the genetic lottery, the house always wins.

It never happens again, and you reach a sort of peace with this; but it’s a peace that makes you feel small and immaterial, like when you think too much about how vast the universe really is, like when you wake up restless before the dawn and wander out onto the cracked cobblestones in the garden as the sun burns the darkness off the world from east to west, watching the stars as they vanish in a sky bloodied with another world’s light.

A year passes, and then another, and then another; and every February 15th John sends you a new pot of white calla lilies to plant in the garden where other people’s children play.

~~~~~~~~~~

“Look, look, look!” Laszlo frenetically waves a crayon illustration in front of your face. On his head is the hat you knitted for him, green and featuring a large white L and with sprigs of fluffy brown hair like John’s peeking out around the edges. “I can draw like Daddy!”

It’s November 24th, 1981, and Queen is in Montreal. The band is playing two sold-out shows, one tonight and one tomorrow, and Brian and John have flown in their families for one last visit to tide their wives and children over until the touring break at Christmas. Laszlo is six years old now, Anna nearly five, Lena three, Antoni—fast asleep and presumably dreaming of such complexities as Hershey’s chocolate bars and Care Bear plushies—two; and there have been no additional Deacon children, a fact which seems to be the source of some disharmony between John and Veronica. What Laszlo has drawn with his rainbow of Crayolas most closely resembles a very chubby banana, but with black spots like a Dalmatian’s.

“Oh my goodness, you’re a young Picasso!” you exclaim. “It’s amazing! It’s a...it’s a...a...” Don’t fuck this up, don’t fuck this up. “It’s a...giraffe...?”

“Yeah!” Laszlo confirms, grinning.

Oh thank god.

“Very impressive,” John tells you. “I would have guessed pineapple with leprosy.”

“It’s not a leopard, Daddy,” Laszlo says seriously.

“Yes of course, I didn’t say leopard, I said leprosy, which is entirely different—”

“It’s not a leopard!” Laszlo insists.

“You heard the kid, Deaks,” Roger says, winking. “No leopards. Come over here, kiddo, let me see the nice giraffe...oh yes, it is so obviously a giraffe, you can tell by the expertly placed spots...”

“You’re so good with them,” Veronica marvels, perhaps not quite approvingly, noting how Antoni is dozing peacefully against your chest, a red hat stitched with a massive A snug over his jumble of auburn hair. “He never sleeps for anyone. Not even me.”

“Being comfortable to nap on is one of my many talents.”

“It’s true,” Roger notes, smiling, combing through the knots in his brittle bleached hair.

“No, no, no, don’t try to be modest, you’ve always been fantastically good at caring for people. I remember Brian was half dead when you brought him home from that hospital in Boston.” Chrissie is sitting on the floor of the dressing room with Anna and Lena, helping to facilitate a glamorous wedding for Barbie and Ken. Teddy and Evelyn, both four years old and with massive mops of dark ringlets, are scribbling on coloring book pages of screeching dinosaurs and plunging prehistoric comets above tangles of jungle treetops.

“Hmm,” Veronica agrees lukewarmly. “You’ll be a wonderful mother to your own one day.”

You wince, bite your lower lip, peer down at Antoni’s pacific little face. His eyes, when they’re open, are a greyish blue like John’s. Chrissie kicks Veronica’s ankle and glares at her. Brian glances over from where he’s tuning his Red Special, one rangy leg propped up on a chair.

“Not so sure that’s in the cards,” you demur.

“Keep praying, dear,” Veronica offers. “The Lord will provide in his own time.”

You blink at her. She stares pityingly back with infuriating, weepy eyes. Everyone is suddenly very quiet, except for Freddie; he starts humming Another One Bites The Dust and taps his white Adidas sneakers in rhythm.

“What uniquely helpful advice,” you reply.

“Well, surely one doesn’t need biological children to be fulfilled in life,” Roger tells Veronica lightly, like it’s a warning.

She looks thunderstruck, like this is such a novel concept, like Roger just shared with her the secret to time travel or immortal life. “Perhaps not, but you know...it’s so terribly important for most women.”

“How feminist,” Chrissie quips, lighting a cigarette, flicking the ashes away irritably.

John leans into Veronica. “Stop it,” you can just barely hear him say.

“It’s interesting you would bring up timing, Veronica,” you observe. “We were all so discrete about yours.”

Freddie snorts, tries to pretend it was a sneeze, smooths his moustache as he studies himself in the mirror.

“I’m just trying to help, love,” Veronica claims innocently. “All this can’t be good for you, this ceaseless globetrotting. Almost never waking up in the same place twice. The stress of it!”

“What do you want her to do?” Roger snaps. “Sit at home nine or ten months out of the year and, what, scrub the windows until I come back? Take up watercolor painting? Knit the world’s largest quilt?”

“I’m just saying that less physical and emotional strain might help with the situation.”

“Because you’re a freaking doctor, right?” Roger flares. Chrissie kicks Veronica again.

“People should spend more time close to home,” she continues, undaunted. “There’s nothing more important than family. Look at me, I should have another on the way by now, but the band’s schedule is simply murderous...”

“Trying for a football team?” you inquire. And in the same moment you realize: This isn’t about me at all. This is about her and John.

Freddie is still humming, modelling his Superman tank top and tight white jeans in the mirror, cinching and re-cinching his belt, sliding a red sweatband unto one wrist. The kids—all except the unconscious Antoni—are giggling and pushing each other around on the slippery linoleum floor, seemingly oblivious. John whispers something to Veronica, his face dark and furious.

“John should be home more,” she bursts out. “For me, for the children—”

Roger scoffs and rolls his eyes. “For christ’s sake, lady, he’s not your bloody lapdog!”

“You don’t really need him,” she protests, almost pleads. “He’s just the bassist, he thought this would be a hobby to fill his time on weekends when he was in school, he didn’t sign up to live this way and Queen could find another bassist and you don’t need him—”

“We do need him! He’s not just some bassist! He’s a genius and he’s irreplaceable and there’s absolutely no Queen without him, we swore to it, I’d leave if he ever did!”

“You did what?!” Brian exclaims. Freddie hums louder, stomping his sneakers to the beat, mock-boxing with his reflection in the mirror. John raises his eyebrows at Roger as if he had assumed Rog wouldn’t remember that, assumed he had never really meant it. Roger, flushed, fumbles with his lighter and finally lights a cigarette on his third attempt.

Antoni stirs, his eyes fluttering open, and Chrissie swoops in to take her turn holding him. She bounces him on her hip as she sashays around the dressing room, casting fierce scowls alternately at Veronica and John and Roger.

“You don’t understand,” Veronica hurls at Roger, lashing out like a cornered animal, her voice raw and splintering. “You’ve never sacrificed anything. Everything you’ve ever dreamed of just falls into your lap. No heartache. No consequences. You don’t know what it’s like to be one of the people who get burned.”

“You don’t know anything about me—!”

“Look, I get it,” you tell Veronica. “You want John to yourself. Anyone would. You want a normal life. But that’s the tradeoff when you love someone brilliant, isn’t it? You have to learn how to share them with the world. Because the world is so much better off with them in it.”

Veronica glowers, venomous and spiteful. She’s wearing makeup tonight, quite heavy makeup; she’s started doing that with increasing frequency. “I have no intention of sharing a husband the way you’ve had to.”

Roger stands, stalks to Veronica, towers over her, blows smoke into her stunned face. “Ma’am,” he says quietly, so the children won’t hear. “Go fuck yourself.”

“Okay, darlings!” Freddie flits over, pulls Roger away, fluffs his hair and straightens his black smock-like shirt as Roger glares around Fred’s shoulder at Veronica. “Fabulous. You look like a ten-year-old about to make a papier-mâché vase for his mum in art class. I adore it. Off you go.” He pushes open the door to the hallway and shoves Roger through it.

Roger nods for you to follow him, and you do.  

John frowns as you pass him. I’m so sorry, that expression says.

You shake your head in reply. Not your fault.

Roger slips his arm around your waist as you disappear into the hallway with him.

“That fucking miserable, judgmental, delusional, dogmatic bitch—”

“Shhhhh.” You cup his feverish cheek with your left hand, weighty with the ruby ring he gave you four years ago in New Orleans, and yank the white bandana out of his back pocket with your right. Then you knot it around his neck, smiling. “There. Now you look a little more rock and roll.”

“You’re not mad?” he asks in disbelief. “How are you not mad?”

“She’s clearly very unhappy. I feel sorry for her.” You tug on the bandana gently, fondly. You can hear Chrissie chastising Veronica behind the closed door of the dressing room. “Don’t let it ruin your show.”

“No, I would never.” But his eyes are still distant, unsettled, anxious in a way that is rare for him. “You are a freakishly good person, you know that?”

“I try. Don’t forget to smile so I can get some good pictures.”

“Oh, I’ll smile plenty. Just like this.” A grin splits through his face, and the Roger you know and love is back: bright, triumphant, flashing the daggerish points of his canine teeth. Then he draws you into him and kisses you, his rough hands in your hair, his lips smiling against yours. “Love of my life,” he whispers, rather pensively.

He shakes out his right arm—the one with the jagged scar along the soft vulnerable underside, the one he broke in a stairwell in Yokohama in the spring of 1975—and stretches the hand a few times. And you find yourself wondering, as you always do when he seems distracted like he does now, before he starts staying out late into the night, before he starts coming home drunk or high or not at all: Is he getting bad again? Is he?

I would never have to worry about that if I had married someone like John.

You fling that thought, that inconvenient and perpetual thought, back into the shadows where it came from; like a pebble tossed into the misted tree line of a forest, like a shell pitched into the sea.

“Rog, are you—?”

“I’m fine,” he cuts you off like a blade.  

