#hemming is not technically necessary but edge finishing is

[jezebelblues]

live on tour (interlinked) | h.s | 1

pt 1, pt 2 (complete)

summary: we don’t talk about it, it’s something we don’t do—cause once you go without it, nothing else will do.

cw: smut18+ in pt 2, weed, alcohol, angst, sort of a slowburn idk, fem!reader, hs1rry

word count: approx 21.5k gulp

| idk how to feel ab this!!! stay with me now. + tumblr forced me to put this into two parts. [wink, nudge: the lyrics always mean something] i'm posting pt 2 right after this. smut is in 2nd part if that's only ur cup of tea

masterlist

June, 2017

It was Mitch who vouched for her.

Harry had trusted him implicitly since the first meeting. His effortless cool, his way of speaking only when necessary, and the way his guitar sounded like it could split the sky—all of it made him essential to Harry’s debut. If Mitch said someone was good, Harry would believe it.

But good wasn’t the issue.

“S’not about talent,” Harry had said one night in rehearsals, after the original second guitarist dropped out. “I just need t’feel like we fit, you know?”

Mitch had nodded, taking that as permission to make the call.

Her name was YN.

He’d heard the name before. Her reputation in the industry wasn’t loud but sharp—a razor’s edge that hinted at precision and professionalism. A prodigy of sorts, she’d landed her big break with Pink Floyd’s operatic revival of The Wall, the youngest lead guitarist in the show’s history. Since then, she’d moved from project to project, touring, sitting in on sessions, lending her guitar to artists who wanted her distinct, cutting sound.

Harry had always assumed she was someone you called when you needed the best, but not someone you kept around.

He wasn’t sure why that thought stuck in his head when Mitch mentioned her name.

He fumbled with the hem of his white t-shirt and stood at the back of the dim rehearsal space, watching Mitch set up. The low hum of amps warming up filled the room. Mitch’s quiet focus steadied Harry’s nerves—until the door opened.

She walked in with her guitar strapped across her back. She wasn’t early, but she wasn’t late either. The kind of timing that said she knew she was good but wasn’t going to make a show of it.

“Hey.” Mitch greeted her with a slight nod. He’d already taken his place behind the mixing board, leaving Harry to do the introductions.

YN turned her head toward Harry. Her eyes flickered over him briefly, as if appraising him, and then landed back on Mitch. “This the audition?”

Harry frowned. “Not an audition. A rehearsal.”

She raised an eyebrow, but her expression didn’t waver. “Right. Rehearsal.”

There was no handshake, no nervousness, no wide-eyed awe that he was used to when people first met him. She treated him like someone she was there to work with, not someone she wanted to impress.

Mitch gestured to a stand near the tall brunette. “You can set up there.”

She walked past them both without another word, unzipping her guitar case and pulling out a battered Stratocaster, crème and pine green. Harry noticed her hands immediately—nimble fingers with calluses thick enough to catch the light.

“Let’s get on with it then,” she grinned, plugging in.

He leaned toward Mitch, speaking low enough that she couldn’t hear. “Bit cocky, isn’t she?”

Mitch smirked but didn’t reply.

The first run-through was solid. She played with precision, hitting every note cleanly, and her technical skills were undeniable. But something about it felt cold, distant. Harry tried to catch her eye while they were playing, but she was hyper-focused on her guitar, her face blank.

When they finished the first song, he put his hands on his hips. “Alright,” he paused, louder than necessary. “That’s…fine. Let’s take it from the top.”

YN looked at Mitch. “Fine?”

Harry cut in before he could respond. “Yeah, fine. It’s technically good, but there’s no feeling in it. This isn’t session work. We’re putting on a live show. People need t’feel something when you play.”

She stared at him for a moment, then set her guitar down on its stand. “And what exactly do you want me to feel? We’re playing your songs.”

The tension in the room spiked. Mitch glanced between the two of them, looking ready to intervene.

He crossed his arms. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means,” she started, brushing her hair back from her face, “that if you want something specific, maybe tell me what you’re looking for instead of just saying it’s not good enough.”

Her words hung in the air.

Mitch cleared his throat. “Why don’t we try the next track?”

She picked up her guitar without waiting for Harry’s input. Her fingers brushed the strings in a quick, angry strum as she tested the tuning. Harry stared at her, his jaw tight.

She didn’t flinch under his gaze.

It went on like that for the next hour.

Every time YN played, he found something to critique. Her tone, her phrasing, her timing—it didn’t matter that Mitch disagreed and kept insisting she was perfect for the role. Harry refused to back down, nitpicking every detail.

By the time they reached the final song, the air in the room was thick with unspoken animosity. YN played the opening riff of kiwi with more aggression than necessary, her fingers sliding over the frets like she wanted to punish the guitar.

When they finished, she shifted her weight and unplugged her amp. “Are we done?” she asked, slinging her guitar back over her shoulder.

Harry opened his mouth, ready with another critique, but Mitch cut him off. “Yeah. We’re done f'today.”

She nodded, her expression unreadable. She didn’t look at Harry again as she walked toward the door.

When it closed behind her, Harry let out a frustrated sigh. “She’s not right for this.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You sure about that?”

“I’m positive,” He snapped. “She’s not a team player. She doesn’t fit.”

He leaned back against the mixing board, crossing his arms, hair falling behind his shoulders. “You ever think that maybe you’re the one who doesn’t fit?”

Harry glared at him. “What’s that supposed t’mean?”

“It means,” he said slowly, “that she’s a better guitarist than you’re giving her credit for. And maybe you don’t like her because she’s not trying to kiss your ass.”

He scoffed. “That’s ridiculous.”

Mitch shrugged. “If you want to replace her, go ahead. But good luck finding someone else who can keep up with me…or you.”

Outside the rehearsal space, YN stood by her car, lighting a cigarette. She didn’t smoke often, only with a drink or if she was tense. 

She exhaled a plume of smoke into the warm evening air, her jaw clenched. She wasn’t angry exactly, but there was something about Harry Styles that got under her skin.

It wasn’t his fame or his music—that was fine. She’d worked with big names before. It was the way he carried himself, like he expected the world to bend around him.

He wasn’t used to people pushing back, and YN had no intention of making it easy for him.

If he wanted her to feel something when she played, she’d give him exactly that.

Even if it meant setting the whole stage on fire.

The rehearsal space smelled faintly of stale coffee and amps that had been running too long. The walls were lined with soundproofing panels, their faded gray color doing little to brighten the room. YN arrived early this time—not out of eagerness, but because she didn’t want to give Harry anything else to criticize.

Her guitar case thumped onto the ground before she adjusted the ring on her pinky—not dainty, but not loud. Her mother’s birth flower ingrained along the gold surface, a piece of her she could carry since her death in 2014. She could hear Mitch in the back, tuning his Gibson, and the faint shuffle of Harry’s sneakers as he moved across the space, adjusting mic stands and scribbling notes.

She was effortlessly pretty, the kind of beauty that crept up on you when you weren’t paying attention. Her lips held a natural pout, and her hair framed her face in a way that looked casual but impossibly deliberate, like it had conspired with the universe to fall just right. Her outfit was understated, perfect for rehearsal—straight-leg blue denim that sat just right on her hips, an off-white baby tee with cherry bomb splashed in bold red across the center, and a pair of scuffed white club c reeboks that had seen more than their fair share of years since 2015.

Around her wrist was a faded friendship bracelet, its once-bright threads dulled by time but no less significant. Jude, her best friend since high school, had tied it there the night they graduated, their laughter mingling with the hum of summer cicadas. She’d never taken it off, not once, even as life swept them into different journeys.

When YN told Jude over vodka cranberries that she’d landed a gig playing guitar for Harry Styles—yes, that Harry Styles—Jude nearly fell off her barstool. She’d been the kind of One Direction fan who made custom shirts for concerts and cried during little things. YN still remembered the way her voice shook with disbelief as she grabbed her by the shoulders and said, “You’re telling me you’re gonna play for Harry fucking Styles?” It had taken two rounds of shots to calm her down, though her enthusiasm had lingered for weeks. It was the kind of reaction that reminded YN how surreal this opportunity really was.

She promised she’d get her a front row ticket the first night in New York. 

She took her time setting up, deliberately slow. If Harry wanted to play mind games, she could too.

“Morning,” Mitch greeted, glancing up from his guitar.

“Hey,” she replied, flashing a quick smile. Mitch was the only person in the room she felt remotely comfortable around.

Harry’s voice cut through the room, sharper than it needed to be. “You’re early today.”

YN didn’t bother looking at him. “Thought I’d save you the trouble of complaining.”

The sound of Mitch’s guitar string snapping filled the silence that followed. He muttered something under his breath and bent to grab a spare string from his bag.

He walked over, his footsteps deliberate. “It’s not complaining. It’s feedback.”

“Uh-huh,” YN’s lips twitched, focusing on adjusting her amp. She crouched to test the levels, purposely ignoring him.

Harry crouched too, just enough to catch her eye. He smelt like cedar and pine. “You have something t’say?”

Her hands paused on the dials. “Nope.”

“Good.”

She stood abruptly, the motion forcing Harry to lean back. Her expression didn’t change, but her grip on her guitar tightened.

The rehearsal started the same way the last one ended: tense.

YN matched Harry’s intensity with her playing, her fingers precise but hard, striking each note with the kind of force that could shatter glass. She didn’t look at him once, even when he stopped the song halfway through to give her another round of vague critiques.

“Can you make it less…clinical?” he asked, his hands gesturing vaguely in the air.

“Clinical?” she repeated, her voice flat.

“Yeah, like…put some soul into it. Like it means something to you.”

Her lips twitched into the faintest smile, one that didn’t reach her eyes. “I wasn’t aware Sign of the Times was a soul song.”

She didn’t mean that, not really. It was a song of his that she enjoyed, she liked the 70’s elements he took, the way his voice sounded with the instruments in the back—but he was getting under her skin, he deserved the same.

Mitch coughed to hide his laugh.

Harry’s jaw clenched. “You know what I mean.”

“Do I?”

The tension in the room was palpable now, a live wire crackling between them. Mitch stood off to the side, quietly restringing his guitar, pretending not to notice.

Harry took a deep breath, his tone softening. “Look, I just need it t’feel real. Like you’re part of it, not just playing over it.”

She stared at him for a moment, her eyes narrowing slightly. “Alright.”

She picked up her guitar again and launched into the song before anyone could say another word. This time, her playing wasn’t just technically perfect—it was angry. The notes tore through the air, raw and sharp, as if she were trying to prove a point with every riff.

He watched her, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. He couldn’t deny it sounded good—better than good—but there was something about her attitude that made him want to push back harder.

By the time they reached the last song of the set, the air in the room was thick with frustration.

Mitch played the opening riff, his fingers gliding effortlessly over the strings, and YN followed with her part. Her playing was looser now, more natural, but the tension in her shoulders hadn’t eased.

When they finished, Harry didn’t say anything right away. He stood there, staring at her, his lips pressed into a thin line.

“Well?” she asked, her voice clipped.

“S’fine,” he said, his tone careful.

“Fine?”

“You’re improving,” he clarified, though the words felt begrudging.

She laughed under her breath, shaking her head. “Good to know I’m living up to your impossible standards.”

Harry bristled. “It’s not impossible to ask for some effort.”

“Effort?” Her voice rose slightly. “I’ve been putting in effort since I walked through that door, but all you’ve done is nitpick every single thing I do.”

“Because I know what this show needs!”

“No, you know what you need,” she shot back. “This isn’t about the music—it’s about your ego.”

The words hit like a slap. Mitch’s guitar strap slipped from his shoulder as he froze, watching the scene unfold.

Harry’s expression darkened. “If my ego were the problem, you wouldn’t be here.”

The room went silent.

YN’s gaze didn’t waver. “Right. Well, maybe you should’ve thought about that before you dragged me into this.”

She slung her guitar over her shoulder and walked toward the door, her sneakers squeaking against the floor.

“Where are you going?” Harry called after her.

She paused, her hand on the doorknob. “Taking a break. Unless you have a problem with that too.”

Before he could respond, the door swung shut behind her.

Mitch set his guitar down and looked at Harry, his expression unreadable. “You’re really bad at this, you know that?” he said finally.

Harry glared at him. “At what?”

“Not making her hate you.”

Harry sighed, running a hand through his hair. “She doesn’t hate me.”

Mitch raised an eyebrow. “And the sky isn’t blue.”

He didn’t reply. He sat down on the edge of the stage, his shoulders slumping slightly. He wasn’t used to being challenged like this, and it was throwing him off balance.

Mitch leaned against the amp, watching him. “You know, you don’t have to like her. You just have to work with her.”

“I know.” 

“Then stop pushing her so hard. She’s already good enough for this tour—you’re the one who needs to let go a bit.”

He didn’t say anything, but the knot in his chest tightened. He wasn’t sure if it was frustration or something else entirely.

Outside, YN leaned against the wall, her cigarette glowing faintly in the dim light. She exhaled slowly, her breath visible in the cool evening air.

She wasn’t sure what was worse—working with Harry or wanting to prove him wrong so badly it made her chest ache.

She took another drag and let the thought dissolve in the smoke.

September third

The studio was quiet now, the hum of amps and chatter of the band long gone. The others had left half an hour ago, leaving YN to pack up her gear in peace. She moved deliberately, her hands steady despite the exhaustion settling deep in her bones.

The rehearsal had been grueling. Harry had pushed harder than ever, his sharp critiques grating on her nerves until every strum of her guitar felt like a defiance. She wasn’t sure if he noticed—or cared—but by the end of the session, she’d felt like she was one wrong note away from throwing her guitar through a wall.

Now, alone with the quiet, she could finally breathe.

Until she wasn’t alone.

The sound of footsteps echoed behind her, and YN stiffened, glancing over her shoulder to see Harry stepping back into the room. He had swapped his stage shoes for sneakers, the cuffs of his trousers rolled slightly at the ankles. His sweater was slung over one shoulder, and the faint sheen of sweat on his neck suggested he hadn’t been gone long.

“Forgot m’notebook,” he said, his voice casual as his eyes scanned the room.

“Lucky me,” she muttered, turning back to her guitar.

He didn’t reply, but she could feel his presence as he crossed the space, moving toward the table where his things were scattered.

YN focused on wrapping her cable, each loop tight and precise. She wasn’t in the mood for small talk, not after the day they’d had.

But Harry didn’t leave.

The silence stretched, heavy and charged, as he lingered near the table. YN’s movements slowed, her frustration bubbling to the surface.

“Something you need?” she asked, not bothering to mask the edge in her voice.

When he didn’t answer right away, she turned to face him, her hands still clutching the coiled cable.

Harry was watching her, his notebook forgotten on the table. His eyes were sharp, unreadable, and the weight of his gaze made her stomach twist uncomfortably.

“You were pushing today,” he said finally, his tone measured.

She blinked, caught off guard. “Excuse me?”

“During rehearsal,” he clarified, crossing his arms. “You weren’t playing like y’normally do.”

“Maybe I was just tired.” She countered, though the words felt like a lie even as she said them.

“You weren’t tired,” he said softly.

Her jaw tightened. “What do you want, Harry? If you’re here to critique me again, save it. I’ve heard enough for one day.”

His brow furrowed, but he didn’t rise to the bait. Instead, he stepped closer, his movements deliberate but unthreatening. “I wasn’t trying t’pick on you,” he breathed, his voice quieter now. “If that’s how it felt, I’m sorry.”

YN stared at him, her mind struggling to reconcile the words with the man who’d spent months nitpicking every note she played.

“Why do you care?” she asked, the question slipping out before she could stop it.

He hesitated, his lips pressing into a thin line as he looked at her. “Because I need this to work.”

His words landed heavily between them, and for a moment, the room felt too small.

“You act like it’s just me,” she said finally, her voice quieter but still tinged with frustration. “Like I’m the only thing keeping it from working.”

“I don’t think that,” he said quickly, his eyes locking onto hers. “You’re good—better than good. That’s not the problem.”

“Then what is?”

He exhaled slowly, dragging a hand through his hair. “I don’t know. Maybe it’s me.”

YN froze, her breath catching at the raw honesty in his voice. She hadn’t expected that—not from him.

The silence between them grew heavier, the tension coiling tighter with every passing second.

Harry’s gaze dropped briefly, like he was searching for the right words. When he looked back up, there was something different in his expression, something softer but no less intense.

“You frustrate me,” he said finally, the words low but certain.

YN’s throat went dry. “Right back at you.”

He took another step closer, and this time, she didn’t move away. Her heart pounded as she looked up at him, her chest tightening under the weight of his stare.

Neither of them spoke, the silence crackling with unspoken words.

She didn’t know who leaned in first—maybe it was him, or maybe it was her—but suddenly the space between them was almost nonexistent. She could feel the warmth of his breath, see the faint flicker of hesitation in his eyes as he lingered just close enough to touch.

Her pulse thundered in her ears, and her fingers curled into the coiled cable in her hand, desperate for something to hold onto.

“Harry,” she whispered, though she wasn’t sure if it was a warning or an invitation.

The sound of his name seemed to pull him back, his eyes searching hers for a fleeting moment before he stepped away.

“I should go.” 

He grabbed his notebook and left without another word, the door clicking shut behind him.

YN stood there, her heart still racing, the ghost of his presence lingering in the air.

Whatever had just happened—whatever had almost happened—she wasn’t sure what to do with it.

September nineteenth

San Francisco was humming.

The Masonic sat perched atop Nob Hill like a jewel overlooking the city, its art deco façade catching the early morning light. By dawn, the line of fans already snaked around the block, blankets and camp chairs scattered across the sidewalk. A faint fog clung to the streets, giving the historic building an ethereal quality as the first rays of sunlight broke through.

It was opening night of Harry’s solo tour, and the air outside the venue was electric.

Groups of fans huddled close, wrapped in scarves and oversized sweatshirts, their conversations a steady hum of anticipation. Some clutched homemade signs or albums, while others leaned against the building, scrolling through their phones to pass the hours.

Inside the venue, it was chaos.

The crew had been there since 6 am, unloading crates of equipment, running cables like veins along the stage. Monitors were stacked, adjusted, then adjusted again. Lights were tested until they bathed the empty floor in saturated pinks and golds. A countdown clock blinked red backstage, a digital reminder that time was slipping through the cracks, too fast and too slow all at once.

By 10 am, the band was in full rehearsal mode, locked in a cycle of repetition and frustration. YN perched on a stool near the edge of the stage, her guitar resting against her thighs, the strap digging into her shoulder. Mitch was on her left, his head bent over his guitar, fingers moving like smoke over the frets. The two of them had been working together for months now, tight and efficient, a partnership forged in long hours and shared cigarettes.

Harry stood center stage, mic in hand, dressed like he hadn’t quite decided if he wanted to be a rock star or a poet today. He wore a loose black blouse unbuttoned to his sternum, tucked into tailored trousers that hung just right. His boots clacked against the floor as he paced, his movements restless, his voice sharp as glass when he spoke.

“Stop, stop,” he sighed, waving his free hand. “It’s off. That transition’s not right.”

She bit down on her tongue. It wasn’t off. She knew it wasn’t off. But Harry had a way of finding faults where there weren’t any, like he needed to pick at something just to prove he could.

Mitch glanced at her, a subtle flick of his eyes that said, Don’t.

She ignored him.

“It’s not the transition,” she jutted her chin, her voice cutting through the murmur of techs and assistants scurrying around the stage. “The timing’s fine. It’s your entrance that’s late.”

He turned to her slowly, the mic dangling from his fingers like a threat. “Oh, is it?” he asked, his tone light, almost amused, but his jaw was tight. “You sure about that?”

YN met his gaze, unflinching. “Positive.”

For a moment, the only sound was the faint hum of an amp in the background. Harry didn’t say anything, just tipped his head slightly, his lips curving into something that wasn’t quite a smile. Then he turned back to the band. “Alright,” he paused, his voice smooth again, commanding. “Run it from the top.”

Mitch exhaled, a quiet sound that YN barely caught. She didn’t look at him. Instead, she adjusted the strap on her guitar and settled her fingers on the fretboard, ready for another round of the same song they’d played fifteen times already.

By noon, the tension was palpable.

Lunch was a quick affair, eaten standing in the dim backstage area while techs rushed past with tangled cords and boxes of equipment. She leaned against a speaker case, picking at a dry sandwich, her guitar propped up against her leg. Across the room, Harry was surrounded by his usual orbit of stylists and assistants, his laugh ringing out every now and then, low and easy. He looked completely unbothered, like he wasn’t the reason half the band was on edge.

Mitch sat down next to her, his plate balanced precariously on his knee.

“You’ve got to let it go,” he said quietly, not looking up from his food.

“Let what go?” She asked, feigning innocence.

He gave her a flat look. “You and Harry. The little pissing contest you’ve got going on.”

“There’s no contest,” she shrugged, taking a bite of her sandwich. “I already won.”

Mitch snorted, but he didn’t argue.

By 5 pm, the soundcheck was over, and the venue was nearly ready. The stage lights cast long, dramatic shadows across the room, making everything feel larger than life. Outside, the crowd had grown to hundreds, their voices rising in bursts of cheers every time someone peeked out from behind the curtains.

Backstage, the dressing rooms were a flurry of last-minute preparations. Harry was in his dressing room, a blur of motion as his stylist fussed over his outfit. A floral suit hung on a rack nearby, catching the light like a disco ball.

In her own space, YN was tightening a loose screw on her guitar, her fingers moving with practiced ease. Her nerves were starting to hum, a low undercurrent she couldn’t quite shake. This was her first tour—her first real tour in a set band, a member, belonging—and it felt like walking a tightrope with no safety net.

A knock on the door pulled her out of her thoughts.

“Come in,” she called, not looking up.

The door creaked open, and Harry stepped inside, his presence filling the small room like a gust of wind.

YN froze for half a second before returning to her task.“What do you want?” she asked, not bothering to hide the edge in her voice.

Harry leaned against the doorframe, crossing his arms. “Just checking in,” he said, his tone deceptively casual. “You ready for tonight?”

She glanced at him, her expression unreadable. “Are you?”

His lips twitched, like he was fighting a smile. “Always.”

For a moment, they just stared at each other, the air between them crackling with unspoken tension. Then Harry pushed off the doorframe and straightened, his eyes lingering on her for a beat longer than necessary.

“See you out there,” he mumbled, and then he was gone, leaving the room feeling smaller and heavier than before.

By eight, the doors had opened, and the crowd was pouring in, filling the venue with a rush of energy that seemed to seep into the walls. Backstage, the band was gathered in a tight circle, their instruments tuned, their game faces on.

Harry stood at the center, his suit catching the light, his presence commanding as he gave a short pep talk. YN stood slightly to the side, her fingers tapping an uneven rhythm against her thigh. She barely listened to his words, too focused on the sound of the crowd beyond the curtains, their cheers swelling like a tidal wave.

When the house lights dimmed, the noise was deafening.

As the band took their places on stage, the roar of the audience hit her like a physical force. The spotlight burned bright, blinding her for a moment as she adjusted to the sheer magnitude of it all.

Harry stepped forward, his silhouette outlined in pinks and gold as he grabbed the mic stand. The crowd went feral, their screams rising to a fever pitch as he flashed that grin, the one that could disarm even the sharpest tongue.

He didn’t speak, he didn’t need to—the crowd did that for him. 

YN’s fingers hovered over the strings of her guitar, her pulse thrumming in time with the cheers.

And then the music began.

It was loud and raw and electric, the kind of sound that sank its teeth into you and didn’t let go. The stage pulsed with life, the crowd moving like a single, writhing entity, their hands reaching for something intangible.

Harry owned the stage, his presence magnetic, his voice weaving through the room like a spell. YN played like she had something to prove, her fingers dancing over the strings with precision and fire. For all their clashes, for all the sharp words and narrowed eyes, when they played together, it was seamless.

Perfect, even.

And maybe that was the problem.

The stage felt alive. No, not alive. Hungry. Like it had been waiting for this moment, this crowd, and it wouldn’t be satisfied until every single body in the Masonic was consumed by the music.

YN’s sneakers scuffed against the stage floor as she adjusted her stance, fingers flying over the strings of her guitar. The heat of the lights was a constant pressure on her skin, beads of sweat forming at her temples and sliding down the back of her neck. But she didn’t care. Not about the lights, or the heat, or the way her thighs ached from standing so long.

She was falling in love—with the music, with the electricity in the air, with the way the crowd moved like a living organism, surging and crashing like waves in sync with every beat of the drums.

The screams had been deafening from the start, a tsunami of sound that swelled every time Harry leaned into the mic, his voice wrapping around the room and pulling it taut. He worked the crowd like a master, every glance, every laugh, every sway of his hips sending the audience into hysterics.

She wasn’t immune.

She hated to admit it, but she felt it too—that gravitational pull, that magnetic charisma that seemed to pour out of him effortlessly. She caught herself watching him when she shouldn’t, her eyes flicking to the way his shoulders moved under the sharp lines of his pretty suit, the easy way he gripped the mic stand like it was an extension of his body.

And every so often, he’d glance at her.

Not a passing look. A moment.

It would last half a beat longer than it should, his eyes catching hers under the wash of the stage lights. She couldn’t tell if he was teasing her, challenging her, or something else entirely. But it was enough to make her fingers stumble once, the wrong note ringing out for a split second before she recovered.

If Harry noticed, he didn’t show it.

The setlist was relentless. The kind of music that made you feel like your heart was going to explode, like you couldn’t keep up and didn’t want to. The kind of music that made YN forget she was supposed to hate the guy running the show.

“Alright,” Harry said into the mic, his voice lower now, intimate, like he was sharing a secret with each and every person in the crowd. “I want to slow it down for a bit. Let’s make this next one special, yeah?”

The audience erupted, their cheers shaking the walls.

She let herself glance up, just once, and there he was.

Harry stood center stage, his eyes sweeping over the crowd like he could memorize every face. And then his gaze found hers. It pinned her, held her still even as her hands moved over the strings with practiced ease. He didn’t smile this time, didn’t smirk or tease. His expression was soft, unreadable, like he was trying to figure her out and didn’t quite know how.

YN looked away first, focusing on her guitar, on the warmth of the strings under her fingers. But she felt his eyes linger, even as he turned back to the crowd, his voice slipping into the melody.

The audience swayed, their voices blending with his, turning the room into one collective heartbeat. She could feel it under her skin, in her chest, this pulsing connection between the stage and the people who filled the seats. She couldn’t explain it, but it made her chest ache, a hollow kind of ache that was somehow beautiful.

She wasn’t just falling in love with the crowd—she was falling in love with the way they loved him. The way their energy fed into his, creating this endless loop of give and take. It was magnetic, intoxicating, and she hated how much she wanted to be part of it.

As the show reached its climax, the band hit the frenetic rhythm of kiwi. The crowd lost their minds, screaming and jumping in unison as the pounding bassline and frantic guitars drove the song forward like a freight train.

Harry was in his element now, prowling the stage like a lion in a cage, his energy sharp and electric. He threw himself into the song with reckless abandon, his voice raw, his body moving like it was possessed by the music.

She felt it too, her fingers sliding over the strings with an intensity she didn’t know she was capable of. She played like she wanted to leave a mark, like she wanted the crowd to feel every note down to their bones.

Harry spun toward her at one point, his eyes catching hers as he sang.

All over me it’s like I paid for it, like I paid for it—I’m gonna pay for this

The line wasn’t even hers, maybe thrown toward her, sure, but the way he locked eyes with her as he belted it made her throat tighten. There was something feral about the way he looked at her, something that sent a jolt of adrenaline straight to her chest.

She didn’t look away this time.

By the time the last note of the encore faded into the ether, the crowd was still screaming, still begging for more. Harry stood at the edge of the stage, his hands pressed together in a gesture of thanks, his smile wide and genuine.

YN hung back, her guitar still slung over her shoulder, her chest heaving from the exertion of the last few songs. She watched him bask in the adoration of the crowd, the way they screamed his name like a prayer.

And for the first time, she felt it too.

That pull. That strange, inexplicable magnetism that made it impossible to look away.

The final notes of the encore still buzzed in her ears as she followed the band offstage, the roar of the crowd trailing behind them like an echo that refused to fade. Her body ached in places she didn’t know could ache—her fingers stiff from hours of playing, her calves burning from the constant movement—but the adrenaline still surged, making her feel weightless and untouchable.

She had done it. They had done it.

The opening night had gone off like a firework, every moment exploding brighter and louder than the last. From the first chord to the final bow, it had been electric. And for once, she didn’t feel like just another cog in the machine. On that stage, with the lights scorching her skin and the crowd’s energy feeding her soul, she felt like a part of something massive. Something alive.

And Harry—despite everything—had been a part of that.

They’d had moments up there, brief but undeniable, where their music seemed to sync in ways their personalities couldn’t. He’d looked at her like she was the only other person in the room, and she’d felt it, that spark. That rare kind of connection that made everything else fade into static.

She thought maybe he’d felt it too.

Backstage was a flurry of chaos, but it was the kind of chaos that came with relief. Crew members slapped high-fives, a few whooped into the cavernous space, and Mitch grinned at her as they stowed their gear.

“That was something, huh?” he said, leaning back against the wall, his guitar case resting at his feet.

“Yeah,” she said, breathless. “It really was.”

Her eyes darted toward Harry, who was standing in the middle of it all, his floral suit catching the dim light of the hallway. He was talking to a few crew members, his laugh echoing down the corridor, easy and loud.

YN lingered on the edge of the group, still cradling her guitar, waiting for him to glance her way. Say something. Anything.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he clapped Mitch on the shoulder as he passed by, murmured something low and warm to the bassist, then disappeared down the hallway, flanked by his manager and stylist.

Her stomach sank.

Seriously?

The after-party was just as loud as the show, a whirlwind of congratulatory cheers and glasses clinking in a private room at some sleek hotel downtown. The crew was there, the band, a few industry types YN didn’t recognize but figured she should. She was used to this kind of thing—small, exclusive, the kind of celebration that was more about appearances than fun—but tonight it felt different.

She stuck close to Mitch for most of it, nursing a vodka sour and letting the buzz of conversation wash over her.

“Relax,” Mitch said at one point, leaning against the bar beside her. “You look like you’re still waiting for the second set to start.”

“I’m good.” She mumbled a little too quickly.

His brow arched, but he didn’t press.

Across the room, Harry was the center of attention, as always. He moved through the crowd like he belonged there, laughing and chatting like he hadn’t just poured himself out on stage for hours. She couldn’t help but watch him, the way people gravitated toward him, how he seemed to light up every corner of the room he stepped into.

But he didn’t look at her. Not once.

She tried not to let it bother her, but it did.

After everything on stage, after every glance, every unspoken connection, it felt like he was intentionally keeping his distance. Like he’d flipped some invisible switch, cutting her off before she could even figure out what had changed.

By the time the party wound down, YN had had enough. She slipped out quietly, her guitar case slung over her shoulder, and headed for the lobby. The cool night air hit her like a slap when she stepped outside, the noise of the party muffled behind the heavy glass doors.

She stood there for a moment, letting the city’s chaos replace the strange hollowness that had settled in her chest.

She didn’t know why she’d expected something different from him. He was Harry Styles, after all—the man who could command a room with a smirk, who probably had a million other things on his mind besides her.

But still, she couldn’t shake the feeling that something had shifted tonight.

Maybe it was the crowd, or the way the music had felt like it was tying them together in ways they didn’t quite understand. Maybe it was the way he’d looked at her, like she was part of it, part of him.

Or maybe she was imagining it all.

She sighed, adjusting her grip on the guitar case as she started down the empty street toward her hotel.

Behind her, the sound of the door opening and closing made her stop.

But when she turned, it wasn’t him.

It was just some random guest stepping out for a smoke, their lighter flaring briefly in the dark.

She shook her head and kept walking.

The morning after opening night started with a headache.