~~~~~~~~~~

There’s someone screaming out in the hallway.

You reel out of bed in the darkness, step into your slippers, yank on your fuzzy white robe. The digital clock on the nightstand reads 4:11 a.m. Roger and Brian had stayed for one more round of drinks at the club when you and Chrissie left to go back to the hotel, Chrissie to relieve her nanny from kid duty, you to quiet a budding headache. You note—with a vague, drowsy sort of dread—that Roger is not in the bed beside you, his hair a disheveled blond mess peeking from beneath the covers, snoring softly, his calloused hands outstretched towards yours. Beyond the door there are earsplitting clashes of broken glass, thumps and pounding footsteps, people shouting. And now you can recognize Chrissie’s voice, shrieking and wrathful: “Now you’ve done it, now you’ve really done it, you’re going to fucking kill her!”

You throw open the door to see Roger crouched against the hallway wall, covering his head with his hands; he is surrounded by shards of glass, tiny hotel shampoo and mouthwash bottles, Bibles ripped from nightstand drawers. He’s dripping with what smells like a combination of every kind of alcohol you’ve ever tasted, and maybe some you haven’t as well.

“I wish she’d never fucking met you!” Chrissie screams, launching a bottle of Grey Goose from the minibar in her room at Roger. It explodes against the wall just above his head, and glass and vodka rain down on him. Brian is unsuccessfully attempting to coax Chrissie back into their room as she ignores him. “I wish she’d never stepped off that fucking plane because the day she agreed to come to London with you was the worst day of her life!”

“Will you stop?!” Roger yells. “Jesus christ, Chris!”

“She saved you,” Chrissie hisses, landing an elbow into Brian’s gut and sending him flying backwards. “She saved your life and this is how you repay her, you disgusting degenerate bastard!”

A bottle of Captain Morgan hits the wall and detonates two inches from Roger’s face.

“What’s going on?!” you shout at Chrissie, your arms crossed over your chest.

A few rooms down the hallway, a door opens and Freddie wanders out in a pink kimono. After a moment, John and Veronica appear from their own room in their pajamas, rubbing bleary eyes.

“I couldn’t sleep so I phoned my mum and guess what’s on the cover of the News Of The World this week.” Chrissie points at Roger. “Go on. Tell her. Tell her what you did.”

He knows; he doesn’t say anything, but he knows. You can see that he does. It’s lurking in the shallow cerulean pools of his glistening eyes like a shadow, like a ghost.

“What did you do?” John asks him, mystified.

Roger doesn’t answer. He’s looking at you, at Chrissie, back to you. It isn’t often that Roger is fearful, acutely and bone-rattlingly afraid; but he is now.

“Fine, you don’t want to own up to it? I’ll do it. I’ll tell her, you coward.” Chrissie spins to you. “Dominique Beyrand is seven months pregnant.”

I’m surrounded by goddamn mothers. “Okay. Good for her.”

Chrissie waits for it to hit you. And then it does.

Oh. Oh.

“Bleeding christ,” you hear Freddie sigh, rubbing his forehead. Veronica covers her gaping mouth with one pale hand, and she doesn’t look smug or vindicated or condemnatory; she looks terrified. John is watching you, you can see him on the periphery of your vision; you are dimly aware of him edging closer as you gaze at Roger, your eyes wide and blurring with tears, your throat burning.  

You can’t understand it, can’t imagine it, and then suddenly you can: his fingers threading through her glossy black hair, his lips skating over her neck, promises whispered through nightscape phone calls, haphazard lies whispered to you; reckless, small-boned, doe-eyed children with Dom’s olive skin and Roger’s sharp little canine teeth.

This is the part where I wake up. This is the part where it turns out to be just a hellacious dream.

But you don’t wake up, because this is real.

“Oh,” you exhale, brainlessly, helplessly.

Roger doesn’t sputter some desperate apology, he doesn’t beg you to forgive him. He stares at you with huge, starry blue eyes, booze dripping from his hair, surrender etched into the concave slump of his back and shoulders.

You ask him, already knowing the answer: “It’s not just a fling, is it?”

“No,” he replies miserably. “I thought it was, but it isn’t.”

You nod, those first hot tears spilling down your cheeks. “Okay,” you concede, your words brittle and fracturing. “I’ll file as soon as we get back to London.” File for divorce. File this entire misadventure away in my mind as a horrific and juvenile mistake. Shred the good memories into oblivion so I can’t remember how alive he once made me feel.

That seems to bother Roger, jolts him into urgency. The white bandana is still tied around his neck. “You don’t have to do that—”

“Are you fucking joking?” you pitch at him. “Are you not done humiliating me yet? Am I not ruined enough? Do I somehow still look remotely whole to you?”

John’s hand closes around your wrist. “Don’t,” he tells you gently.

Roger begins: “I never wanted to hurt—”

“But you did,” you seethe, tears slithering down your face. It’s sinking in now, it’s becoming real, it’s materializing from years of gnawing distrust into fact. They were all right about him. They were always right. John’s arms circle you, holding you back as you struggle against him. “You fucking did and I forgave you like an idiot just so you could prove to me over and over and over again how exceptionally little you cared.”

“That’s not true—!”

“You’ve done enough!” Chrissie roars at him. Brian wrestles a bottle of Don Julio out of her grasp. “You deplorable slut, can’t you see that you’ve done enough?!”

Freddie approaches Roger, dusts the glinting flecks of glass out of his hair, wrenches him staggering to his feet.

“Come on,” John murmurs, towing you towards your room. Veronica is tracking him with blazing eyes. “Come on, let’s go.”

“Go ahead, Roger!” you shout as John drags you away, as Roger is corralled into Freddie’s room. “Get clean for her, get clean for her children, tell her she’s the love of your life and marry her and give her a ring but don’t forget to remind her that none of it means a single fucking thing—!”

John stumbles with you into your hotel room. He slams the door behind him, and the world goes deathly quiet. You reel aimlessly, collapse onto the edge of the bed, dazed, staring at the bland landscape paintings on the wall, ticking down the mental list of things you’ll need to get from the Surrey house: photographs, paperwork, John’s sketches, the conch shell from Ostia.

What about the calla lilies? What about her grave?

And there’s another list as well, whether you want there to be or not; a list of things you’ll never feel again.