The alarm went off at five, its shrill tone slicing through the still-dark San Francisco hotel room. YN groaned as she rolled over and slapped it off, her limbs heavy with the weight of too little sleep and too much tension. Her body ached from the show—her fingers stiff, her shoulders sore—but the adrenaline still hadn’t completely worn off.

She dressed in silence, pulling on denim shorts and an oversized hoodie, her hair shoved under a worn baseball cap. By the time she dragged her case and bookbag downstairs, the lobby was already filled with half-awake crew members milling around with to-go coffees and luggage carts. The band gathered near the hotel entrance, everyone moving slow, bleary-eyed.

Everyone but Harry.

He stood near the glass doors, sunglasses perched on his nose even though it was still too early for sunlight. His outfit—effortlessly tailored black slacks and black tee, paired with boots that clacked against the marble floor—looked like it belonged in a photoshoot, not a cramped tour bus ride down the coast. His hair was artfully disheveled, like it had been tousled by the same wind that carried his confidence.

YN hated that he didn’t look tired. He looked perfect, unbothered, untouchable.

And, true to form, he didn’t acknowledge her.

Not directly, anyway.

“Morning, Mitch,” Harry nodded, his voice smooth and low as he greeted the guitarist with a clap on the shoulder. He grinned at Sarah and made some easy joke that had her laughing quietly, her coffee held close to her chest.

She stood off to the side, shifting her weight between her feet, watching the scene unfold like an outsider looking through a frosted window.

She thought about last night. About how he’d looked at her on stage like the world had narrowed to just the two of them. About how he hadn’t spoken a single word to her after.

She didn’t understand it. She didn’t understand him.

“Let’s get moving,” their tour manager barked, clapping his hands. “Bus leaves in five.”

YN grabbed her things and followed the group outside, the cool morning air biting at her cheeks as they made their way toward the waiting bus.

The ride to Los Angeles was tense in the worst kind of way.

She had claimed a window seat near the middle of the bus, her headphones cranked up to drown out the low hum of conversation around her. She stared out at the Pacific Coast Highway, the ocean stretching endlessly to the right, the cliffs jagged and wild to the left. It should’ve been peaceful, beautiful even, but she couldn’t focus on anything but the gnawing irritation in her chest.

Harry was sitting three rows ahead, leaned back in his seat with one arm slung lazily over the headrest. He was talking to Sarah again, his voice low enough that YN couldn’t hear the words, but the sound of it still grated on her nerves.

She wasn’t sure why she cared so much. She didn’t want to care.

If he wanted to ignore her, fine. She could ignore him right back.

By the time they reached LA, the tension had evolved into a quiet kind of war.

At the Greek Theater, the crew unloaded equipment, their movements brisk and practiced as they prepared for soundcheck. The sun blazed down on the open-air amphitheater, turning the white seats into a blinding sea of light.

YN was on edge, her patience wearing thinner with every passing hour. He still hadn’t spoken to her, not even in passing. He was polite, distant, the way he’d been before opening night. Like nothing had changed. Like he hadn’t spent the night before throwing glances her way that felt like they could peel her apart.

When he handed out notes during rehearsal, she barely looked at him, keeping her responses clipped and indifferent.

“Got it,” she muttered after one of his suggestions, her tone flat as she adjusted her guitar strap.

Harry blinked at her, his lips twitching into something that might have been surprise. “Good,” he said after a beat, turning his attention to Mitch without another word.

By the time the soundcheck wrapped, She was biting the inside of her cheek so hard it felt raw.

Later, while the rest of the band lingered backstage before the show, YN found herself leaning against the rail of the amphitheater, staring out at the empty seats. The sun had started to dip below the horizon, painting the sky in deep purples and oranges.

She didn’t hear him approach.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?”

The voice startled her, and she turned to find Harry standing a few feet away, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his trousers.

“Yeah.” She breathed, her voice guarded. She didn’t move closer.

He didn’t say anything else, just stood there, his gaze fixed on the horizon. The silence between them stretched, heavy and awkward.

“Something you need?” she asked finally, her tone sharper than she intended.

Harry’s head tilted slightly, his sunglasses reflecting the fading light.

“Just checking in.”

It felt like a lie.

“I’m good, Harry” She mumbled, turning back toward the stage.

He didn’t respond, and when she glanced over her shoulder a few moments later, he was already walking away.

Her fingers tightened around the rail, her chest heavy with frustration she couldn’t quite name.

She hated this.

Hated the way he could make her feel so small, so seen, then turn around and act like she didn’t exist.

It was like trying to hold onto water. The harder she gripped, the faster it slipped through her fingers.

-

Harry stood at the edge of the stage, soaking it all in. He bowed low, his sequined shirt catching the light, a grin breaking across his face. To the crowd, he was untouchable—a god in Gucci.

She followed Mitch and Sarah offstage, her steps quick and mechanical. She could feel Harry trailing behind them, his presence heavy even when she couldn’t see him.

Backstage was chaos, as it always was after a show, but it didn’t faze YN. She moved through the crowd of crew members and assistants like a ghost, ignoring the chatter, the congratulatory smiles.

Her heart was still racing, the adrenaline from the performance twisting into something darker, something restless.

“You good?”

Mitch’s voice cut through the haze. He was leaning against the wall, his guitar case already packed, his expression calm but curious.

“Yeah.” 

Lie.

Harry entered the dressing room a few minutes later, his presence shifting the energy in the space instantly.

He was laughing at something Sarah had said, his voice loud and warm, but the sound grated against YN’s nerves. She kept her back to him, pretending to be busy adjusting a loose string on her guitar.

She felt him glance her way—she could feel it—but she didn’t turn around.

Two could play this game.

And so, the bus ride back to the hotel was unbearable.

YN had claimed a seat near the back, her headphones on, her gaze fixed on the passing city lights outside the window. She could see Harry a few rows ahead, his arm draped casually over the back of his seat as he chatted with the others.

He hadn’t spoken to her all night, and now, sitting there in his own bubble of easy conversation and laughter, it was like she didn’t exist.

Her frustration simmered, bubbling just below the surface.

She replayed the show in her head, each pointed glance, each lyric he’d aimed at her like an arrow. It felt like he was trying to send a message, but she couldn’t decipher it.

Was he angry with her? Was this some kind of punishment? Or was he just playing a game she didn’t know the rules to?

She clenched her jaw and turned up the volume on her music, drowning out the sound of his voice.

By the time they reached the hotel, her nerves were shot.

She practically stormed off the bus, her guitar case banging against her thigh as she made her way to the elevators.

The band and crew trailed behind her, their voices a low hum of exhaustion and contentment. Harry was in the middle of the group, laughing softly at something Mitch had said.

YN pressed the elevator button harder than she needed to, willing it to come faster. She didn’t know if she was more angry or confused. Maybe both.

The elevator doors slid open, and she stepped inside, leaning against the wall and closing her eyes as the others piled in.

She felt him before she saw him.

Harry stepped in last, taking a spot in the corner opposite her. He didn’t look at her, didn’t say a word, but his presence filled the small space like smoke, curling around her, suffocating.

The silence stretched as the elevator ascended, the soft ding of each passing floor the only sound.

When the doors opened on her floor, YN didn’t wait for anyone to move. She pushed past them, her guitar case bumping against Harry’s shin as she stepped out.

“Careful.” He muttered under his breath, the word low but deliberate.

YN froze, her grip tightening on the case. She turned back, her jaw tight, her voice barely above a whisper “You were in the way.”

Harry’s eyes flicked up to meet hers, and for a moment, the tension between them was almost unbearable.

But then he smiled. That infuriating, lopsided grin that always seemed to carry a thousand meanings “Goodnight, YN.” he breathed, his tone maddeningly calm.

And just like that, the elevator doors closed, taking him with it.

She stood there in the empty hallway, her chest heaving, her hands trembling against the strap of her guitar case.

She hated him.

And she hated that she didn’t.

Nashville hit like a fever dream.

The kind of heat that stuck to your skin and turned the air thick, every breath tasting like concrete and sweat. YN stepped off the plane and into the chaos of arrivals, her carry-on slung over one shoulder and her nerves buzzing like a live wire. The overhead announcements droned on, blending with the chatter of passengers and the whir of suitcase wheels.

Behind her, the band followed, each of them bleary-eyed but quiet, the exhaustion of constant travel settling into their bones. They’d left Los Angeles behind with barely enough time to breathe, and now they were here. Another city. Another show.

Harry was in the middle of it all, of course.

He strode through the airport like he owned it, dressed in a casual white t-shirt and plaid trousers, his sunglasses pushed up into his messy hair. His carry-on was slung lazily over his shoulder, the strap resting on a ringed hand, and he moved with the kind of effortless ease that YN had learned to despise.

She hated how calm he looked. How composed. Like he hadn’t spent the last two days pulling the same infuriating routine—ignoring her during rehearsals, barely acknowledging her existence outside of the necessary, and throwing her those strange, pointed glances on stage.

She adjusted the strap of her own bag and turned away from him, focusing on the bustling terminal as they followed the signs toward baggage claim.

By the time they made it outside, the air was heavy with humidity, the sun dipping low on the horizon and casting long shadows across the tarmac. Their bus waited near the curb, sleek and black, the driver already loading their checked equipment and luggage into the belly of the vehicle.

YN stepped aside to let Mitch and Sarah board first, leaning against the side of the bus and tugging her baseball cap lower over her eyes. She was tired. Bone-tired. And the thought of spending another night in close quarters with Harry’s infuriating silence made her chest feel tight.

“YN.”

His voice came from behind her, low and steady, and it made her stomach flip in a way she refused to acknowledge.

She turned to find Harry standing a few feet away, his bag slung carelessly over his shoulder. He wasn’t wearing his sunglasses now, and his green eyes caught the soft light of evening, sharp and clear.

“Yeah?” she sighed, her tone flat.

Harry blinked at her, like he hadn’t expected her to answer. “I, uh…” He hesitated, running a hand through his hair. “You left this.”

He held out a small notebook, the worn leather cover instantly recognizable. YN’s stomach twisted. She didn’t even realize she’d forgotten it.

“Thanks.” She mumbled, reaching for it. Their fingers brushed, and the contact sent a shiver down her spine. She snatched the notebook quickly, shoving it into her bag.

For a moment, neither of them said anything. Harry shifted his weight, his gaze flicking past her to the bus, like he was trying to find an escape route.

“Long flight,” he said finally, the words almost awkward.

She raised an eyebrow. “You’re making small talk now?”

His mouth twitched—something between a smirk and a grimace. “Just trying t’be polite.” His voice was low, almost teasing.

She didn’t know why that annoyed her so much. “Well, don’t strain yourself,” she shot back, her words sharper than she intended.

Harry’s expression shifted, the teasing edge dropping away. For a moment, he looked at her like he wanted to say something, something important, but then he just shook his head.

“Right.” he said softly. “Good t’know where we stand.”

Before she could respond, he turned and climbed onto the bus, leaving her standing there in the heavy Nashville air, her pulse thundering in her ears.

She clenched her jaw, gripping the strap of her bag so tight it hurt.

What the hell was that supposed to mean?

With a frustrated sigh, she followed him onto the bus, determined to avoid him for the rest of the night.

The hotel lobby was as tired as YN felt—dimly lit, decorated in muted earth tones that looked like they hadn’t been updated since the 90s. A long line of leather couches stretched across one side, mostly empty now that the band and crew had already checked in and trudged upstairs to collapse into their rooms.

She stood at the reception desk, trying to ignore the looming presence of Harry a few feet behind her as she slid her ID across the polished counter.

She croaked out her first and last name, her voice tight with exhaustion. “Should be a reservation under that.”

The receptionist, a young woman with tired eyes and a forced smile, tapped at her keyboard. For a moment, YN let herself hope this would go smoothly.

“Ah…” the woman began, her smile faltering as she looked up at her apologetically. “It seems there’s been an error in the system.”

Her stomach sank. “What kind of error?”

“It looks like…” The receptionist squinted at her screen, then back at YN. “Your booking and Mr. Styles’ booking were combined. There’s only one room reserved for both of you.”

She blinked, certain she must have misheard. “What?”

“One room,” the woman repeated, her voice overly kind, like she was delivering bad news to a child.

A low sound from behind her drew YN’s attention, and she turned to see Harry standing there, his lips twitching into the faintest hint of a smirk.

“Of course,” he muttered, more to himself than to her.

YN turned back to the receptionist, her pulse spiking with frustration. “Okay, well, can you fix it? Book me another room?”

The woman winced. “I’m so sorry, but we’re completely booked out. Between your show and a large business conference in town, there’s nothing available.”

“Nothing?”

The receptionist shook her head. “Nothing.”

YN stared at her for a long moment, hoping that if she stood there long enough, a solution would magically present itself. When it didn’t, she let out a slow breath, trying to keep her voice calm. “Okay, then I’ll sleep on the tour bus,” she said finally, her tone clipped.

“I wouldn’t recommend that,” the receptionist replied, her voice filled with polite concern. “It’s not very safe overnight, and the temperatures are supposed to drop quite a bit.”

YN’s jaw clenched. She didn’t care about the temperature. She cared about not being stuck in a hotel room with Harry Styles for an entire night.

“You can take the bed,” Harry said suddenly, his voice low and casual.

She whipped around to look at him, her exhaustion briefly replaced by irritation. “Excuse me?”

“You can take the bed,” he repeated, his hands shoved into the pockets of his trousers. He didn’t look tired like she did; if anything, he looked almost amused. “I’ll take the couch. Problem solved.”

His eyebrows lifted, but he didn’t continue the way she half-expected him to. He acknowledged her silence with a shrug. “Suit yourself.”

YN turned back to the receptionist, her last shred of hope dying as the woman gave her a small, helpless smile.

“I really am sorry,” the receptionist said.

“Yeah,” She muttered, grabbing her room key off the counter. “Me too.”

The elevator ride to their shared room was suffocating.

She stood with her arms crossed, leaning against the back wall, her eyes fixed on the digital floor numbers ticking upward. He stood on the opposite side, his hands still in his pockets, his gaze fixed somewhere over her shoulder.

She could feel the tension between them, thick and heavy, like it had been building all day.

When the elevator dinged and the doors slid open, she practically bolted into the hallway, her shoes squeaking slightly against the polished floor as she found their room and slid the keycard into the lock.

The room was small but clean, decorated in the same neutral tones as the lobby. There was one queen-sized bed, a narrow couch by the window, and a small desk tucked into the corner.

YN set her bag down near the door, letting out a long breath. This was going to be a long night.

Harry stepped in behind her, the door clicking shut softly as he took in the room. “Well,” he said after a beat, his voice laced with dry humor. “Cozy.”

YN shot him a glare over her shoulder. “Don’t start.”

“I didn’t do anything,” he replied, raising his hands in mock innocence.

She rolled her eyes, grabbing her carry-on and unzipping it with more force than necessary. She pulled out her pajamas and stalked toward the bathroom, muttering under her breath.

“You’re welcome to take the bed!” Harry called after her.

She didn’t reply, only slamming the bathroom door behind her.

Inside, she leaned against the sink, gripping the edge tightly as she stared at her reflection in the mirror. Her hair was a mess under her hat, her face flushed with irritation and exhaustion.

This was the last thing she needed.

She splashed cold water on her face, changed into her pajamas, and forced herself to take a deep breath before stepping back out into the room.

Harry was already sprawled out on the couch, his long legs dangling off one end, one arm draped lazily over his eyes. He looked too comfortable, like he wasn’t even remotely fazed by the situation.

“Goodnight, YN.” he smiled, his voice soft and teasing, muffled by his arm.

She didn’t bother replying, instead climbing into the bed and yanked the blanket up to her chin. She rolled onto her side, facing the wall, her back to him.

But even as she lay there in the dark, her body exhausted and her mind racing, she couldn’t ignore the steady sound of his breathing filling the room.

And somehow, that made sleep feel even further away.

The night dragged on like a bad song on repeat.

YN tossed and turned, the sheets tangling around her legs no matter how many times she tried to straighten them. The bed itself wasn’t the problem—it was soft enough, even if the pillows were too firm. The issue was the room. Or rather, the person in the room.

Harry’s breathing was steady and slow, almost annoyingly calm, like he had drifted off with zero trouble. The faint rustle of the blanket he’d pulled off the back of the couch only made it worse. She hated knowing he was just a few feet away, as oblivious and infuriating in sleep as he was awake.

Every time she closed her eyes, she could feel the weight of him in the room, like his presence was something tangible pressing against her skin. She could picture him sprawled out on the narrow couch, too long for it, his hair a wild mess against the pillow. He had to be uncomfortable, but of course, he made even that look effortless.

She clenched her teeth and turned over again, dragging the blanket over her head.

She must have fallen asleep at some point, because the next thing she knew, pale sunlight was streaming through the thin hotel curtains, casting faint patterns on the wall. The sound of movement drew her attention, and she rolled onto her back, blinking against the light.

Harry was already up.

He stood near the desk, pulling a fresh shirt over his head, the muscles in his back shifting under smooth skin. His hair stuck up in every direction, and there was a faint red line on his cheek, probably from the couch pillow.

YN groaned softly, her voice gravelly from sleep, and sat up.

He turned at the sound, his eyes catching hers for a split second before he gave her a lopsided smile. “Morning,” he rasped, voice low and rough.

She ignored the strange flutter in her chest and instead rubbed at her face, her palms digging into her eyes. “What time is it?”

“Just past seven,” Harry replied, glancing at his watch.

“Why are you up so early?” she asked, her voice still heavy with sleep.

“Couldn’t stay on that couch any longer,” he said with a shrug, running a hand through his hair. “Figured I’d let you sleep.”

She raised an eyebrow, more suspicious than grateful. “How thoughtful of you.”

Harry smirked, leaning against the desk. “I’m full of surprises.”

YN swung her legs over the side of the bed, the cool floor against her bare feet waking her up a little more. She glanced at the couch, the blanket crumpled in a heap at one end, and felt the tiniest pang of guilt. He might be irritating, but even she had to admit that couch looked like hell.

“Did you even sleep?” she asked, her voice softer now.

“Enough,” he said, brushing it off with a shrug. “You?”

She hesitated. She wanted to lie, to tell him she’d slept like a rock just to avoid giving him the satisfaction. But she was too tired to keep up the pretense. “Barely,” she muttered, running a hand through her hair.

Harry didn’t say anything, but his smirk softened into something else, something almost understanding. “We’ve got a couple hours before soundcheck,” he said after a beat, pushing off the desk. “I’ll grab coffee if y’want.”

She blinked at him, caught off guard by the offer.

“You’re being weirdly nice this morning,” she drawled, narrowing her eyes.

Harry grinned, all teeth. “Don’t get used to it.”

Before she could respond, he slipped out the door, leaving her sitting there in the quiet room, her heart beating just a little faster than it should have been.

When Harry returned twenty minutes later, carrying two steaming cups of coffee and a bag of pastries from the shop across the street, YN couldn’t bring herself to be annoyed.

But she didn’t thank him either.

She wasn’t sure why, but the tension between them felt different in the light of day. Lighter. Less suffocating. Still there, sure, but not as sharp.

She sipped her coffee in silence, watching as Harry lounged on the edge of the bed, scrolling lazily through his phone.

By ten that morning, they were at the Ryman.

The iconic auditorium was a cathedral of music, its wooden pews and high ceilings steeped in history. YN had played a lot of venues over the years, but this one felt different. Sacred, almost.

The crew was already bustling around the stage, running cables and testing equipment as the band took their places for a quick run-through. She strapped on her guitar and adjusted the amp settings, the familiarity of the process grounding her.

“Alright,” the stage manager called, his voice echoing in the empty hall. “Let’s run it from Carolina. Just a quick one, then you’re free for the day.”

Harry stepped up to the mic, giving a thumbs-up to the techs at the soundboard. His voice rang out clear and confident, slipping into the song like it was second nature.

YN played her part without thinking, her fingers moving easily over the strings. But she couldn’t help noticing the way Harry was watching her again.

It wasn’t as obvious as before—just the occasional glance, fleeting but deliberate, like he was checking her reaction to something she couldn’t quite place.

Her stomach twisted. She didn’t know if it was frustration or something else entirely.

They wrapped up soundcheck in record time, the stage manager dismissing them with a wave of his clipboard.

“Alright, folks. Enjoy your free day. Don’t get into too much trouble.”

The band dispersed quickly, everyone eager to make the most of the rare downtime. Sarah and Mitch mentioned something about finding a good barbecue spot, and within minutes, YN found herself standing outside the Ryman, squinting in the bright Tennessee sun.

She was about to head back toward the hotel when Harry’s voice stopped her.

“Hey, Hendrix.”

She turned to see him leaning against the tour bus, his sunglasses perched on his nose. She hummed in response, holding her hand above her eyes to shield the sun.

He grinned, his voice light and teasing. “You’re not gonna spend the whole day in the room, are you?”

“What’s it to you?”

“Nothing,” he said with a shrug, pushing off the bus. “Just thought you might want to come along.”

“Come along where?”

He slipped his hands into his pockets, tilting his head in that infuriatingly casual way he had. “I was thinking about exploring. But if you’d rather sulk in the hotel…”

She glared at him, her irritation mixing with reluctant curiosity. “I’m not sulking,” she muttered.

“Prove it.” His grin widened.

She sighed, weighing her options. She could spend the rest of the day alone, aimlessly wandering the city, or… she could let Harry drag her into whatever chaos he had planned.

Against her better judgment, she took a step closer.

“Fine.” she grumbled. “But if you annoy me, I’m leaving.”

Harry laughed, a warm sound that somehow made her chest feel lighter. “Deal.”

As they made their way through the streets of Nashville, YN couldn’t help but notice how easy it was to fall into step with him.

They wandered through the heart of downtown, the air thick with the sound of live music spilling out of honky-tonk bars and the faint smell of fried food. He seemed relaxed, his usual sharp edges dulled by the easy rhythm of the day.

They ducked into a record store, where Harry spent an obscene amount of time flipping through vinyls, offering commentary on the cover art of each one.

“Look at this,” he said, holding up a copy of Fleetwood Mac’s Rumours. He grinned at her, and for once, it felt less like a challenge and more like… something else.

YN raised an eyebrow as she glanced at the album he held up, the iconic cover staring back at her. “What about it?” she asked, folding her arms and leaning against the edge of the nearest display.

Harry’s grin shifted, softer now, almost boyish. “It’s a masterpiece. Don’t tell me you’ve never given it a proper listen.”

She rolled her eyes but couldn’t suppress a small smirk. “Of course I’ve listened to it. Who hasn’t? Don’t go acting like you’ve discovered fire.”

“Ah, but have you really listened to it?” He stepped closer, tilting his head as he studied her expression like it might hold the answer. “Like, lying on the floor, headphones on, letting it ruin your entire mood?”

“That sounds unnecessarily dramatic.”

“Dramatic? YN, this album is a rite of passage. The Chain? That bassline alone deserves its own religion.”

She couldn’t help the laugh that escaped her, a quick, genuine sound that caught her off guard as much as it did him. “You’re ridiculous,” she muttered, shaking her head.

He looked pleased with himself, his grin stretching wider. “I’ll take that as a yes, then.”

“Take it however you want,” she shot back, moving past him to inspect a crate of blues records. Her fingers skimmed over the edges of the albums, her pulse oddly steady in the low hum of his company.

Harry hovered near, occasionally picking up a record and commenting on it. “You’re quiet,” he noted after a few minutes, his tone lighter than she’d expected.

“Just... looking,” she replied, hoping the words sounded casual enough.

“Looking for anything in particular?”

“No.” The lie came easily.

He didn’t press, and for once, she appreciated his silence. It gave her room to breathe, to figure out why the usual tension between them felt... different today. Lighter, maybe. Or maybe she was just imagining things.

After a moment, he spoke again, his voice quieter this time. “I like this, you know.”

She glanced up, caught off guard by the uncharacteristic sincerity in his tone. “Like what?”

“This.” He gestured between them, as if it were the simplest thing in the world. “Hanging out. You’re tolerable when y’not glaring at me.”

She blinked, unsure whether to laugh or scowl. “That’s your idea of a compliment?”

“Take it or leave it,” he said, his smirk returning but not fully masking the warmth behind it.

She rolled her eyes again but didn’t look away, and for a brief moment, the air between them shifted. The faint tension that always seemed to linger was still there, but it wasn’t sharp or heavy. It was something else entirely.

As the afternoon wore on, the tension that had been brewing between them seemed to fade, replaced by something quieter.

They grabbed lunch at a hole-in-the-wall diner Harry insisted on, where they shared a plate of fries and argued over whether ketchup or mayo was the superior dipping sauce.

“Ketchup,” YN said, dipping another fry.

Harry shook his head, mock disappointment written all over his face. “I expected better from you.”

She rolled her eyes but couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled out of her.

By the time they made their way back to the hotel, the sun was sinking low, painting the sky in hues of orange and pink. She felt lighter, like the weight of the past few days had lifted, if only for a little while.

As they reached the elevator, Harry glanced at her, his expression softer than she’d ever seen it.

“Thanks for coming along,” his voice was quiet but sincere.

She hesitated, surprised by the sudden vulnerability in his tone. “Yeah, well… it was better than sulking.”

He smiled.

The hotel room was quiet, the kind of stillness that settled into your bones and made you feel the weight of the day. After their spontaneous exploration of Nashville, she had parted ways with Harry in the hallway. He mentioned something about meeting up with Mitch, tossing her a casual, “See you later,” before disappearing down the corridor.

YN had nodded but hadn’t said much else. She wasn’t sure if she was relieved or annoyed that he was leaving for the night.

After a long shower, she tugged on an oversized band tee—some faded thing she’d thrifted years ago—and a pair of soft cotton shorts. Her damp hair clung to her shoulders as she padded barefoot around the room, her phone in one hand as she scrolled through texts from her family.

Dad: Don’t forget to drink water. You sound so busy. Call us when you have time.

Younger sibling: lol saw a vid of harry styles crowd at your show. how’s that going???

She smiled faintly at the last one, shaking her head as she typed a quick response.

It wasn’t until she’d tossed her phone onto the bedside table that she remembered the little stash she’d hidden away.

She opened her suitcase, digging past neatly folded shirts and random cables until her fingers brushed against an emptied bag-balm tin, where she hid a pre-roll. She grinned to herself, pulling it out along with the battered cherry red lighter she always kept with it.

YN grabbed her guitar and wandered to the deep window sill, settling into it like a cat in the sun. She pushed the window all the way up, the night air warm against her skin as it rushed into the room. Nashville stretched out before her, the faint glow of the city lights mixing with the distant hum of passing cars.

She tucked the joint between her lips, the flame of the lighter flickering as she lit the tip. She took a slow drag, letting the smoke curl through her lungs and settle into her chest before she exhaled out into the open air.

The buzz hit quickly, a soft warmth unfurling in her limbs. She leaned back against the window frame, her guitar resting comfortably on her lap as she started to strum.

The notes came easily, her fingers gliding over the strings as she played whatever came to mind. A soft, haunting melody took shape. She kept her voice low, just above a whisper, the lyrics spilling from her lips like they were meant for the quiet night.

Spent my days with a woman unkind, smoked my stuff and drank all my wine

The joint hung from her lips as she sang, her voice airy and unpolished, but easy.

Made up my mind to make a new start, going to California with an aching in my heart 

She was so lost in the song, the feel of the strings beneath her fingers, that she didn’t hear the door open.

Harry stepped inside, the door clicking shut softly behind him. He paused, his eyes catching on the scene in front of him—the open window, YN perched on the sill with her guitar, the smoke from the joint curling lazily in the dim light.

She didn’t notice him at first, too wrapped up in the song. Her voice was soft and raw, carrying just enough emotion to make the lyrics hit harder than they should have.

Seems that the wrath of the gods got a punch in the nose and it’s starting to flow—think i might be sinking.

Harry stayed where he was, leaning against the wall near the door, arms crossed as he listened. He wasn’t sure why he didn’t announce himself right away. Maybe it was the way she seemed so unguarded, so lost in her own little world. It felt wrong to interrupt.

Her fingers lingered on the last note of the song, letting it fade softly into the warm night air. She leaned her head back against the window frame, the faint hum of the guitar strings still vibrating against her skin.

The room was quiet now, the only sound the distant buzz of traffic outside. She thought she was alone—until a flicker of movement caught her eye.

Her head snapped up to see Harry stepping closer, his strides slow and deliberate. He didn’t say anything, didn’t smirk or crack one of his usual jokes. He just moved, quiet and assured, until he stopped by the desk next to the window.

He sank into the chair with a soft creak, still close enough that YN could feel the heat of his presence.

Her heart stuttered, but she didn’t acknowledge him outright. Not yet.

Instead, she glanced at him briefly, her eyes meeting his for a fraction of a second before returning to the guitar in her lap. Her fingers idly plucked at the strings, pulling out a soft, wandering melody—not another song, just sound to fill the silence.

Harry stayed quiet, leaning back in the chair as his gaze followed the slow, practiced movements of her hands.

When she paused, fingers hovering over the frets, the faint smell of smoke still curling in the air, Harry’s attention shifted.

Without a word, he reached for the joint resting between her fingers near the neck of the guitar. His movements were smooth, casual, like he’d done it a hundred times before.

YN didn’t stop him, but her lips parted slightly in surprise, her pulse quickening as his hand brushed against hers.

He brought it to his lips, the faint ember at the tip flaring as he inhaled. The smoke curled lazily between them, filling the small space with a warmth that felt heavier than the fading summer air outside.

She watched him, her fingers still resting lightly on the strings, the unfinished melody hanging between them.

He exhaled slowly, his gaze flicking back to hers as the smoke dissipated into the room. For a moment, neither of them said anything.

The quiet wasn’t uncomfortable—it was something else. Something charged, like the tension from the last few days had found a new way to manifest itself.

YN finally broke the silence, her voice low and rough. “Didn’t realize you smoked.”

Harry’s lips curved into a faint smile, the kind that didn’t give anything away. “Didn’t realize you played Zeppelin.”

Her eyes narrowed slightly, her lips twitching as she fought the urge to smile back.

“Don’t stop playing,” he murmured, leaning back in the chair and tipping his head toward the window.

YN hesitated for a moment, her gaze lingering on him before she shifted the guitar back into place.

She didn’t play for him. Not really. But as the quiet notes filled the room again, she couldn’t help but notice how close he was, how the faint smell of smoke and something distinctly Harry seemed to blur the edges of everything else.

The melody was unmistakable, a classic she knew by heart. Slow, deliberate, and wordless, the tune drifted into the still night air. She tilted slightly, fingers brushing over the strings with a lightness that made it feel effortless.

Harry stayed in the chair by the desk, close enough that she could feel the weight of his presence but far enough that he seemed content to linger in the space between them.

He didn’t say anything. Didn’t interrupt.

His eyes flickered between her and the view outside, where the skyline blinked faintly in the distance. He seemed lost in thought, the faint haze of smoke from the joint twisting lazily around him.

The rhythm of her playing was slow, hypnotic, like it had seeped straight from her fingertips into the quiet air. She didn’t look at him directly, but she could feel his attention, even when it wasn’t on her.

When the joint burned low between his fingers, Harry leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees as he turned toward her. He lifted it to her lips, careful not to disrupt her playing, his movements casual but precise.

YN paused for just a fraction of a second, caught off guard by the gesture, but she let it happen. Her lips closed around it, inhaling deeply as her fingers continued their soft rhythm across the strings.

He stayed there for a moment, watching her before leaning back in the chair and taking the joint back between his own lips.

The smoke lingered between them, faint and warm, curling like an unspoken connection.

The song continued—soft, wistful, and unhurried. Her focus shifted to the melody, letting it guide her as Harry flicked his gaze between her hands, her face, and the view beyond the window.

Every so often, he’d lean forward again, passing the joint to her silently, his movements slow and patient. It felt strangely intimate, the quiet exchange, the way their hands brushed in the dim light.