His teeth grazing my knuckles, his palms cradling my face, his raspy voice as he writes songs on quiet nights, the way he loved our daughter, the way he sets souls alight like wildfire.

John just stands in the middle of the hotel room, heaving in ragged breaths, his hands on his waist. And for a long time, neither of you speak at all.

“Do you want me to stay?” John says finally.

“You can’t,” you reply, thinking of Veronica and the children.

“That’s not what I asked.”

“No. I’m fine. I want to be alone.”

He comes to you, lifts your chin with one careful hand, touches his forehead to yours before he leaves. “You are never going to be alone.”

~~~~~~~~~~

You hear the key clatter in the lock, and your hotel room door creaks open. You’re laying on the floor after Queen’s second show in Montreal, staring blankly up at the ceiling, counting the black dots in the tiles like stars, imagining constellations of monsters and heroes and doomed love.

John appears above you, his brow furrowed. He shuttled all of Roger’s things to Freddie’s room after you packed them up this morning, then he took Roger’s key. “What are you doing?”

“Fantasizing about my own death.”

He checks his watch. “Will you be done in twelve minutes?”

“What happens in twelve minutes?”

“We have to leave for the afterparty on a yacht.”

You groan, sitting upright, rubbing your sore and sleepless eyes with the heels of your hands. “I can’t do it, John. I don’t have it in me tonight. I can’t mingle with all of those obnoxious music industry people. ‘Yes, hi, hello, yes it’s true, I am the sad barren soon-to-be-ex-wife, oh what a charming nineteen-year-old model mistress you have on your arm there, I too was once young and desirable and disastrously stupid.’”

He smiles. “You’re still somewhat desirable.”

“Thanks.” You reach up, take his hands, let him help you to your feet.

“You realize if you don’t go I’m going to have to hide in the corner and compulsively eat miniature quiches all by myself.”

“Your enchanting wife isn’t attending?”

“She wanted to stay with the children. Also, she hates me.”

You chuckle. “She doesn’t hate you. She passionately does not hate you, which is the problem.”

“So you’ll come with me.”

You mull this over. “Can I get so drunk I forget I exist?”

“Sure. If you promise to stay near me and away from the water.”

“Yes, I suppose that you, as a convicted felon, would be high on the list of suspects if I was to go overboard.”

“Losing you would be the worst thing that ever happened to me. Who would I call to post my bail?”

You laugh as you beam up at him, knot your fingertips through his hair, see your silhouette reflected in his greyish eyes that today remind you of storm clouds, of torrential autumn rain, of thunder. “Okay. Fine. I’ll go to your torturous yacht party.”

“Aww, what a tragedy, being forced to enjoy all the trappings of stardom” John teases, and then you can see the regret wrinkle across his face; because people don’t joke about things like tragedies around you anymore.

“It’s a hard life,” you agree. “But it feels a little easier when you’re around.”

You slip into a dark blue dress and heels and your bomber jacket that doesn’t match at all. John meets you in the hallway in a black suit. You share a limo with Brian and Chrissie, who chatter nervously about anything they can think of that doesn’t involve Roger or marriage or children or love. Bri points out constellations through the open moonroof as frigid Canadian air pours in and rattles your dangling diamond earrings, whips through your hair. John smooths the runaway strands, rests his arm across the back of your seat, smiles in a tranquil sort of way and actually appears to pay attention as Brian narrates the stories of the stars and their celestial families: Pegasus, Aquarius, Pisces, tiny Triangulum, the lightning strike zigzag of Lacerta, Perseus.

“You look gorgeous,” Chrissie tells you, and she seems to mean it.

“Thank you,” you reply politely. “If only I was also French and fertile.”

The yacht is docked on the bank of the Saint Lawrence River, an island of roaring laughter and music and twinkling strands of lights in an ocean of night. John leads you onboard, waves at the photographers who douse you in flashbulb luminescence, stands with you by the railing at the stern of the vessel as it pulls out into the river. Periodically some palpably accomplished stranger will appear, shake John’s hand, start asking him about You’re My Best Friend or Another One Bites The Dust or Under Pressure; but mostly the two of you are left alone. You drain flute after flute of pink champagne as John nurses his Manhattans, debating the merits of the various appetizers; you—ever the proud Bostonian—are partial to the bite-sized lobster rolls, while John prefers the Swedish meatballs speared on puzzlingly tropical toothpick umbrellas.

Roger is on the yacht too of course, and every once in a while you catch a glimpse of his blond hair or his blush-colored polka dot suit, hear his voice carried on the cold November wind; and you ignore this as much as you can. Twice he starts migrating towards you, and you and John pretend not to notice, dart through the crowds to the other side of the boat, your hand clasped in John’s as he weaves relatively anonymously through ballgowns and suits and reporters’ microphones. And he peeks back at you, grinning, and says: “I bet you’re thrilled no one knows who I am tonight.”

Chrissie steals you away briefly to keep her company when Brian gets snared into an excruciatingly dull interview about Queen’s next album; and when Brian comes to collect her, John greets you with a fresh glass of champagne in one hand and his fourth Manhattan in the other.

“You better make sure you don’t go overboard, Mr. Deacon,” you say, taking the champagne flute and resting your forearms on the yacht’s railing as waves break against the hull. Freshwater mist peppers your cheeks, your collarbones, the backs of your hands. Through the speakers pluck the opening notes of Hotel California. “Oh god. This song.”

“Fond memories?” John asks with a smirk. “That whole night is a blur to me.”

“It makes me think of sharks for some reason. And the Olympics.”

“It makes me feel...” He considers this. “Overwhelmed with self-loathing.”

“That’s ridiculous. You’re the least loathable person I’ve ever met.” You sip your champagne, gaze out into the moonlit currents that run from the Great Lakes to the Atlantic Ocean, to the shores of every place you’ve ever called your own. “How long did Dante live in exile from Florence?”

“Twenty years.”

You whistle. “That’s a long time to be away from home.” The fingers of your left hand clutch the railing, which is gold and sturdy and stingingly cold. “I feel a little like him sometimes. Except as you get older, home starts to feel less like places and more like people.” You twist off your ruby ring, glance down at it fleetingly, and toss it out into the glistening black waters of the Saint Lawrence River.

John looks over at you. “It’s really over, isn’t it?”

You nod slowly, mournfully. “Yeah. It’s really over.”

“And how are we feeling about that?”

“Relieved. Petrified. Exhausted. Mostly I’m just sad.”

“I’m sorry,” he says sincerely. “For everything.”

“Why? None of it was your fault.” You sigh, shake your head, peer out into the river, into the night sky, into the stars. “Maybe this is a good thing, you know? A blessing in disguise or whatever. I can move on knowing I did everything I could to salvage the marriage. I can be free. No more waiting up at night for someone who isn’t coming home. No more searching through pockets and suitcases for white powder or used needles. No more News Of The World headlines.”

John is still staring at you.

“What?” you ask, smiling warily.

He downs the rest of his Manhattan, twirls the glass as the ice cubes clink against each other. Finally, he says: “I could have given you a very different kind of life.”

Your lips, slick with gloss and tingling with sharp carbonation from the champagne, part to ask John what he means; but then you know. Your voice is a quivering, astonished whisper. “It was about me. You’re My Best Friend.”

“Yeah, it was. And most of the others were too.”

It was about me. All those years ago, that song was about me. And it still is.

“John...”

“I watched you fall in love with Roger, watched him fall in love with you. Watched this agonizing fucking dance that you do...he can’t give you what you want, you can’t be happy with less...and I just kept waiting to wake up one day and not want you anymore. And it never happened.” He laughs, briefly, bitterly. “I mean, for christ’s sake, I refused to propose to the mother of my child until I was sure you’d stay with Roger because I thought...I thought...you know, maybe. Maybe one day you’d change your mind. And I wanted to be there if you did.”

You gaze at him, soaking him in, unambiguously aware that there is no part of you that is afraid, no part of you that is shuddering or surrendering or apprehensive; there is no instinctive chorus begging you not to fall in love with him. There’s no sensation of falling at all. It feels like you’re somewhere you’ve never left.

“I know that next to someone like Roger Taylor I don’t look like much,” John confesses. “That I don’t feel like much. That I don’t light anything up the way he does. And if you can’t imagine a future with someone who isn’t him, someone who isn’t like him...then I completely accept that. But you’re always going to feel like home to me.”

You’re My Best Friend. You And I. Spread Your Wings. In Only Seven Days. Need Your Loving Tonight.

They were all about me. They were always about me.

“John...”

You don’t know what to say. You know exactly what to say.

From the crowd, a man dressed in a blue pinstripe suit and holding a Cuban cigar bellows for John. He whirls, offers a shy wave, trots over to say hello. But as they discuss concerts and albums and tours, John’s eyes meet yours through the sea of strangers and cigarette smoke, through the shifting shadows cast by flickering incandescence and moonshine.

And you watch him as the constellations and all their stars rage above, the same stars that in the time of Dante sailors read to point them home.

[skribbz]

i know im sending u tons of these but ELLIE

Oh boy here we go

First impression

I actually didn’t know anything about TLoU before I played it except for it being a zombie game. Since zombies have always been a super special interest for me, I had to play it. So actually playing it was like being smacked in the face with emotions. 

But I didn’t even know about the existence of Ellie, so my first time seeing her was when Joel meets her. I thought she seemed cool, but a little abrasive. She did make me laugh though. 

Impression now

Oh god where do I even start. 

I’m not even exaggerating when I say Ellie helped me become who I am today. I related to her in so many ways. Not just in the way she's so nerdy, but also in how she treats others. She was just a kid who was let down by the world around her, yet she still wants to do what she thinks is best for everyone. She's sentimental, holding onto keepsakes from the people she's lost. She can have a bad attitude sometimes, but is just a complete sweetheart. She goes through so much, and even when Joel gives her the option to just go back home, she decides to keep going. 

Ellie came into my life when I needed a role model. The way she had gone through so much, but didn't let it break her soul, the way she always found a way to "endure and survive", meant so much to me at the time, and even now. She also helped me accept the fact that I wasn't straight. Seeing a character who I already admired so much, kissing another girl made me just break down crying. 

When they said that Ellie was going to be the main character of the second game, I cried again. I think the second game just really expands on the reasons I loved her in the first one. She still tries to do what she thinks is best. It's not always the right thing, and sometimes it's very much the wrong thing. But she has so much guilt over Joel, yet still loves him so much she's willing to do whatever it takes to give him the justice she thinks she deserves, even if she knows it's not at all what he would want her to do. (There's so much more to her thoughts and actions in the sequel of course, but I feel like this is one of the most important ones.) It's just like the first game where she's willing to go to any ends to do what she thinks is right, no matter how much it may hurt her in the process. 

I think in the end she has realized that her life means more than just being the cure. Her life matters just because she’s alive, is loved, and loves others, and that message means a lot to me, and I’m sure to many others, too. 

I think Ellie is such a wonderful character, and one of the most well written characters I've ever seen in any media. She really changed my life, and because of that she is my favorite character ever. 

Favorite moment

HOW am I supposed to choose just one. 

Does the entire winter section count? It shows much she loves Joel, and how strong she has become by that point, and how determined she is to survive. She sees just how truly awful some people in the world can be, and despite it she still wants to do whatever she can for the cure.

It’s our first look into what would become a major theme of the second game. While David’s town is an enemy to Joel and Ellie, and we as players hate them, they were doing what they thought was best to survive. Cannibalism isn’t right by our standards, but that’s because we haven’t been pushed to that point. But would we be willing to turn to it if we were pushed that far? Is it more acceptable to kill innocent people to feed a whole community that’s depending on you, or is it more acceptable to just let all of those innocent lives that are depending on you die?

I think we can all agree on one thing though. David is a piece of shit and deserved to be chopped up into teeny pieces. 

Idea for a story

I have many ideas. But I'll go with where I think her story can go from here, AKA my TLoU3 idea. 

The story starts 12 or so years later. Putting JJ around 13. Dina, Ellie and Abby 32-33. Lev around 25. Tommy and Maria probably late 50s-early 60s

Ellie is back in Jackson. She works her ass off doing whatever manual labor she can because all she wants to do is just work herself into exhaustion. She's dealt with her trauma and she’s in a better place mentally now. Now her reasons for shutting everything out is that she’s too scared to try and really reconnect. She wants companionship but is afraid of the pain of losing it all again.

The exception is when she has JJ. He is still the light of her life. She takes him hunting and camping and plays video games with him and they geek out over comics. She has taught him to draw. She wants to teach him guitar like she promised, but hasn’t been able to yet. 

The only time she sets foot outside of Jackson is with JJ.

Dina is of course doing something that uses her skills. Maybe the lead electrician at the dam. They've kept JJ very innocent. Obviously he knows of the infected, and has seen his moms kill them before, but he doesn’t know just how bad it really is, he’s never seen another human die.

Her and Ellie are amicable. They are happy to be co parenting jj but there's nothing between them (for now). 

Maria holds a lot of guilt. Over sending Joel and Tommy out that day, over not giving Ellie and Dina help in Seattle, which got Jesse killed, over letting Tommy get as bad as he did after Seattle. She blames herself for the way Ellie is. She tries to spend time with Ellie, but Ellie is very elusive when she wants to be. She adores JJ though. That's her little great nephew. His auntie is the leader of the whole town and he uses that to his advantage every chance he gets. And she lets him.

Tommy has a little guilt. He doesn’t know Abby is alive, Ellie only ever told him she “finished things” and didn’t talk to him much after that. But he sees how she is a complete mess and lost her fingers. He knows that guitar was special for Ellie, plus any kind of disability is a huge disadvantage in their world. Dina doesn’t let JJ near him. JJ doesn't understand why and no one will tell him

Tommy and Maria never worked out their differences and have stayed separated, partly because of their guilt toward what happened with Ellie. They cared about her like she was their own and they both let her down

Jackson is now huge. They’ve made contact with other settlements, and have trade routes. But Maria is getting older and the town is getting too much for her to run on her own. Tommy is getting up there in age as well, and despite his injuries he still does patrols. But alone. He’s not actively trying to get killed, but he isn’t always as careful as he knows he should be. 

Story starts out and you're playing as Tommy on patrol. He gets ambushed by a small group of people. And lo and behold Abby (and Lev) is there. Tommy is shocked when he finds out who it is, and he asks if she came to finish the job she started. She says no they tracked him since he left the town and were waiting to get him alone because she has news for him. The fireflies have rebuilt stronger than ever and now they’re back out for the cure and are coming for Ellie, because she is the only known source, but also as a form of revenge for what Joel did all those years ago, destroying what the Fireflies once were. They were able to get there first because they only brought a few people and set out before the main squad. Tommy asks why he should believe her, and she says that Ellie saved her life years ago and it's the least she could do to pay her back. (just like. Assume that there was enough info stored with the fireflies that Abby could work out who Ellie is). To keep Tommy from attacking or following him, they knock him out and untie him then leave. 

Control switches back to Ellie who is doing her chores around town. You get to nail fences, chop wood, and carry hay bales. Fun. Later that night, as Ellie is getting home, standing on her porch, Tommy rolls up and confronts Ellie about Abby being alive. They get into a huge fight and Ellie tells Tommy that he fucked up her life. It's his fault she lost Dina. His fault she only gets to see jj when Dina allows it, his fault Jesse was killed. And its his fucking fault Joel died.

He storms off. But then Ellie notices J standing on the street coming to stay the night. She had forgotten this was her night with him. He’d been told his whole life that moms had a peaceful break up, and that dad and grandpa Joel died being heroes, but now he’s upset about what he's heard so he runs back home to Dina. 

That night Ellie is woken up by fighting in Jackson. She runs out to try and find what's going on. All she can get is that fireflies are attacking. She eventually finds out that some travelers shot Maria and a fight broke out. Ellie fights through the town to Maria. She's injured with a gunshot in the arm, but alive still and kicking some ass. She tells Ellie that fireflies came asking for her, and would leave peacefully in return. She told them no and they shot her. Maria says she’ll be okay and tells Ellie to go find JJ and get him to safety. 