Neither of them spoke, but the silence wasn’t uncomfortable. It was heavy, yes, but not with tension. It felt… deliberate.

When YN finally let the last note of the song fade into the air, her hands stilled on the guitar.

He didn’t say anything right away. He leaned back in the chair, the joint burning low between his fingers as his gaze lingered on her for just a moment too long.

“You should do that more often,” he said softly, his voice rough around the edges.

She raised an eyebrow, her lips curving into the faintest smirk. “Play Floyd?”

“Play anything,” he replied, taking one last drag before stubbing the joint out on the edge of the ashtray she’d left by the window. “Or keep me guessing.”

YN shifted the guitar off her lap, leaning it gently against the window sill. She crossed her arms, the soft night air brushing against her bare legs as she glanced at Harry. “It’s my job to play for you, Harry.”

His head tipped slightly, his green eyes narrowing as he considered her. “That why y’were playing now?”

She scoffed, leaning her shoulder against the window frame. “No. But it’s why I’m here, isn’t it? To play what you want to hear. To make your shows sound good.”

Harry didn’t react immediately. He stayed leaned back in the chair, the now-extinguished joint resting in the ashtray beside him. When he finally spoke, his voice was calm, almost lazy.

“You think that’s all you’re here for?”

“That’s what it feels like sometimes,” she muttered, her words laced with the kind of honesty she didn’t usually let herself share. “You’ve got everything planned, Harry. The look, the sound, the crowd. You don’t need me.”

His lips curved into a faint, humorless smile. “If I didn’t need you, you wouldn’t be here.”

YN frowned, tilting her head. “Is that supposed to make me feel better? Like I’m just another piece of the machine?”

Harry leaned forward then, his elbows resting on his knees as he met her gaze. The air between them felt heavier now, his next words slow and pointed. “You’re not just a piece. And you know it.”

For a moment, she didn’t know how to respond. She hated the way her pulse quickened under his stare, the way his voice—low and rough—seemed to wrap around her like smoke.

She turned her head slightly, looking out at the view instead of him. “You don’t act like it,” she mumbled.

He let out a low laugh, though there was no humor in it. “And how do I act, YN? Enlighten me.”

She hesitated, then turned back to face him, her arms still crossed over her chest. “You act like I’m just… there. Like you can turn me on and off when it suits you. Like I don’t matter unless I’m standing on stage next to you.”

His jaw tightened, his gaze never wavering from hers. “That’s not true.”

It was.

“Could’ve fooled me.”

The silence that followed felt like it stretched forever. The only sound was the faint hum of traffic outside and the soft creak of the chair as Harry shifted his weight.

“You think I don’t notice you?” he said finally, his voice quieter now but no less intense.

She blinked, caught off guard by the question. “What?”

Harry stood then, closing the distance between them in just a stride. He stopped just shy of the window, leaning one hand against the frame as he looked at her.

“You think I don’t notice you,” he repeated, his voice steady, almost accusing. “Every time you play, every time you step on that stage. Every time you look at me like you’re trying to figure out if I’m about to push you away again.”

YN swallowed hard, her throat suddenly dry. “You don’t notice anything,” she said, though the words came out weaker than she intended.

His gaze dropped to her lips for the briefest moment before snapping back to her eyes. “I notice everything,” he countered softly.

Her breath hitched, and she hated the way it made her feel like she was on uneven ground. “Then why do you act like this? Why do you make it so hard?”

“Because y’make it hard,” he shot back, his voice low but sharp. “You shut me out before I even get the chance to try.”

YN laughed then, a hollow, bitter sound. “You’ve never tried, Harry.”

“And you’ve never let me.” he said, the words falling between them like a challenge.

The weight of his stare was suffocating, and for a moment, YN didn’t know what to say. She could feel the tension crackling between them, thicker now, more volatile.

“Bullshit.” She turned back to the window, her voice softer when she spoke again. “This is pointless.”

Harry didn’t move, his hand still resting on the window frame as his eyes lingered on her.

“Maybe,” he said quietly. “But it doesn’t mean it’s not real.”

YN closed her eyes, letting his words hang in the air as the night wrapped around them. Neither of them said anything else, but the silence spoke louder than anything they could’ve said.

The morning came earlier than YN wanted it to. She’d barely slept, the weight of the night before hanging over her like a low fog.

The room was quiet when she woke, the faint hum of the air conditioning filling the stillness. Harry’s side of the room was empty, the crumpled blanket on the sofa the only sign he’d stayed at all.

YN sat up slowly, rubbing the heel of her hand against her eyes as the memory of their conversation came rushing back. She didn’t know if she regretted it—what they’d said, what they hadn’t said—but she knew it had left her chest feeling heavier than it had in weeks.

She glanced at the clock. They had a longer rehearsal today, prepping for the Ryman show tomorrow. If she didn’t hurry, she’d risk being late.

With a groan, she threw off the covers and got ready, pulling on a worn pair of jeans and a t-shirt before stuffing her guitar into its case and heading out the door.

The venue was already buzzing with activity when she arrived. The crew was setting up the stage, the hum of amps and feedback filling the auditorium as the band trickled in one by one. Mitch and Sarah were already there, chatting quietly by the drum kit, while Harry stood near the mic stand, flipping through a setlist with their tour manager.

YN felt his presence before she saw him, the memory of his words from the night before still fresh in her mind.

Maybe. But it doesn’t mean it’s not real.

She swallowed hard, forcing herself to push the thought aside as she made her way to her usual spot on the stage.

“Morning,” Mitch gave her a small smile.

“Morning,” she replied, setting her guitar case down and pulling out the instrument.

Harry didn’t say anything as she arrived, but she could feel his gaze flicker toward her for a brief moment before he turned his attention back to the stage manager.

Rehearsal started slow.

The band worked their way through the setlist, adjusting transitions, tightening harmonies, and fine-tuning every detail until the songs sounded like they could fill the Ryman’s historic walls without effort.

YN tried to focus, but it was harder than usual. Harry’s voice was everywhere—smooth and commanding, sharp and playful, depending on the song. His presence filled the room, making it impossible to ignore him no matter how much she tried.

But he didn’t speak to her directly. Not once.

It was infuriating, the way he could act like nothing had happened. Like they hadn’t spent the night before saying things that neither of them had the courage to finish.

The longer the rehearsal went, the more it started to gnaw at her. By the time they reached Ever Since New York, her patience was wearing thin.

“Hold on,” Harry said, waving a hand as the band finished the first chorus. He turned to Mitch. “That transition’s still too rushed. Can we stretch it out a little more?”

Mitch nodded, already adjusting his guitar.

She sighed quietly, her fingers hovering over the frets as she tried not to let her irritation show.

“Something wrong?” He asked suddenly, his voice cutting through the space like a blade.

Her head snapped up, her eyes narrowing at him. “No.”

“Sure about that?” he asked, his tone light but his gaze sharp.

She stared at him for a moment, her chest tightening with frustration. “Just play the song, Harry.”

He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Alright. Again.”

By the time rehearsal wrapped, YN was drained. Her fingers ached from hours of playing, and her chest felt heavy with the weight of unspoken words.

As the crew began packing up, she slung her guitar over her shoulder and made her way toward the back of the stage, desperate for a moment alone.

But before she could disappear, Harry’s voice stopped her.

“Hey! YN.”

Her grip on her guitar strap tightened as she turned to face him, the tension between them sharp enough to cut. He was standing near the edge of the stage, his expression carefully unreadable, though his shoulders were tense. “What?” she asked, her voice curt, already bracing herself.

He hesitated, just for a moment, then tilted his head slightly, his gaze flicking over her like he was trying to figure out how to start. “About last night.”

Her jaw tightened. She hadn’t wanted to think about last night—how raw it had felt, how vulnerable she’d let herself be for even a second. She’d been trying to shove it to the back of her mind all day. “What about it?” she said flatly, her tone leaving no room for softness.

Harry’s lips pressed into a thin line, and when he spoke again, his voice was lower, quieter, but it still held an edge. “You meant what y’said, didn’t you?”

She blinked at him, caught off guard. “What are you talking about?”

“You think I don’t notice you,” he mumbled, his words more a statement than a question.

Her stomach churned, but she forced herself to keep her expression steady. “I don’t know why you care.”

“Because I do,” he shot back, his voice sharpening, though he still kept it low enough that no one else could hear. “And don’t act like you don’t, either.”

Her chest tightened at the accusation, but she refused to let it show. “You’ve got a funny way of showing it,” she said coldly, crossing her arms.

His jaw ticked, and he took a small step closer. “You think this is easy? Working with you? Being around you?”

She scoffed, the sound bitter in her throat. “Right. Because you’re so perfect to deal with, Harry.”

His eyes narrowed, the frustration clear now. “You act like I don’t care, but you’re the one who’s been pushing me out since the start.”

Her breath caught, and for a second, she wasn’t sure if it was anger or something else flaring in her chest. “Because you make it impossible,” she snapped, a whisper. “You walk around like the world revolves around you, and you expect everyone to just fall in line.”

“I don’t expect anything from you, YN,” he said, his voice sharp, almost defensive. “Except maybe to stop pretending like none of this matters t’you.”

Her heart thudded against her ribs, the words cutting deeper than she wanted to admit. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“It means,” Harry paused, his voice quieter now but no less intense, “you’ve made it pretty damn clear you’d rather be anywhere else than here—with me, with this band. So don’t act like I’m the one who doesn’t give a shit.”

YN stared at him, her chest heaving, her hands trembling at her sides. She wanted to throw something at him, wanted to shout, but the anger in her throat felt too tangled with something else—something raw and uncertain.

Before she could think of a response, Harry shook his head, his lips curling into a bitter half-smile. “Forget it,” he muttered, turning on his heel.

He stalked off the stage without looking back, his steps echoing in the empty auditorium.

YN stayed frozen where she was, her pulse pounding in her ears as his words replayed over and over again in her mind.

She hated that he was wrong.

And she hated even more that he wasn’t entirely right.

The 25th came fast, bringing with it the weight of a sold-out show at the Ryman Auditorium. YN felt it the moment she woke up—the low hum of tension in her chest, the kind that came from knowing she was about to step onto one of the most iconic stages in music history.

She moved through the day on autopilot, her interactions with the crew and band kept short and polite. She didn’t have it in her to do more, not after yesterday’s rehearsal, not after the argument with Harry that still lingered like a bruise.

By the time the sun dipped low over Nashville, casting long shadows across the city, the energy backstage was crackling with anticipation.

The band gathered in the wings as the crew finished final checks. She adjusted the strap of her guitar, her fingers tightening and loosening around the neck in a rhythm she didn’t realize she was keeping.

Harry stood a few feet away, his presence as inescapable as ever. He was wearing a dark, tailored suit with just enough sparkle to catch the light, his shirt unbuttoned halfway down his chest. His hair was tousled in that perfectly imperfect way that she hated to admit suited him.

He hadn’t spoken to her since yesterday. Not directly. And she hadn’t gone out of her way to fix that.

“Alright, everyone ready?” the stage manager called, clipboard in hand.

The band nodded, one by one. Harry turned to them, his usual grin firmly in place, but there was a flicker of something else in his eyes when his gaze landed on YN.

“All good?” he asked, his tone light but pointed, like he was challenging her.

She held his stare, refusing to let him see the nerves twisting in her chest. “Good.”

Harry’s smirk softened, but he didn’t push it. “Let’s do this, then,” he said, turning back toward the stage as the house lights dimmed.

The roar of the crowd was deafening, a wall of sound that hit YN square in the chest as they stepped onto the stage.

The show opened strong, the band locking into the rhythm like clockwork. The crowd was electric, their cheers and screams filling every corner of the Ryman as Harry worked the stage, his voice weaving effortlessly through the music.

She focused on her playing, her fingers moving over the strings with practiced precision. She kept her eyes on the crowd, on Mitch, on the neck of her guitar—anywhere but Harry.

But it didn’t matter. She could feel him, his presence pulling at her like a tide no matter how hard she tried to resist.

It was during Woman that the tension finally cracked.

The song had always been a crowd favorite, its sultry rhythm and teasing lyrics sending the audience into a frenzy. Tonight was no different.

Harry prowled the stage, the mic in one hand, his free hand gesturing to the crowd as they screamed the words back to him.

And then, without warning, his gaze found hers.

—I told you but I know you’d never listen.

YN’s fingers faltered for the briefest moment, the wrong note slipping out before she corrected herself.

He smirked, slow and all-knowing, because he did. He knew what he was doing.

He sang the chorus, his voice low and taunting as he turned to her fully, his body angled toward her now.

The crowd screamed, but they didn’t notice the way his eyes stayed locked on hers, sharp and unrelenting.

Her chest tightened, but she refused to look away. Instead, she matched his intensity with her playing, her fingers flying over the strings like she could drown him out with sheer force.

The song ended in a crescendo, the applause erupting like thunder. Harry grinned at the crowd, blowing kisses into the sea of adoring faces, but when he turned back to the band, his smirk softened into something more subtle.

YN ignored him, focusing instead on retuning her guitar for the next song. But her hands were trembling slightly, and she hated herself for it.

The rest of the show passed in a blur of music and adrenaline.

By the time they reached the encore, she felt both exhausted and wired, her body caught in that strange limbo that came after hours on stage.

She risked a glance at Harry, and for a moment, she thought she saw something in his expression that mirrored her own—a kind of quiet exhaustion, tinged with something unspoken.

But then he turned back to the crowd, his charm cranked up to full volume as he thanked them, his voice ringing out like a promise. “Goodnight, Nashville,” he said, his grin wide and infectious. “You’ve been incredible.”

The applause was deafening, the crowd chanting his name as the band took their final bow.

Backstage crew members moved in every direction, packing up equipment and shouting over the noise. The band had scattered, Mitch and Sarah disappearing into their dressing rooms while Harry lingered by the door, chatting with a few industry types who’d come to the show.

YN slipped past the commotion, her guitar case slung over her shoulder as she made her way to the dressing room she was sharing with Mitch.

But before she could reach the door, Harry’s voice stopped her.

She froze, her grip tightening on the strap of her guitar. She turned slowly, her expression carefully neutral.

Harry was leaning against the wall, his shirt damp with sweat, his hair sticking to his forehead. He looked tired but satisfied, his usual post-show glow dimmed by something quieter.

“Good show tonight,” he said, his tone casual but his eyes sharper than his words.

YN raised an eyebrow, her lips curving into a faint smirk. “You don’t have to tell me that.”

He huffed a quiet laugh, his smirk returning. “You’re impossible, you know that?”

“Yeah,” she said, turning back toward her dressing room. “Look in the mirror, Harry.” She didn’t wait for his response, didn’t look back as she pushed open the door and let it close behind her.

September 26th, Chicago Theatre

Chicago was cold, a brisk wind biting at the edges of everything, but the theater itself felt electric. The second show on this leg of the tour, and the crowd roared louder than even the Nashville audience had. YN had expected it—Chicago fans had a reputation—but it still sent a jolt through her chest every time the applause hit.

She’d kept her head down all day, avoiding Harry as much as possible after the tension-filled Ryman show. He hadn’t gone out of his way to talk to her either, which suited her just fine. The dynamic between them was still strained, but now it felt heavier, sharper, like a spring wound too tight.

On stage that night, they were professional, seamless even. The music flowed like second nature, and the crowd ate up every word Harry sang, every note the band played.

But Harry’s energy was different.

He stalked the stage like he had something to prove, his voice sharper, his movements purposeful. Every so often, his gaze would flicker toward her, his eyes dark under the stage lights, and her fingers would stumble, just for a second.

She hated that he could still affect her like that. Hated that her pulse quickened every time he looked at her like he was daring her to break.

When the show ended, she slipped out of the backstage chaos as quickly as she could, retreating to her dressing room before Harry could find her.

But she couldn’t escape the feeling that their fight wasn’t just simmering—it was boiling over, and it was only a matter of time before it all spilled out.

September 27th, New York City Music Hall

New York felt different, brighter somehow. The Music Hall was massive, its gold interiors glinting under the lights, the kind of place that made you feel like you were a part of something monumental just by standing inside it.