She fights through to the other side of town. Because of the commotion, infected have broken in so there’s humans and infected running around killing. She gets to Jesse's house and JJ is hysterical, Dina is holding him down and he's like screaming and crying. His grandpa fought off a firefly who was trying to get in their home and was shot and killed. It hits Ellie that this is all her fault. People are dying because of her again. Anyway she tells dina and robin that they need to leave. Dina says she's not going anywhere without Ellie. Ellie wants to stay and fight, but JJ is more important right now. So the 4 of them sneak out and near the gates they meet up with Tommy. He’s helping get people out and sending them to one of the patrol lookouts that is secure and can fit everyone. 

Ellie sends Dina, Robin and JJ off. Ellie gives JJ Joel's revolver and tells him to keep mom and grandma safe for her. She goes back to Tommy and the two get back to Maria. When they are very close to her, an infected ambushes them and Tommy gets bit. They get to Maria who is losing blood fast and doesn't look well. After a lot of arguing from Ellie, the pair decide to stay. They tell Ellie they’re old now. Maria wont last long with her wounds, and tommy has no chance of surviving his. They apologize to Ellie for the way things turned out and how much she has meant to them all these years. They give her all their ammo except for one bullet in each of their guns, because that's all they need now. Ellie begs them to come along, and she’ll figure something out for them. But they eventually convince her to go. Ellie leaves crying, and Maria and Tommy maybe get a cute moment before cutting back to Ellie. 

Ellie makes it back to where the survivors are and is depressed that there's way less than she was expecting. JJ has cried himself to sleep and Dina notices Ellie is acting strange and pulls her away to ask her. Ellie tells her what happened and Dina holds her while she cries. It's the first time anyone has really been physically affectionate with her in a long time so Ellie clings to her as she lets it all out

The last survivors decide that Jackson isn’t safe. It's too damaged, filled with infected, and no one can figure out what the fireflies were doing. Ellie can't bring herself to say anything about it. 

The next morning, everyone wakes up and is discussing what to do. JJ is still inconsolable. Ellie decides to take him away from the group to get some fresh air. She tells him to hold on to Joel's revolver. They chat and JJ asks what happened to auntie Maria and Tommy. She decides to be honest with him. She expects him to cry, but is shocked to see him become angry instead. He basically swears revenge for them and for his grandfather. This of course stirs up a lot of very negative thoughts in Ellie, but she decides to let him grieve in his own way for now. 

That’s everything I have written out in detail for now. But the main idea would be Ellie becoming a leader to the few remaining survivors as they make contact with the other settlements that Jackson is allied with. She would take responsibility for all of these lives. They would be her reason for fighting now. 

Over the course of the game, Abby would come back and her and Ellie would be forced to team up. There’s no more animosity between the two though, they’re both over it and don’t want to go back down that road. Over the course of the story they would come to understand each other’s actions. They wouldn’t become friends, but they can at least rely on each other. 

JJ would find out that Abby is the person responsible for Joel and Jesse’s death, and she came from the group that killed his grandfather, Tommy and Maria. He’d go into a rage and try to attack her and Ellie would have to hold him back. He wants to know why Ellie is defending the person who hurt everyone they loved. Ellie would have to finally tell him the whole story, and try to keep him from giving into his anger and sadness like she did in the second game. She won’t let her son become like her. She wants him to stay her innocent baby boy, but she knows that’s just not possible in their world. 

Other stuff that I have yet to flesh out:

More about Dina’s backstory. Or at least her last name. 

Lev being a big brother to JJ.

Dina and Ellie falling in love all over again as Dina sees Ellie doing so much for the rest of the community. It’s gonna be emotional.

Ellie teaching JJ how to play guitar, and tearfully singing Future Days to him.

Unpopular opinion

I’m not sure of what people’s opinions on her are. I know most people love her and anyone who doesn’t isn’t entitled to an opinion. 

I guess one is I’m not a fan of her farm hairstyle. Her Seattle look was just so cute. Why did you do that to your head, girl. 

Favorite relationship

Dina of course.

I feel like Dina represented what Ellie could have if she wasn’t stuck in the past. Joel represented her violent past, and her traumas. Dina represented her future, her home, her family. Ellie was so stuck in the past, that she couldn’t see the future standing literally right in front of her. 

It’s a great representation of how she holds onto the people she loves, but also how PTSD works. The past keeps coming back to haunt her. 

Favorite headcanon

I hc her as autistic! I kinda feel bad because everyone else hcs her as having ADHD. But I’m autistic so I say she is too *sunglass emoji*. 

Why I think she’s autistic: 

Obviously her special interests would be space and dinosaurs, and the way she talks about them reminds me of how I get when people let me infodump about my SIs.

The way she plays with her fingers looks hella like stimming to me. In fact, that’s one of my stims!

Her interest in art and music.

Her interest in general nerdy stuff like comics and video games. 

She collects cards, and collecting is a big autistic trait.

The way she’s sort of untidy and cluttered, yet labels all of her boxes of shit. The ordered mess is such an autistic thing.

[freebooter4ever]

i’ve seen the discussion going back and forth on boundaries and sexual objectification, and i don’t have much to add to the conversation other than to say everyone is allowed to determine their OWN ‘lines’ and just because we don’t vocalize them doesn’t make them any less valid. but here’s the limits i set for my blog if anyone feels it is important for them to know (<3):

personally I consider ‘characters’ fair game for anything goes, with ‘public personas’ a little more iffy. ‘RPF’ isn’t new - it just takes on a new more accessible/visible form nowadays. i remember reading my first fic about a ‘real person’ back in my LOTR fandom days - it was a story in first person perspective about the main character meeting orlando bloom on a plane before he was ‘famous’. like a lot of these types of stories, it wasnt so much about the person as it was about the meet cute. the actor was just a convenient placeholder with a handsome face and some personality quirks thrown in to make the romance/dialogue more specific. i personally dont read much xReader fic nowadays, but mostly only cause i’m an old fart who can’t relate to the ‘you’ format. i miss the good old days when people actually created OC’s and then inserted them into things LOL. but also LOL if you think i’ve gone an entire year of quarantine without some imagined personal fantasies of joe mazzello (or steve aoki in the years before)(ramilicious can attest to this. she can also attest to most of these fantasies ending in friendship rather than anything explicit cause that’s just how i roll these days lol). the line i draw is i would never post these types of fics in a place where the subject could accidentally find them - you have to go looking for this stuff on tumblr, most fics are given explicit ratings and under read-mores. with the blacklist tags it’s pretty easy to filter things out. its even easier to add filters to ao3 searches. i am NOT going to do something like message steve aoki and say ‘yeah i watched that movie Ibiza like five times, here is my 1k fic where you’re the dj and i’m the one night stand’. but obviously people still enjoy imagining scenarios like these otherwise movies like Ibiza wouldn’t exist?

for art, i consider anything already on display up for grabs, we all know a certain person’s ass is all over the place...all you have to do is google ‘need for speed’ and rami’s name. HOWEVER, in the case of actors i personally would not draw anything more explicit than what’s already there. i’m not gonna draw full frontal nudity for rami (unless he gifts us with it in a movie, i suppose) or anyone. this is 100% a personal choice for me. 

i was a sophomore or junior in college when i volunteered as a figure drawing monitor where i’d time the nude model’s poses and help them set up the stage and lighting and such. there was this one guy in his mid forties probably, a regular who came every week, and i always thought of him fondly till one day (the day after i ran into my Hot Programming TA during dinner and later sent him an email begging him to go on a date with me because i was desperate for kissing experience)(and Hot Programming TA emailed me back within minutes saying yes) this artist guy who i saw all the time and thought i knew fairly well, decided to draw me instead of the model. which would have been fine except he drew me naked. i was NOT naked at the time, i was wearing a shirt, and a bra, and a full prairie skirt with alternating calico and floral patterns. he drew what he imagined was underneath all that. he came up to me after the figure drawing session and showed me his drawings and told me i had been ‘glowing’ and my response was to laugh it off awkwardly and get the hell out of there as soon as i gave the model their pay check. but inwardly i was thinking a) i was NOT glowing for this creepy man twice my age and b) i did NOT give him consent to sexualize my body under my clothes and then SHOW me that objectification. i never said anything to him or anything else, i continued to be the monitor, and i continued to field off creepy advances from him including multiple job offers, but when i finally realized i could just...stop..and i passed the student volunteer monitor job on to my friend naeem, i also realized that what that older male artist did was NOT ok in my book. and it was probably not something he would do while naeem was monitoring.

nowadays im working in an industry that regularly objectifies female bodies. in the past year alone i have had to deal with requests to make breasts bigger, i have been given character rigs that in addition to the usual elbow, knee, and spine joints also have ‘nipple’ joints but ONLY for the women (to make them jiggle for animation), every time i send out a female pose i get it back with notes that push it further into the sexy type of body language reserved for women (twist the spine more! sway the back more! give it ‘energy!’), i have been told to erase wrinkles and fat and pores but ONLY for the women (men you ADD pores bc realism! and manliness!) and this is all me working for a company that is actually fairly progressive in terms of sexism compared to OTHER studios.

like it or not, sexual objectification is a huge part of specifically women’s lives and how we react to that is our business. for me, turning the tables and putting men on display feels like fair’s fair. i cant stop the men from doing it, so if i want to enjoy sexualizing male bodies, damn it im gonna! like dang it, boy do i want to send steve aoki a thank you note every time he posts a video of himself doing those ice baths during the sunset golden hour bc holy shit gorgeous or working out in his gym wearing VERY little clothes, but i dont because i know what its like when someone imposes their personal fantasies on the subject. or, god, there was that time i had to unfollow nicole’s insta for a while bc i had a very explicit dream about her and realized, shit, i need to take a break and get my emotions under control before i can refollow. and god some of the stuff i see dudes sending her during her live videos on mental illness/meditation is TOTALLY gross and not something they should be confronting her with. and she’s not even ‘famous’ famous. or how some fans send their idols explicit direct messages without consent. THAT feels inappropriate to me.

a part of me feels like i shouldn’t have to defend this. men don’t. they’re even encouraged in mass media to sexualize women. but i also recognize the importance of talking about consent. the importance of recognizing that a celebrity deserves to have their boundaries respected. these are my lines in fandom. other people have different lines they won’t cross, and that’s okay to me. i block or blacklist any blogs or tags i think go over the top.

heck, even in fandom-only spaces i still try to keep my own more sexual fantasies off this blog and only in private messages with my friends and mutuals, and i feel like that might come across as unintentionally prudish or judgmental sometimes. i’m not ‘horny on main’ very often. but like...every time i reblog that particular ‘washing machine’ gif of joe mazzello am i thinking about him naked and thinking about how he’s got very loooooong feet, and ‘gee i wonder if that means /other/ things are Too Big for my tastes’ but also ‘gosh wouldnt that make a pretty picture to draw’???? hell yeah.

i dont know who is gonna actually read this essay but yolo i guess :)

[halothenthehorns]

All in the Family

Chapter 121: Seen and Unforeseen

The house was dimly lit, very old, and had seen better days before the eight of them crash landed in here.

Sirius was thrown so bodily into an old couch he felt something snap inside of it.

James crashed upon a bed that spit up on an unseemly amount of dust.

Remus slammed against a bookshelf so hard, it wobbled dangerously, like it was all going to crash down right on top of him.

Peter landed alone, in a dingy room that had the nearest excuse for a bed in a corner, the book on top, and that was it.

Alice was in some sort of wine cellar that clearly had the most use, judging by all the missing bottles on the rack.

Frank was thrown so hard against a door his nose busted.

Regulus found himself in a barren backyard, in an unfamiliar neighborhood, spotting a dirty river that wound between overgrown, rubbish-strewn banks. An immense chimney, relic of a disused mill, reared up, shadowy and ominous. There was no sound apart from the whisper of the black water.

Lily landed on the roof, and was not inclined to come down when she recognized a horribly familiar house in the distance with a cat weather-vane, that patch of trees behind the park just across the street, or the sign at the end declaring this is as Spinners End.

Frank blinked the spots out of his eyes as he realized he was in the room with Remus, and made a valiant effort not to flinch and run from the room as he fumbled for his wand in the semi-darkness and pointed it at his own streaming nose silently casting the spell, still trying to blink the stars away.

He wasn't entirely convinced he'd managed to hide it all, but it was still better than screaming. At least they were both saved from any stilted conversation by a shouting from behind the bookcase he'd landed in, Peter demanding if anyone could hear him.

Frank and Remus moved in tandem without even looking at each other, both tapping the bookshelf first, but whatever spell they'd tired had no affect, so giving it a shove, and still it didn't seem to want to move.

Sirius roused himself from the couch, shaking his hair out of his face as he went over and called, "stand back Pete!"

Frank looked at him in confusion. "What are you-"

Remus grabbed the back of his robes and pulled, pushing Prongs back into the room he'd just tired to leave from and slamming the door behind the three of them.

There was a soft, muffled exploding noise that seemed to shake the whole house, but at least when five of them converged back in the living room, it was to see the two of them waving smoke out of their face and bickering.

"Could have killed me you arse!" Peter was huffing as he brushed dust from his long ruined clothes.

"What, I got you out didn't I?" Sirius pointed out in exasperation. The bookshelf lay in a scattered mess around them like a war map.

"Remind me never to get rescued by him again," Frank muttered quietly to Alice, who snorted in surprise at him making such a dark joke.

"Where are we?" James interrupted the two, circling curiously on the spot.

Remus went over to a mounted wall light and flipped it on, but the bare bulb only cast the corners of the room into heavier shadows and illuminated their destruction upon arriving. There was an empty mantle, and Regulus knew there to be a very tiny kitchen he'd passed through to get in here, with a few muggle contraptions he couldn't recall what they were called, but he'd seen back in the Dursleys house, if lesser models in here.

"Hey, where's Lily?" Alice asked in concern.

Regulus had spotted a hint of her flashing red hair on the roof, but she'd sat herself down, and he figured she'd be in here by now if she wanted to be so obviously didn't want to be disturbed. "Well, I don't hear anyone else screaming for help, so let's get on with this." He summoned the book to him, which came shooting out of the room that had been behind the bookcase.

Frank thought him a bit more of an arse than usual, he'd thought they'd almost been getting along back in the Weasley's kitchen, and he really didn't care? The end of the last chapter wasn't that pressing of an issue to keep going! The chapter title illuminated no explanation. Seen and Unforeseen? That could mean almost anything!

He and Alice went in search of the house one more time with a thorough inspection but only found more dust and disuse, and then went out back just to make sure, but finally spotted her on the roof, just sitting up there and gazing into the distance.

The two exchanged an uneasy look, feeling almost bad now they'd forced their company on her back in the last place, but they also didn't want her to have to go through this alone. Snape was still being more of an arse than ever in those Occlumency lessons, and it was clearly getting to her. They didn't know what else to say though, they'd made it as clear to her as they could they still wanted to be friends to her whatever her decision regarding him, and if she didn't want to talk about it in the meantime they could hardly force her.

They went back inside, holding hands and hoping their friend knew she could join them when she was ready.

The chapter itself wasn't offering much in the meantime, Hermione was patiently explaining exactly how Harry's date was a disaster with Cho in almost painful detail. Alice watched James in particular during this to see if he was bothering to take notes, and to her unbelievable surprise he seemed to be.

Remus and Sirius were behind him, whispering and snickering more bad advice they hadn't managed to say during the last bits, but Potter was ignoring them and watching Regulus with an intent expression and still looking around hopefully like he wanted to catch a glimpse of somebody else's red hair besides the arriving Ginny and Ron.

Frank had the vague impression he'd pay Hermione to invent said book, 'Translating Mad Things Girls Do So Boys Can Understand Them.' "Have I ever mentioned how much I love you," he told his girlfriend seriously. His nerves had been a havoc convincing himself to ask her out, but it had practically been smooth sailing from there.

"I certainly never grow tired of hearing it," she giggled.

"Well Ginny at least gets better with every mentioning," Sirius perked up in delight at hearing the news she stole her brothers brooms for practice. He had no idea what Prongs saw in Evans, the girl was a nut not even liking the sport. "Don't be getting ideas though you little shit," he added quickly when Regulus gave him a curious look.