YN was buzzing, but not because of the show. Tonight, she’d finally made good on her promise to get her best friend in with VIP tickets.

Jude had shown up grinning from ear to ear, dragging along another friend, Sage, a boy she knew from a few mutual connections but hadn’t spent much time with. She didn’t mind—Sage was friendly, good-looking in that casual, effortless way, and Jude seemed thrilled to be there.

The show was flawless, a whirlwind of sound and energy that left the crowd screaming for more by the end of the encore. YN felt good, better than she had in days. Maybe it was Jude’s energy, or the thrill of being home in New York, or the fact that she’d managed to avoid Harry’s smirking glances on stage.

The energy backstage was lighter than usual, the post-show adrenaline mingling with the warmth of a half-empty box of beers someone had dragged in from a gas station. YN sat on a crate near the corner of the room, Jude and Sage perched close by, the three of them surrounded by the casual hum of conversation. Mitch was strumming idly on an unplugged guitar, Sarah was laughing with one of the techs, and the crew milled around, taking turns grabbing beers and tossing them to each other.

Harry sprawled in the cheap folding chair like it was a throne. His legs stretched out, boots crossed, beer bottle swaying loose between his fingers. He wore the smug indifference of someone who knew exactly how good he looked, from the sweat-mussed hair to the open collar of his shirt. A rock god slumming it in a room full of mortals.

Jude, of course, was eating it up, no matter how hard she tried not to. Her eyes kept drifting back, quick flickers like a moth circling a flame. YN could see the effort it took for her friend to focus on Sage, laughing a little too hard at his jokes, leaning just a bit too close. But the second Harry glanced their way, Jude’s attention snapped to him like a compass needle finding north.

“This is VIP treatment?” Sage asked, flashing one of his trademark grins. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, his bottle raised like a toast.

Jude latched onto the question, grateful for the distraction. “Welcome to the glamorous life of rock and roll,” she quipped, sweeping a hand around the dingy green room. Half-eaten takeout boxes, a broken amp shoved in the corner, and a stack of mismatched chairs that looked like they’d collapse if you breathed wrong.

“I’m not complaining,” Sage said, his smile lingering, his tone dipping lower. “Not if it means I get to see you.”

The words hung in the air just a second too long.

YN felt the heat crawl up her neck before she even realized it. She took a long sip of her beer, keeping her face neutral, trying to ignore the heavy stare boring into the side of her head. She didn’t have to look to know Harry was watching. She could feel it.

“Careful,” Harry drawled, finally breaking the silence. His voice was low, lazy, but there was an edge to it. “Say something like that, and you might get her hopes up.”

Sage blinked, caught off guard, then let out a short laugh, brushing it off. “I think she can handle it.”

“Oh, sure,” Harry said, leaning back further in his chair. He swirled the beer bottle idly, staring into the amber liquid like it held secrets. “Just don’t trip over yourself trying too hard. You’d hate to embarrass yourself in front of the talent.”

Jude stiffened beside YN. Sage’s easy smile faltered, but he recovered fast, glancing at YN with a grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Speaking of talent, you were incredible out there,” he said, his voice softer, directed at her now. “That solo in Woman? Gave me chills.”

YN opened her mouth to respond, but Harry beat her to it.

“Yeah, chills,” he echoed, not looking up from his bottle. “Or was it the AC in the venue finally kicking in? Hard t’tell.”

Sage chuckled, but it was tight. Forced. “I meant it,” he said, still talking to YN. “You’ve got something special. You know that, right?”

Harry made a sound low in his throat, almost a laugh. Not quite. “Special,” he repeated, like he was tasting the word and finding it bitter. “Special enough t’get you a free beer and a backstage pass. Quite the honor.”

Sage turned to him now, his posture shifting, more squared. “That’s not what I meant.”

Harry’s eyes finally lifted, locking onto Sage with a lazy sort of intensity. “No?”

The word hung there, sharp and cold, daring Sage to keep going.

YN set her bottle down harder than she meant to, the dull thunk slicing through the thick air. “Harry.”

“What?” he said, the picture of innocence, except for the smirk curling at the edge of his mouth.

Her jaw tightened. “Can I talk to you outside?”

Harry raised his eyebrows, playing dumb. “Outside?”

“Mm-hm.” She hummed sharply, pushing herself to her feet. “Now.”

He took his time standing, unfolding himself from the chair with the kind of slow, deliberate movements that made every second stretch out like taffy. His boots scraped against the floor as he stood, towering over her but pretending not to notice. “You sure y’don’t want to hash this out here? We’ve got an audience and everything. Could be fun.”

“Outside,” she repeated through gritted teeth.

Harry chuckled, low and infuriating. “Alright,” he breathed, gesturing toward the door like he was humoring her. “Lead the way.”

As she brushed past him, she caught a glimpse of Jude, wide-eyed and silent, clutching her bottle like it was the only thing keeping her grounded. Sage sat back, his jaw tight, his smile long gone.

Behind her, Harry followed, his footsteps slow and heavy, like he wanted her to know he wasn’t in any hurry. And as they stepped out into the cold, stale air of the hallway, she could still hear his laugh echoing softly, more to himself than anyone else.

That laugh made her want to scream.

The alley behind the Music Hall was quiet, the distant hum of city traffic echoing off the brick walls. The air was cool, a sharp contrast to the stuffy warmth of the backstage room. “What the hell was that?” she asked, spinning around to face him.

He took a slow sip of his beer, his eyes steady on hers. “What was what?”

“Don’t play dumb,” she snapped, her arms crossing over her chest. “All the comments. The interruptions. What’s your problem?”

Harry leaned against the wall, his head tilting slightly as he studied her. “No problem,” he said lightly. “Just thought I’d keep the conversation interesting.”

“Interesting?” she repeated, her voice rising. “You were being a dick, Harry.”

His smile faded slightly, his gaze narrowing. “Maybe I don’t like watching some guy who barely knows you act like he’s been waiting his whole life to kiss your ass.”

YN blinked, caught off guard by the bluntness of his words. “Are you serious?”

“You heard me,” he murmured, his voice quieter now, but no less intense.

She stared at him, her chest tightening with a mix of frustration and something she didn’t want to name. “Why do you even care?”

He pushed off the wall, stepping closer until there was barely a foot of space between them. His eyes locked on hers, unflinching. “I dunno.”

Her breath hitched, her pulse hammering against her ribs. “That’s not an answer.”

“S’the only one you’re getting.”

For a long moment, neither of them moved, the tension between them thick and crackling like static electricity.

She finally broke the silence, her voice quieter now but no less sharp. “You don’t get to pull this shit, Harry. Not after everything.”

He looked at her for a moment longer, something unreadable flashing in his eyes. Then he took a step back, his smile returning, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

“Got it,” he said simply, turning toward the door.

She watched him go, her fists clenched at her sides, her heart pounding with anger—and something else she didn’t want to name.

She stayed in the alley long after Harry disappeared back inside. Her chest felt tight, her breathing uneven as she tried to process the exchange.

The words echoed in her mind, a sharp contrast to the smirk he’d worn when he walked away. She hated how he could get under her skin so easily, how his presence seemed to shift the air around her, how her anger at him never felt simple.

She leaned back against the cool brick wall, tilting her head up toward the night sky. The distant hum of traffic was a low comfort, a reminder of how big the world was outside of the theater, outside of him.

You don’t get to pull this shit, Harry.

But he had, and he would again. That much she was sure of.

Harry didn’t stay backstage for long. When he stepped back into the room, the energy was lighter without her there. Jude and Sage had moved on to laughing about something Mitch was saying, their voices rising over the clinking of bottles. Harry slipped past them with a nod, setting his empty beer bottle on the edge of a table.

“I’m heading out,” he said, his voice easy, casual, as if the last few minutes hadn’t happened.

Mitch looked up, raising an eyebrow. “You good?”

“Yeah,” Harry grumbled, running a hand through his hair. “Just tired. Think I’ll head back to the hotel.”

No one questioned him further. Harry had a way of ending conversations before they started, and tonight was no different.

YN finally pushed herself off the wall, shaking off the lingering tension as best she could. The night air had cooled her temper slightly, though the weight of her frustration still hung in her chest.

When she stepped back inside, the room felt just as loud as before, though the dynamic had shifted.

Jude waved her over immediately, her grin as bright as ever. “Hey! You okay?”

“Fine.”YN said, her voice clipped. She didn’t want to talk about what happened. Not now, not ever. “Where’s Harry?”

“Left a few minutes ago,” Mitch shrugged, strumming a lazy chord on the guitar he’d picked back up. “Said he was tired.”

YN’s stomach twisted, though she couldn’t pinpoint why.

“Good,” she muttered, grabbing a fresh beer from the nearly empty box. She twisted off the cap and took a long sip, letting the bitter taste settle her nerves.

Sage caught her eye, his grin still intact. “You alright?” he asked, leaning closer.

“I’m fine,” she said sharply, the edge in her voice enough to make him hold up his hands in surrender.

Jude gave her a look—something between concern and curiosity—but didn’t press further.

She leaned against the table, tuning out the chatter as the night dragged on. But no matter how hard she tried to focus on anything else, the memory of Harry’s words—and the look in his eyes when he said them—refused to leave her alone.

The night dissolved into a blur of laughter, music, and the bitter taste of cheap beer. YN had let herself go too far, her usual restraint eroded by the buzz in her veins and the way Sage kept leaning closer, his voice soft and insistent in her ear. She didn’t even remember how the drinks had piled up so quickly, only that by the time Mitch and Sarah coaxed her into leaving, the room was spinning, and her legs felt unsteady beneath her.

Her friends had already left, a whirlwind of hugs and goodbyes as they promised to text when they made it back to campus. She barely remembered waving them off. Her focus had narrowed to just putting one foot in front of the other, the alcohol turning everything fuzzy around the edges.

Mitch had one of her arms draped over his shoulder, Sarah steadying her other side as they guided her into the hotel.

“You’ve got to start drinking water at some point,” Mitch said, his tone amused but laced with concern.

“Water’s overrated,” YN mumbled, her voice slurred but determined.

Sarah snorted. “Tell that to your liver.”

They maneuvered her into the elevator, Sarah punching the button for their floor. The quiet hum of the ride did little to settle the nausea building in YN’s stomach.

“Alright, this is us,” Mitch said when the doors opened on their floor. He adjusted his grip on her arm, but she shook her head, pulling away clumsily.

“No, no, I’ve got it,” she insisted, stumbling forward and catching herself on the elevator wall.

“You sure?”

“Totally,” YN smiled, swaying slightly as she gave them a thumbs-up.

Mitch exchanged a look with Sarah, then sighed. “Okay, but if you fall over in the hallway, we’re not coming back down.”

“Love you guys,” She gave lopsided grin, blowing a haphazard kiss in their direction.

The walk to her room felt impossibly long. Her footsteps were uneven, and she clutched the wall for balance, the plush carpet doing little to steady her spinning head.

When she finally reached her door, she fumbled with the keycard, her hands clumsy and uncooperative. After several failed attempts, she groaned, leaning her forehead against the door in frustration.

But then her gaze shifted, and she realized something.

This wasn’t her room.

The gold numbers on the door were too low—she was on the wrong floor.

Harry’s room.

Her thoughts moved sluggishly, like she was trying to wade through molasses, but one thing became clear—she didn’t want to go back and figure it out. Not tonight.

Her fist hovered over the door for a moment, hesitation flickering in the back of her mind. She could just go back to the elevator, figure out her room, and collapse in her own bed.

But the alcohol dulled her better judgment, and she knocked before she could stop herself.

The door opened after a beat, and there he was.

Harry stood in the doorway, barefoot, loose sweatpants that hung low on his hips. His hair was messy, like he’d been lying down, and his eyes flicked over her with a mix of confusion and concern.

“YN?” His voice was low and rough with sleep.

“Hi.” She smiled, the word slurred and uneven.

He glanced down the hallway, then back at her. “You’re drunk.”

She hummed, nodding her head and leaning heavily against the doorframe.

Harry’s lips twitched, but he didn’t smile. “What are you doing here?”

“Dunno,” she pouted, blinking up at him. “I was trying to find my room, but…” She trailed off, waving a hand vaguely.

He sighed, stepping back and holding the door open wider. “Come in before someone calls security.”

The room was dim, lit only by a single lamp near the bed. She stumbled inside, kicking off her shoes and collapsing onto the armchair by the window.

Harry shut the door, leaning against it for a moment as he watched her.

“You alright?” he asked.

“Fantastic,” she mumbled, closing her eyes as the room spun around her.

“You do this often?” he asked dryly. “Stumbling drunk into the wrong room?”

“Not wrong,” she muttered, wagging a finger at him as she half-heartedly reached for the bottle of water on the table next to her. “I knew where I was going.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Sure you did.”

She squinted at him, her lips twitching like she was trying to suppress a laugh. “You’re awfully judgy for a guy wearing sweatpants with wine stains on them.”

Harry glanced down, frowning faintly at the faint red blotch near his knee. It could have been wine, those were old—not that’d he’d remember. But for arguments sake, “s’not wine.”

“Oh, I see,” She smirking as she leaned back in the chair. “Fancy rock star can’t even handle his grape juice.”

“That’s rich,” he shot back, his tone calm but pointed. “Coming from someone who can’t even find her own room.”

She narrowed her eyes at him, but her expression softened into something quieter as the room fell silent. The edges of her bravado dulled under the weight of the alcohol and exhaustion, and she ran a hand through her hair as her voice dropped.

“Why were you so mean to me?”

Harry stilled, the teasing edge slipping from his face.

“When?” he asked, though his tone made it clear he knew exactly what she was talking about.

“From the start,” she frowned, her words slurred but steady enough to cut. “You act like you don’t give a shit about me one minute, and then you—” She broke off, gesturing vaguely. “And then you pull this I notice everything bullshit.”

He didn’t respond right away. Instead, he uncrossed his arms and moved toward her slowly, his footsteps soft against the carpet.

“You should drink that,” he breathed, gesturing to the water bottle still sitting untouched on the table.

YN blinked at him, her frustration flaring again. “Don’t change the subject, Harry.”

“I’m not,” he said evenly, crouching down in front of her. His eyes met hers, steady but guarded, and he grabbed the water bottle, holding it out. “Drink.”

She stared at him for a long moment, her chest tight. “You’re annoying,” she muttered, taking the bottle from his hand.

“You’re welcome,” he replied, his tone soft but laced with the faintest hint of amusement.

She took a few sips, grimacing as the cool liquid hit her empty stomach. Her head swam, the alcohol making her limbs heavy and uncooperative.

Harry stood, watching her carefully. “Come on.” He whispered after a moment, holding out his hand.

She frowned, looking at it suspiciously. “What are you doing?”

“Helping you into bed,” he said simply, his voice calm as he wriggled his fingers.

“I’m fine here.”

“You’re not sleeping in a chair, YN.” He sighed, his tone firmer now. “Come on.”

With a groan, she let him pull her to her feet, though her legs buckled almost immediately.

He caught her around the waist, shaking his head. “I’m fine.” He mocked breathily, a faint smile tugging on his lips, but he stifled it.

He guided her to the bed, steadying her as she sat down heavily on the edge. She looked up at him, her expression softer now, the alcohol dulling the sharpness of her frustration.

“You didn’t answer my question.”

Harry leaned down ever so slightly, brushing her hair behind her shoulders, thumbing away some of the mascara that smudged her cheeks. “Get some sleep, YN.”

“You’re deflecting,” she pouted, though her voice was fading, her head already sinking toward the pillow.

Harry shifted, pulling the blanket over her as she curled onto her side.

“Goodnight.” His voice was low and unreadable.

Silence.

He frowned, taking a step back. “I’m sorry.” He whispered, although he knew she didn’t hear him. 

-

The tour bus hummed steadily as it sped toward Boston, the headlights slicing through the dark. It was well past midnight, and the world outside the window was nothing but a blur of shadows and the occasional glimmer of a passing car.

Everyone else was tucked away in their bunks, lulled to sleep by the gentle sway of the bus. The only sounds were the low murmur of the engine and the soft, absentminded strumming of an acoustic guitar.