Regulus huffed and muttered something about having his own broom thank you as he kept going.

Another game came and went, this time with Harry completely in the stands having to watch as his replacement Seeker spotted the Snitch slower than he would have, the whole miserable experience capped with the score and they were all wondering now if Ron would ever manage to save a goal.

"Honestly, I think I'd just let him quit out of pity after that," Peter winced, he'd take giving up with dignity instead of another fiasco.

"Oh come on, he's got it in him," James bolstered at once, his eyes lighting in excitement. "There's totally a way to fix this problem! First you put one person in the stands until Ron could easily ignore that person no matter what they said or did, and then keep adding people until Ron could block them all out. I don't care how long it took, I'd find a way so that Ron would never let someone get the better of him like this."

"Cheers Prongs," Sirius mock raised a glass at him to everyone's stunned silence except Sirius it seemed. "You're a shoe in for captain next year."

"I'd better be," he nodded, and they couldn't even blame him for the pig-headed tone.

Peter sighed and took an uneasy step back as Remus just laughed in agreement. He swore they'd only liked him before because they'd shared a dorm with him so long, it's not like he was anything like them. He'd made a fool of himself in Keeper tryouts at the beginning of the year trying to get onto the team, and he certainly hadn't blamed the current captain for picking the younger player who saved all of her goals rather than his measly three. Both James and Sirius had promised at the time they'd come out and practice with him for next year even as a reserve player, but of course nobody had seemed to have time for that.

Regulus had watched the entire thing, debating whether he should say something, but Peter just shook his head and waved him on.

Sirius had watched the exchange, and had to bother his mind for several moments as talk left Quidditch and Harry was assaulted by owls for his article in the Quibbler getting released earlier than usual before finally remembering and guessing what must be bothering Peter now.

He winced, just a bit. It's not like they'd done it on purpose, he could have come down to Quidditch practice any time with them but usually stayed up in the dorms with Remus, it's not like Peter had ever brought it up himself again.

He still wanted a way to talk to both of them, but was drawing a blank as to how. Percy wrote the most obnoxious letter possible, he accused himself, you can just go over there! It was easier said than done though, some part of him was still afraid they'd just turn on him again, what the hell was he supposed to do to convince himself otherwise, let alone them.

"I guess that explains the seen part of the title," Remus interrupted his grumbling thoughts with an uneasy smile. "Now what do you suppose the unforeseen bit will be?"

"Some more madness to do with Trelawney I'm sure, that old bat can't foresee the weather," Sirius shrugged without care. He was getting vaguely annoyed watching Peter and Regulus take a few more steps back and start whispering about all the reactions to that article being mailed to Harry, but again he couldn't find any good reason to snap at the two for a moment. He wished he could drag Moony off for a snog, just for something to entertain them, but even if he was trying to consciously stop doing that for now so Prongs wouldn't think he was being ignored, he didn't trust this place enough anyways.

The two of them stopped in outrage as much as anyone though when Harry was banned from Hogsmeade by Umbridge because of this.

"That rotten creampuff needs to have her tounge cut off!" James spluttered in disgust.

"At least Harry doesn't have to follow that decree," Peter reminded grimly, "but I'll get the knife."

Frank and Alice watched as this was clearly the most insulting thing she could do to the Marauders, even if they would have ignored this and every other rule from her as thoroughly as they already did to every other in the castle.

It was of some comfort to Regulus at least that Umbridge's plan to ban the article at least backfired and the whole school found themselves reading it, he certainly enjoyed that part.

Things just continued to spiral downwards from there, as Harry had yet another vision of You-Know-Who torturing someone, though at least this time it was another Death Eater rather than someone they had to care about. Regulus was shivering in revulsion by the end, almost in tears as he kept picturing himself in that future still rather than Rookwood if he didn't find some way to talk his parents out of this when he got back. He wasn't like Sirius, he couldn't just run off to someone's house and expect to be taken in if his parents kicked him out for it!

Sirius nearly went to him then, his feet even began moving unconsciously to do it, Regulus looked miserable and wretched as he read that and clearly his worry about Regulus thinking this would never happen to him was wrong, but then Peter put a reassuring hand on his shoulder and whispered something just for the two of them. Sirius stopped cold and leaned back on his heels instead, they really didn't need him to make it worse if he tried to help.

James listened to it all while having to fight off a scream, he couldn't just come up with a plan for his son on how to casually combat this madness continuing to happen to him! He was nearly screaming and jumping on the spot in outrage as Snape still managed to make the whole experience worse during that next Occlumency class, all but confirming his job as a spy Death Eater, but for whose side he still couldn't trust.

He wished Evans was back down here more than ever, he'd love to watch her in particular to see how she took to him still insulting Harry every other breath after torturing his mind like this!

Something new happened on the next round though to break him out of his revere, and none of them were sure what would happen when Harry cast some kind of retaliation back from Snape's curse, in the form of Protego.

A girl was laughing as a scrawny boy tried to mount a bucking broomstick, and the Marauders felt a thrill of laughter at remembering this as their first flying lesson, and the idiot had done all that to himself, the girl had been Mary Macdonald, but everyone present had been laughing, even Evans would swear she hadn't been despite her twitching lips as she'd pulled him away back to the castle while Hooch had gone after the wayward broom when he landed.

A greasy-haired teenager sat alone in a dark bedroom, pointing his wand at the ceiling, shooting down flies, and Sirius sneered at Snape being such an awful person. He clearly knew the feelings of being alone then, but the idiot wasn't any good at making friends to fix the problem. He didn't even like Evans and he still pitied her having to deal with Snape.

*And then suddenly the last memory was being described, and they all felt a shot of horror as this very room was described, and a hook-nosed man was shouting at a cowering woman, while a small dark-haired boy cried in a corner...

"Oh shit," James muttered, turning crazily on the spot for who knew what, before bursting out of the back door so loud he almost startled Lily off the roof.

She'd been listening with a tightly knit stomach that ached so bad during the whole chapter she wished she could expel all of her intestines with a very particular potion in mind even before it had gotten to Snape's memories, then she'd contemplated jumping from the roof and barging in to stop all this before it went past that first memory.

She had no choice though, she knew that she couldn't save Sev from them hearing about this anymore than she could rescue Harry from the way he was treated. She still hadn't been expecting Potter to come thundering from the house and looking around wildly before spotting her up here.

She didn't know what he meant by it either when he gave her a long, beseeching look, before just sitting down in the grass and waiting out here patiently with her. He didn't apologize, try to get up there with her, or do much of anything besides that.

Her arms finally loosened their tight grip around her knees just a smidge, even she wouldn't deny to herself she felt just a tad bit less alone now just for his presence. She couldn't hear what the others had to say about this, still honestly didn't want to know what that explosion and all the general shouting that had been going on inside was.

She'd never have shared all she knew of Sev's home life with them if given the chance, he'd never even really told her, but she'd suspected it was something like this with the crude comments he made, particularly about his dad.

He'd sneak over to her window when it was a bad night, just like she would go to his when Petunia said something particularly vile, and they'd go hide out in their spot until they'd talked and laughed and it was bearable enough to go back.

Didn't he remember all that when he was being the same abusive arse to Harry? Did he care at all for how it would make Neville feel to be reduced to tears when he nearly had so many times? Did he find more comfort with those cruel friends who offered to torture muggles instead of her commiserating, was that why he wouldn't stop talking to them?

Regulus Black finally kept going, and she knew nor cared what their resolution to this revelation had been, she just wanted to shake Severus and demand answers why he was like this as he just vindictively ignored the whole instance like his past meant nothing to him and turned his wand on Harry again.

Her son found himself in You-Know-Who's mind once more, longing to break past that locked door, and for once managing such a thing and finding himself in the circular room of doors they'd already seen once before. Hot tears spilled out of her cheeks as he just insulted him again for not trying hard enough, as if it weren't her eyes in Harry's face that was begging for help to make this stop. Harry hadn't asked this happening to him anymore than Severus had ever purposely induced Tobias' anger.

Then a scream interrupted before the torturer could go any farther, and the two left it for the night to see what other catastrophe had befallen the castle. Lily bit down hard on her lip to stop a sob of relief escaping it was over again, for now.

The distressed person turned out to be Trelawney screaming over the fact she was finally being given her pink slip by a woman who needed to be buried alive in the color.

Umbridge was somehow even more revolting than usual as she glorified in the Divination teachers dismissal, while a crowd of students could only stand there and watch the poor woman's life get thrown down the stairs.

Lily glanced down and saw Potter's look of disdain for the very same, and she wanted to scoff he thought himself better when he had an audience to most of his shows. He embarrassed and tormented others for his own amusement just like Umbridge. She stopped the thoughts cold though as she imagined what Harry would think of this, and forced herself to really hear her own mental tirade, she knew she was still angry at Severus and lashing out.

James Potter was an arrogant toerag who did whatever for his own amusement, but he'd never driven anyone to tears, let alone stand proudly above the scene of his crime. If the person their prank was used on didn't laugh along, he usually just took the detention with grace and didn't target the same person again. If the curse he'd sent left someone unable to get to the hospital wing, he'd almost inevitably do it himself, if not one of his friends slinking off to go find somebody who would while he took the detention with a smile.

He was an arse, but he wasn't curel, not like Umbridge was until Dumbledore stepped in and stopped the show.

She sighed one last time as she kept looking back on the past five years of her school life with a giant question mark plastered over everything, one she wasn't convinced even a centaur for a teacher could help unravel.

HPHPHPHPHP

*Just so you all know I'm acknowledging it and it's not a mistake, I did do the memories in reverse order that they actually appeared in the story for my own benefit.

[mhdiaries]

Wave 2 Cleo de Nile Diary

Ninth Month 15th Day

I didn’t sleep very well last night at all. I had this dream that I was about to lead the Fear Squad onto a stage where we were supposed to perform in front of an undead JV audience with millions of monsters watching all over the world. Only when I looked back Frankie had forgotten her arms, Draculaura had a tiny bat body with her normal sized head and Deuce had turned the rest of the team into stone. He kept saying, “It’s okay we’ll take them home and they can live in the garden with the other gnomes.” Then I realized I was wearing a lunch lady outfit and my pompoms had turned into gravy ladles. Fortunately, I woke up before we had to perform. I told father about the dream and he said, “Uneasy lies the head that wears the crown.” Well, perhaps I should lessen that unease with more team practice.

Ninth Month 20th Day

Ghoulia yelled at me today and I must admit that it sort of hurt my feelings. She was sitting by herself in the creepateria drawing something in her notebook and I was going to ask her to sit with the rest of us. When I said her name though it startled her, and she slammed her notebook closed. Then she said, “Oh my ghoul!” “Can you please take your own notes and give me just a moment of privacy?” Then she turned her back on me and started drawing again. I think what hurt my feelings the most was not that she yelled at me but that she thought it wasn’t her company I wanted. She apologized later which I accepted, of course. I like having Ghoulia around because I absolutely trust her. I wish I could tell her that but it’s just not done. I am royalty after all… although perhaps I need to learn to make exceptions for my friends.

Tenth Month 7th Day

Spectra… leave it to her to make a mausoleum out of a molehill. I saw Deuce at the end of the school day, and he told me how everything started. He wrote a song for my upcoming birthday celebration and he wanted Operetta to put it to music and make a recording for me. Of course, there have been thousands of songs composed in my honor but this was different… anyway so Deuce goes into the band room with Operetta and starts reading her the song. Spectra floats through and misinterprets what’s going on, like she always does, and all of a sudden the whole school is in full scale gossip mode. Before I know it I’m being dumped by Deuce and getting back together with Clawd. She even had the audacity to ask me for a comment! I was so angry I shouted at her in Ancient Egyptian… probably a good thing since what I said was not exactly befitting royalty. I even cancelled Fear Squad practice because I totally couldn’t focus. I know that Clawd tracked Spectra down and tried to reason with her but that actually made things worse because if she thinks she’s being persecuted she gets even louder about what she thinks the “real” truth is. I appreciated Clawd trying to stand up for me though. He is an honorable wolf and under different circumstances maybe we’d still be together but undue speculation is something which commoners concern themselves, so I’ll stop now.

Tenth Month 12th Day

Why is it that Headless Headmistress Bloodgood wants us to dredge up the past? The last thing I want to do is write about how my family went from ruling the greatest dynasty ever to being betrayed and dethroned by people we trusted. I will not write about that because even after so many thousands of years it still hurts. What to write then? I have the ability to charm snakes – not with a stupid flute – but I can speak to them and they will do what I ask them to. It’s not something I do all the time – I mostly just use it when Hissette crawls inside a shoe I want to wear and won’t come out. No, I’ve never used it on Deuce although I have been tempted a time or two… just kidding. He likes me for who I am, why would I want to ruin that by manipulating him? I must also wear some of my wrappings at all times otherwise… well it’s not something I really wish to think about. Father also has quite a collection of amulets and charms that will work only for those in my family. Of course, they usually also come with a curse if you overuse them.

Tenth Month 16th Day

I’m beginning to think that allowing Purrsephone, Meowlody and Toralei to stay on the Fear Squad was a mistake. My sister brought them onto the team, she always was a cat person, when she was the Fear Squad captain. If they weren’t so athletic and graceful I would have kicked them off when I became captain, despite my sister’s insistence that I keep them. They definitely have their own agenda and even though on the outside they act like they are sold out for the team I do not trust them. I think if something “better” came along they would leave me up the Styx without a Charon. I even overheard them making fun of Ghoulia one day which they totally denied when I confronted them about it. I on the other hand have one agenda; making the Fear Squad the best it can be. If they get in the way of making that happen I hear Lagoona is looking for new members on the swim team.

Tenth Month 22nd Day

I got an email from Nefera today. Ugh… haven’t had that name haunting over my head since she graduated. Just writing it after so long sends chills down my spine and not in a good way either. She said that she was up for five magazine covers and a spooks model contract. She was also up on all the MH gossip and what was happening on the Fear Squad. Wonder who she’s getting all her information from… not. Of course she gave me a whole list of things I was doing wrong and what I needed to do to fix them. As the older sister she is entitled to correct me if I do anything “unbecoming to one of royal birth.” I am entitled to sit quietly and listen which I did, a lot. The Fear Squad is not about royalty though and as a past captain she is entitled to her opinion but I’m no longer entitled to sit quietly and listen. It’s my team now and even though we haven’t yet won the awards her teams did I believe that we can and will. I don’t know why she should care anyway since her email made it sound like she’s one step away from ruling the world. If I were in her place what’s happing at high school would be the last thing on my mind.

Tenth Month 25th Day

I ran into Clawdeen at the Maul today. We both came out of a dressing room wearing the same thing. I braced myself for some sarcastic comment but she just looked at me and started laughing. I don’t know why but I did as well and before long we were both sitting on the floor of the dressing room howling with laughter. We got kicked out of the store and ended up at the food corpse sharing a basket of fries. She told me that Clawd told her the real story behind our breakup and I told her that I was sorry for not being honest about the situation from the beginning. She apologized too – for not confronting me directly and getting the true tale. We hung out for a while and mocked some current fashion trends and then before we left Clawdeen stuck out her hand, “Frenemies?” she said. “Frenemies,” I said as I shook it. While it is doubtful that two “alphas” can ever be more than that, not have Clawdeen actively against me is a step in the right direction.