YN sat curled up in the corner by the window, Mitch’s guitar resting on her lap. Her fingers moved lightly over the strings, coaxing out a quiet, meandering tune—nothing specific, just something to keep her hands busy. She stared out at the dark highway, the faint glow of her reflection in the glass blending with the streaks of passing lights.

Across the room, Harry sat at the small table, his laptop open in front of him. His shorts were bright pink, shirt faded and worn, hair messy and falling into his eyes. His fingers tapped softly on the keys, the blue glow of the screen reflecting off his rings.

For a while, neither of them said anything. The silence wasn’t tense exactly, but it wasn’t comfortable either. It felt like it had been stretched thin, like something fragile that might break if either of them pressed too hard.

She plucked a few more strings, then let the sound fade, her gaze flicking briefly toward Harry. “You don’t sleep, do you?” she asked, her voice soft but not without its usual bite.

He didn’t look up, his fingers still moving across the keyboard. “Not much.” he replied evenly.

“What are you even working on?” she murmured, shifting slightly in her seat to get a better view.

“Emails,” he breathed, glancing at her briefly before turning back to the screen. “Tour stuff.”

YN smiled faintly, her fingers returning to the guitar. “Rock star by day, admin assistant by night?”

Harry’s lips twitched, but he didn’t smile. “Someone’s gotta do it.”

She let out a low hum, her fingers drifting into a soft riff, the notes barely audible over the hum of the bus.

“Is that Mitch’s?” Harry asked after a moment, nodding toward the guitar.

“Yeah.” She brushed her thumb lightly over the strings. “He left it out earlier. Figured he wouldn’t mind.”

He leaned back in his chair, pushing the laptop back slightly. “He doesn’t. Just doesn’t usually let anyone play it.”

YN raised an eyebrow, glancing at him. “You saying I’m special?”

He huffed a quiet laugh, finally meeting her gaze. “Hardly.”

She rolled her eyes, her lips curving into a small, reluctant smile. “You’re such an ass.”

“Look in a mirror.” He smiled, echoing her words from days before, leaning forward to rest his elbows on the table.

For a while, the silence returned, but it felt slightly less brittle this time. YN continued strumming, the quiet notes blending with the steady rhythm of the bus.

“You’re good.” Harry said eventually, his voice softer now. 

YN looked at him, surprised by the unexpected compliment. “Don’t sound so shocked.”

He let out a breathy laugh through his nose, leaning back again. “Just noticing, petal.”

Her chest tightened at the word, but she quickly shoved the feeling aside, focusing on the guitar.

“You’re not so bad yourself.” She shrugged, her tone casual but laced with a challenge.

Harry tilted his head slightly, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “That a compliment?”

“Don’t let it go to your head. It’s big enough.”

He chuckled, the sound low and warm, and for a brief moment, the tension between them eased.

But then her fingers stilled on the strings, her gaze drifting back to the window. The reflection of the two of them in the glass felt surreal, like something out of a dream she wasn’t sure she wanted to wake from.

“Why were you up last night?” she asked suddenly, her voice quieter now, almost hesitant.

Harry’s smirk faded, his expression shifting into something more guarded. “Didn’t feel like sleeping,”

“That’s not what I meant,” she countered, turning to face him fully. “You didn’t have to let me in. Could’ve just shut the door and gone back to bed.”

Harry didn’t respond right away. His gaze flickered to her hands, still resting lightly on the guitar, before meeting her eyes again. “Didn’t seem like you wanted to be alone.”

YN’s throat tightened, and she looked away, her fingers brushing over the strings again. “I didn’t ask for your help.”

“I know.” he said simply.

The quiet between them stretched, heavy and filled with things neither of them seemed willing to say.

YN strummed a few more notes, her movements slower now, more deliberate. She didn’t look at him, but she could feel his eyes on her, steady and unrelenting.

“Go to bed, Harry,” she sighed eventually, her voice soft but firm.

“Not tired, YN.” There was no edge to the words.

She sighed, leaning her head back against the window as her fingers stilled on the guitar. “You will be tomorrow.”

“Guess I’ll take my chances.”

She glanced at him, her chest tightening at the faint smile playing on his lips. She wanted to say something, wanted to break the strange tension hanging between them, but the words caught in her throat.

So she said nothing, letting the silence settle again as the bus rumbled on through the night.

September 30th, Boston

The air backstage at the Wang Theatre was thick with anticipation. YN sat in the corner of the green room, tuning her guitar for the third time in as many minutes. The hum of the crew preparing for the night buzzed through the walls, but her focus was pinned to the task in her hands. She needed something to do, anything to keep her from replaying the last few nights over and over in her head.

She tightened a string a little too hard, the sharp twang making her wince.

“You alright over there?” Mitch asked, glancing up from where he was adjusting his pedalboard.

“Fine,” she muttered, not looking up.

From the corner of her eye, she saw Harry glance her way, his expression unreadable. She forced herself to keep her focus on the guitar.

By the time the lights dimmed and the crowd erupted into cheers, YN was itching to get the show over with. The theatre was packed, the historic venue alive with energy, but it did nothing to ease the knot in her stomach.

The first few songs went smoothly enough, the band locking into their usual rhythm. Harry prowled the stage like he owned it—because he did—and the crowd hung on his every move.

But by the time they hit woman, things began to unravel.

It started small. A glance. A smirk.

Harry turned toward her as he sang, his voice dipping into the lyric like he was saying it directly to her.

The crowd screamed, oblivious to the sharp edge in his gaze. YN’s fingers faltered on the strings for a fraction of a second before she caught herself.

Her eyes snapped to his, narrowing, but he didn’t look away. Instead, his smirk deepened, daring her to react.

She refused to give him the satisfaction, pouring her frustration into her playing as the song built to its climax.

After the final note, the applause was deafening, the crowd on their feet as Harry grinned and wiped the sweat from his forehead. He turned to the audience, shouting his thanks into the mic, but YN didn’t hear a word.

She slipped offstage the second the lights dimmed, her guitar slung over her shoulder as she headed toward the green room. Her chest was tight, her pulse racing, and she needed a minute to cool down before she said something she’d regret.

But she didn’t get far.

“YN!”

Harry’s voice cut through the noise backstage, and she stopped dead in her tracks, her hands tightening on her guitar strap.

She turned slowly, her jaw clenched as she met his gaze.

Harry jogged the last few steps to catch up with her, his sequined jacket glittering under the faint overhead lights. “What the hell was that?”

She blinked at him, caught off guard. “What are you talking about?”

“On stage,” he said, gesturing vaguely behind him. “You were off.”

“I wasn’t off,” she shot back, her frustration bubbling to the surface.

“You missed a note in woman,” his voice was low and firm. “I heard it.”

YN’s jaw tightened, and she took a step closer, her voice dropping to match his. “Maybe if you stopped staring me down like a lunatic during every damn song, I wouldn’t miss anything.”

Harry’s lips twitched, but there was no humor in his expression. “You think that’s why?”

“Don’t start with me, Harry,” she warned, her hands gripping the strap of her guitar so tightly her knuckles turned white.

He stepped closer, his eyes narrowing. “You’re the one starting something, YN. You’ve been looking for a fight all night.”

“Oh, I’m looking for a fight?” she snapped, her voice rising slightly. “That’s rich coming from the guy who can’t seem to decide whether he wants to piss me off or…”

She stopped herself just in time, the words catching in her throat.

Harry tilted his head, his gaze flicking over her face as a faint smirk curled at the corner of his mouth. “Or what?”

YN glared at him, her chest heaving as she struggled to keep her composure. “Forget it.” She spat, turning on her heel and heading for the green room.

Harry didn’t follow, but she could feel his eyes on her back, heavy and unrelenting, as she disappeared down the hallway.

Back in the green room, she slumped into a chair, her guitar resting against the wall beside her. She closed her eyes, letting out a slow breath as the adrenaline from the stage finally began to fade.

She didn’t know what pissed her off more—Harry’s constant needling, or the fact that he was right.

She’d been off tonight.

But only because of him.

-

The tour bus rumbled down the highway, the lights of Boston fading far behind them as the road stretched dark and endless ahead. The show at the Wang  was barely two hours in the past, but it already felt like a weight YN couldn’t shake.

She sat in her bunk with the curtain pulled tightly shut, her knees tucked up to her chest and her notebook balanced precariously against them. Her pen hovered over the blank page, unmoving. She had opened it in an attempt to write something—anything—to push the tension out of her head, but her mind refused to cooperate.

Instead, it replayed the night in an endless loop: Harry’s sharp words backstage, the way his smirk twisted into something darker, the challenge in his eyes daring her to finish what she hadn’t meant to say.

Her chest tightened at the memory. She’d spent the rest of the night avoiding him—on stage, backstage, and now on the bus.

The thin curtain separating her from the rest of the bus didn’t do much to block out the low hum of conversation from the main area. Harry’s voice rose and fell in rhythm with Sarah’s and Mitch’s, casual and unbothered. He laughed at something Mitch said, the sound low and easy, and it made YN’s stomach twist.

How is he so unaffected?

Hours later, the bus quieted as everyone began retreating to their bunks. The lights dimmed, and the gentle sway of the vehicle as it sped down the highway turned the space into a cradle of silence.

Everyone except YN and Harry seemed to have no trouble falling asleep.

She could feel his presence even though they weren’t in the same part of the bus. He was out there, probably stretched out in one of the seats, scrolling on his phone or reading something. She hated that she knew his habits, hated that she’d memorized the way he fidgeted when he was restless, or the sound of his quiet sigh when he gave up on trying to distract himself.

She hated, most of all, that she cared.

She finally slid out of her bunk, her bare feet silent against the soft carpet as she padded toward the kitchenette. The small fridge buzzed faintly as she pulled it open, grabbing a bottle of water and leaning against the counter.

She tried to focus on the cold press of the bottle against her palm, the faint vibration of the road beneath her feet—anything but the sound of movement behind her.

Harry stepped into the kitchenette without looking at her. He opened one of the cabinets, pulling out a box of tea bags and tossing one onto the counter before reaching for the electric kettle.

YN didn’t say a word. She twisted the cap off her water and took a long sip, staring at the far wall as if it held the answer to whatever storm was brewing in her chest.

Harry didn’t seem to mind the silence. He filled the kettle, set it on the counter, and leaned back against the opposite side of the small space, his arms crossing over his chest.

The room felt smaller now, the air heavier.

YN turned to leave, but his voice stopped her.

“You’re quiet tonight.”

She froze, her back still to him.

“Not a bad thing,” he added casually. “Just different.”

Her grip on the water bottle tightened, her jaw clenching as she turned her head slightly. “Maybe I just don’t feel like talking.”

Harry let out a soft hum, not quite a laugh. “How long will that last?”

Her chest tightened as she walked away, slipping back into her bunk and yanking the curtain shut behind her. She sat in the dark, the sound of the kettle clicking off faint in the distance.

She hadn’t seen his face, but she knew he’d been smirking. She could feel it in the way his words lingered, curling around her thoughts like smoke.

And despite herself, she hated that it still mattered.

October 1st, Washington, D.C.

DAR Hall was completely sold out, shoulder to shoulder, elbow into ribs. 

Clips from the show in Boston, among other shows, started to surface online with whispers and reposts. It was only a matter of time, the crowd wasn’t stupid—the tension between the two was obvious, it was just a matter of deciphering if it was real or not. 

The consensus seemed to be split down the middle—they hated each other’s guts, or they were fucking behind closed doors. 

YN wasn’t sure if Harry saw it, but she sure did. Her younger brother had texted her about it first, a series of spam texts at three in the morning asking for every detail.

She left him on read. 

And now, here they stood in DC, before a sea of fans that seemed like they saw right through them, when YN herself didn’t even know what there was to see. 

Luckily, and unfortunately, there were only a few signs that seemed to be about YN and Harry, no one on stage acknowledged them. 

It was a sort of silent agreement that YN would stick to her one guitar during the entirety of the tour. But, when Mitch went to switch out for the acoustic, Harry had stopped him. 

He pulled his ear piece out slightly, whispering something to the guitarist before stalking towards YN on the wings of the stage. With the ear piece out, he could hear how insanely loud the crowd was—he couldn’t help but send shocked smiles in their direction. 

YN furrowed her eyebrows, her palm lying flat over the strings of the guitar as she pulled on her own ear piece. “What’s going on?” 

He stood near her, his breath peppermint and flat sprite. “Switch out, you’re doing track seven.”

She narrowed her eyes, leaning her head in further. 

Track seven on the setlist, meet me in the hallway. “What do you mean? You or Mitch play that.”

He smiled, bunny teeth and dimples. “Now you are.” He nodded toward her, shoving the ear piece back in and ambling back toward the mic that stood center stage. 

She wasn’t nervous, more caught off guard. She knew how to play it, it was just being asked to play it. She pulled the strap from over her shoulders, walking back toward the rest of the band and setting the instrument in its place. 

Mitch would approach with an easy smile, settling the acoustic strap over her frame while Harry continued to talk to the crowd. He adjusted it to her body, looking over the frets to make sure they were tuned for the song—they were. “You know it?” 

She rested her fingers on the neck, nodding with a distant smile. “Back of my hand.” She breathed, earning a small nod from the other guitarist. 

Her eyes squinted in the bright lights as she moved toward Harry, his smile still bright—as if nothing had been happening between them at all. He said something into the mic, his voice a buzz in the background to YN—all that made sense was the second glance he sent her, the look to start. 

The fans simmered down, but not silent. She let out a breath, eyes scanning over the crowd then back to Harry. Her pick moved over the chords seamlessly, as if she played it this way for years. 

His hands gripped the mic stand as he echoed out the first lines, his rings glinting in the golden light. His eyebrows would furrow, his lips would part—he was just music. 

He was an asshole to her, he knew it. He hated it, and she hated how he was completely under her skin, threaded into her veins. 

As they approached the chorus, they looked toward each other, a fleeting sideways glance. He nodded his head down, shifting slightly to the side to make room for her. 

His voice boomed over hers, deeper and more emotional, but they mixed in harmony. Her voice was soft underneath his, lighter, only a backing vocal for the chorus.

The crowd erupted, and some sense settled over YN’s shoulders, the lyrics eerily familiar to them, to their situation. 

Her tummy twisted, yet she played the cords harder, falling into the melody, his words, the reverberation of the crowd. 

—Cause once you go without it, nothing else will do. 

Nothing else will do.

[murthysewingmachines1]

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[potatoes-is-are-food]

Demon Shit [Part 2]

I’m making this a whole ass series, we’re gonna call this the demon shit au or whatever, feel free to send in asks about it and stuff, and get ready for more parts!

| NSFW - no actual secs scene in this one

When you woke, you felt like you’d been hit by a train. You struggled to move, shifting a little and groaning. A light chuckle came from slightly above you and you pried your eyes open to look into Dabi’s cyan ones.

“Sore?” he teased, running his fingers through your hair. You gave him a look and he clasped his hand dramatically over his chest, “not the kicked puppy look, doll,” he pulled you close and inspected the bite on your neck, stroking along the marred skin carefully with his thumb before letting his hand rest on your shoulder.

“That doesn’t hurt anymore, right?” He asked, giving it a little tap. You craned your neck, reaching up to feel it yourself and finding only ridges like an old scar and not the gaping wound that it should be. You looked up at him, intrigued by the look of concern on his face, and shook your head.

“Good,” the corner of his mouth twitched up and he leaned in, placing a chaste kiss to your lips. You trailed your fingers lightly along his bare chest, skin catching on the metal of his staples.

“Do these hurt?” You asked, meeting his eyes again. He gave you an expression you couldn’t read.

“Yeah, but not to the touch,” he paused, “They’re sort of like a punishment. I’m not as nice to everyone as I am to you, little sacrifice,” he teased, half-smiling and planting another soft kiss to your forehead. You felt you shouldn’t press the matter, settling back into bed and burying your face in his chest.

He hummed, stroking your hair for a minute before giving your back a pat and detaching you from himself, standing and opening the curtains. The lighting outside hadn’t changed at all in the hours you’d spent in the house. He stretched, and your eyes moved across the taught muscles in his back and arms.

When he turned to face you again he materialized the same outfit he’d had on yesterday. He helped you stand, shaking a bit and clutching the soft, white bed sheet around your body. He sighed,

“Shit. Shouldn’t have ripped your dress,” he muttered, looking down at your little sheet-clad form.

“Can’t you make clothes?” You asked, giving the sleeve of his jacket a little tug. He shook his head,

“Nope. I can only do that to myself. Technically speaking they’re not real. And I can only do a couple things,” his hand curled under his chin, one finger tapping against his jaw. “It’s fine,” he said, ruffling your hair, “You just stay here for a bit and I’ll be right back, okay? Take another nap or bath or something.”

You shook your head, grasping his sleeve again tightly, “Don’t leave me here by myself,” you felt a lump form in your throat at the thought. This place wasn’t even real if your assumption of what a “pocket dimension” was was correct.

“It’s safe, sweetness,” he cooed, wrapping an arm around your shoulders. You shook your head, tears welling in your eyes as you pleaded with him with your expression. He tutted at you, giving your forehead a light flick.

“Less than an hour. Promise,” two fingers tilted your chin up as he leaned down, swiping his forked tongue along your lip and flicking it into your mouth when you opened for him, followed by his lips meeting yours. He groaned softly against you before pulling away, wiping away the strands of saliva that followed.

“Be right back,” he trailed his thumb down your cheek, planting one more brief kiss to your temple, and walked out of the room, closing the door behind him. You followed, opening the door to find him gone.

With a little shiver, you pulled the sheet up around you tighter, bunching up the material so it wouldn’t drag behind as you explored the house. You went down the stairs, wincing as several places on your abused body flared in pain, and padded through a little sitting room. The whole house was like a doll’s house, and everything downstairs seemed to be fake. The sinks didn’t work and the fridge didn’t open, and you quickly grew bored, deciding to take Dabi’s advice and have another bath.

Entering the room he’d ...had you in, you took in the sight of the disgusting bed.  The blankets were bunched in various places, shredded in others, and the whole thing had pools and specks of blood, sweat, and cum on it. Your sacrificial dress was in shreds in the corner. You awkwardly turned away, into the attached bathroom.

You dropped the sheet in front of the mirror as you gasped at your reflection. Your hair was a mess, and your body was covered in bruises and scratches, mostly hand-shaped or matching the spacing of his staples. You hadn’t even noticed them scraping along your skin, but they definitely had. The bite he’d left looked like an old scar. You noticed your lips were a little swollen, too, and not just the ones on your face.

Starting the bath, you tried to comb through your hair with your fingers and splashed a little cold water from the sink on your face. You sat on the edge of the tub, blankly staring into space. Was this a dream? You knew the witch meant business, she’d told you if you fucked up her ritual she’d kill you and she definitely meant it. You laughed in spite of yourself at the thought. You’d fucked up the ritual and then fucked her demon.

Lowering yourself into the hot water you sighed, stretching and letting it soothe your sore muscles. You wondered what it meant to be a sacrifice. What did he mean when he said he was going to “keep you”? There was too much to try to sift through, so you pushed it all to the back of your mind and decided it didn’t matter. He clearly didn’t have any intentions of killing you or he’d have done it. And at least some part of him seemed to care about you. Your face burned whenever you tried to place your own feelings, though.

What you thought was roughly half an hour later you heard movement in the house. Feeling shy you grabbed the sheet off the floor and pulled it over the top of the tub, covering most of the rim. The footsteps stopped outside the door and Dabi knocked, opening the door without waiting for a response.

“Got you something to wear, little sacrifice,” he held up a bag from a store you’d never heard of, setting it aside and crouching beside you, “What’s this for?” He trailed his finger under the sheet, raising a brow at you. You felt your cheeks heat up and sank further into the water. He chuckled, grabbing the sheet as he stood and holding it out for you to use as a towel, keeping his eyes on yours.

You begrudgingly stood, cold air making goosebumps raise on your skin. Dabi wrapped the sheet around you and helped you out of the tub, rubbing the fabric over you to dry you off.

“So shy,” he taunted, running a thumb along your cheek affectionately. “I know I fucked you stupid earlier but you remember me seeing you naked, right?” He crouched, bunching the sheet up and drying your legs. Eye level with your hips, he reached and gently dragged a finger along your puffy, still sore folds, making you whimper.

“Poor little thing,” he withdrew his hand, placing a brief kiss to your pussy that made your breath hitch before reaching for the bag and rustling through it and producing a white dress, similar to the one he’d ripped off you, “We’re doing another ritual. The dress isn’t necessary but it’s traditional and you looked so cute in the first one.”

You stepped in, using his shoulder for support, and he pulled the soft material up your body until it was settled in place. It was very similar to the first one, but made out of sturdier material. You shifted a little, squeezing your thighs together uncomfortably.

“Um, Dabi?” Your brows knitted together as you looked up at him. He hummed in response, shifting through a different shopping bag, “Could I have some other stuff to wear with this? Like under it? And shoes…?” You trailed off, trying not to sound ungrateful for what he’d already given you. He gave you a wink,

“I’ve got ya, doll,” he lifted your feet one at a time, guiding them through the lace panties, pulling them up around your hips and giving the waistband a little snap. You stepped into the stockings he held up next, his hands gliding up your legs as he fixed them for you, planting a soft kiss on each knee as he finished.

“Why are you dressing me and stuff?” The question came out quiet and nervous as he pulled the dress down to affix a bralette around your chest.

“I take good care of my things,” he murmured, kissing the top of your head as he fixed your sleeves back into place. He reached into one of the bags and pulled out a long black coat, draping it around your shoulders. Pulling out a pair of boots and helping you step in, he tied the laces for you as you spoke,

“What are you going to do with me? After we summon your friend?” You fidgeted with the hem of your dress, not looking directly at him as he stood, adjusting the coat on your shoulders.

“Sacrifices usually live in pocket dimensions like this one. Sometimes their demons will let them stay in what you’d call the real world, but they can’t visit as often like that so it’s not as popular,” he explained, tilting your chin up to look at him, “I’m going to keep you in a bigger pocket  and you’re going to live there. I’m also gonna use you to summon my friends and they’ll be able to visit you. You don’t have to do anything, just keep a couple demons happy for a few thousand years.”

Your eyes widened and his hand wrapped around your shoulders to stabilize you.

“Thousand?” You gasped, gripping his wrist and gaping up at him. He laughed, flicking your forehead as he’d done earlier,

“Yeah. Thousand. You’ll live as long as I do so probably another six thousand or so,” he pressed his lips to the spot he’d flicked, clearly amused at your shock, “So,” he continued nonchalantly, “Time to go.” His fingers threaded through yours as he pulled you out of the bathroom and down the stairs.

Once you stepped through the front door with him the pocket dimension was gone and you’d stepped into a busy street, struggling to keep up with Dabi’s fast pace as he dragged you behind him. You tugged on his hand to try to get him to slow down, but he just tugged back, making you stumble a little. Pulling you off to the side he lifted you onto his back, continuing down the street quickly, weaving through the crowds of people easily.

“What’s your friend’s name?” You asked, resting your head on his shoulder.

“Tomura,” he paused for a second, “he’s… not as used to people as I am. Women especially. Just, uh, be aware of that,” he finished, still sounding unsure of his words. You tensed a little and he rubbed his thumbs gently along your thighs as he supported them.

The streets became less crowded as he carried you, eventually setting you down and holding your hand as you maneuvered through desolate alleys. You came to what looked like the back door to a business and Dabi entered, pulling you in behind him before slamming the door shut and leaving you both in darkness.

[angel-tries-to-write]

This is not how you pay your debt

Fandom: Shingeki no Kyojin/Attack on Titan Rating: Explicit Pairing: Levi Ackerman x Hanji Zoë Word count: 4507 Genre: smut, fluff

A little idea I came up with while watching Junior High. Hanji is in debt to Levi, but gets a very unique idea of paying it.

They/them pronouns for Hanji.

"I'm not treating you. Make sure you repay me later."

These words were still ringing in Hanji's ears, even though Levi spoke them in what seemed like a lifetime ago. He said it only once, but Hanji knew he meant it every other time, just by the look he was making. That was the funny thing about Levi: he was a mystery, a real enigma to everyone except for Hanji. They always knew what was on his mind, they were studying him for long enough to be able to see through his façade and even explain it to the others. They would lie if they said he was easy to read, but they were somewhat proud of this relationship. None of them knew actually what they were, the two of them never spoke about it. Hanji knew fully well that Levi was someone way more than just a friend to them, even though they didn't know what he thought about it, this thing about him remained a secret even to them. But that meant that maybe, just maybe, it was worth to try taking their relationship on the next level and them being in debt to him was a pretty convenient excuse. It wasn't an easy decision to make, if he didn't feel the same way, this friendship can be ruined, but if he did... Well, life is too short to waste this opportunity, especially in this world and Hanji has always been a "ride or die" person, especially when it came to Levi. It was worth trying.

The opportunity arose on its own, actually. One night Hanji was busy in the lab when they heard a knock on the door frame. They looked up from their notes and saw Levi, dressed very lightly and casually. Hanji themself was wearing light clothes, but it wasn't as contrasting as it was in his case. They usually were way more casual than Levi, who just had to look neat and elegant. This time, however, was different. Judging by the dark circles under his eyes, he had trouble sleeping.

“Do you want me to help you fall asleep or do you just want my company?” Hanji asked straightforwardly, not trying to pretend they didn't know what he was doing there.

“How about both?” he asked quietly and closed the door while Hanji sent him a careful look from above their glasses.

“My, my, Levi Ackerman openly saying what he wants” they teased him and stood up when he made an irritated expression, ready to leave. For once experiments and science could wait. “What a beautiful day to live.”

“Don't make me change my mind and leave, four-eyes” he even sounded annoyed. Hanji knew they were about to test their luck and strain his trust, but it was now or never.

“Like hell I'd let you” they said and before Levi realized what they intended to do, he was pinned against the lab door. The distance between them was nearly nonexistent, yet the man didn't protest or push his friend away. “Say, Levi” they reached up and caressed his cheek tenderly “what would you say to collecting my latest debt in a slightly different way?” they asked with a soft, sweet voice, their hand slowly wandered down his body.

“What do you mean?” he asked carefully, his breath hitched at their touch.

“Oh, you know, I have this new idea about how can I repay you.”

“Yes. Simply give me the money back” he said, trying to keep his composure.

“Or I can help you relax” they offered with a smirk and their fingers barely brushed his crotch. Levi's eyes widened and his face reddened as he finally realized what kind of idea it was. At this moment Hanji could clearly see through him and almost all of his barriers. They could tell he was in kind of conflict with himself, he was torn and didn't quite know whether he wanted it or not.

“Oh really? And what do you have in mind?” he teased, trying to get his emotions under control, even though his own body betrayed him. The thought of what Hanji could do to him in context they suggested made his cheeks burn even more, arousal shot through his spine right to his lower abdomen and he panicked a little, feeling his penis hardening slowly. He thought he buried this ability deep down, things like love or lust seemed impossible to experience for someone who had this terrible life and carried such a huge trauma inside. Yet again, Hanji Zoë proved to him that impossible wasn't an option. Their chaos completely ruined his perfectly ordered life, yet to his surprise, Levi didn't mind it that much.

“A lot, actually” their eyes twinkled with satisfaction when they felt Levi's erection. Their other hand that was leaning against the door above the man's head, fell softly to his hair and slid down to the cheek. “And I promise you're going to love it, but I need you to trust me” with every word their voice was getting quieter and more sensual and it was doing its job. When their thumb caressed his lips, it was the last straw. Levi grabbed them by the collar and closed the distance between the two of them, sealing Hanji's lips with a hungry kiss. He wasn't quite himself, but his friend wasn't complaining at all, on a contrary, they loved this side of him.

Well, just like any other one. Hanji was probably the only person in the world who knew everything about Levi and who loved him despite his terrible personality. He just was to understand it yet.

“I do” he whispered, breaking the kiss. “I trust you.”

Hanji smiled warmly, they knew it, technically, but hearing these words was something quite different than just sensing them. They slightly pulled away and started unbuttoning their shirt, then shrugged it off. As they did, Levi shyly put his hands on their muscled body. Hanji wasn't as strong as he was, but enough to be good in fight and they had quite nice muscles either. His fingers traced their abs, then toyed with the hem of Hanji's sport bra that kept their small boobs in one place and helped to keep their chest comfortably flat.

“Should I take it off?” Hanji teased, knowing fully well that his answer was a yes.

“Please” he breathed and that somewhat surprised his partner, they didn't expect to hear such a need in his tone. They stripped of the bra faster than they first intended, letting Levi stare and then touch their breasts. It wasn't the first time he was doing that, after all he was the only one who would make Hanji take a bath, sometimes in a quite violent way, but it was the first time the situation was sexual. They let him play for a while before pushing him harder against the door and capturing his lips in a kiss. Levi let out a small whimper when he was denied the boobs, Hanji only chuckled at his reaction.

“Tonight was supposed to be about you” they said with amusement, unbuckling his pants.

“I was having fun too” he protested, pulling them closer and kissing their neck. Hanji gasped as he suckled on their pulse point, they tugged the fabric of his pants, drawing Levi even closer. Finally they managed to free his cock and the moment their fingers touched it, their partner was gone. He stopped kissing their neck and bit down his lower lip, fighting a moan.

“Oh, you like it already? But I didn't do anything yet” Hanji laughed and slightly pulled away. They took their glasses off and put them away.

“I swear, four-eyes...” Levi panted with irritation, but his voice died in his throat when Hanji kneeled down in front of him. Immediately he covered his mouth with his hand, muffling any noises he was making. They were right, they didn't do anything yet and he was already done. He closed his eyes as they moved closer, kissing softly the tip of his member. He had to use all of his strength and willpower to not cum that soon.

“Tell me if you want me to stop or if I do something wrong, okay?” they asked, but all Levi could do was to nod a few times, his eyes still closed, cheeks flushed and mouth covered, which was necessary, because he nearly screamed with pleasure when Hanji took his cock in their hot, wet mouth, carefully testing every move and observing his reactions. Almost as if they were doing an experiment. Levi's free hand clenched on his partner's hair, not wanting them to stop, but he also minded to not enforce anything. Every lick and suck, even the slightest move, was pushing him closer and closer to his climax, apparently Hanji could use their mouth to pleasure him as well as they were using it to talk. Their tongue was impressively swift and the deeper they tried to take him in, the more he struggled to hold on. He could have probably lasted longer, but he made a huge mistake: he opened his eyes. The sight of Hanji kneeling down and looking up at him with their messy hair, flushed cheeks, bare chest, beautiful dark eyes and mouth full of cock, was enough to send Levi off the edge. He came suddenly, surprising Hanji who choke a little, some saliva mixed with sperm escaped their mouth and fell on their chest, but they managed to finish him off, swallowing all they could. When they let go of him, Levi didn't move, staring at them with unfamiliar feelings and trying to calm down.

“Hanji, you look gorgeous” he whispered half consciously as they wiped their chin and licked their fingers.

“Does that mean you liked my payment?” they smirked. Levi dropped to his knees and kissed them hard, pulling them by the hand he still had tangled in their hair. He could taste himself on their lips, but to his surprise, he didn't mind.

“Hell yes I did. You were amazing” he panted, leaning his forehead against their shoulder.

“I guess you can tell I have PTSD: Professional Talent for Sucking Dick” Hanji joked and Levi managed to let out a chuckle. He suddenly felt hands on his neck and back as his partner hugged him. “Do you want to go to sleep now?” they asked, but he made a sound of protest.

“No, just give me five minutes.”

“For what?”

“For round two. If you think you can suck me off and not expect being fucked later, then you should re-evaluate your knowledge about me.”

“I never knew this side of you, but I like it. I guess it's not too late to get to know it better” they smiled and slowly slipped their hand under his shirt to massage the skin on his back. They waited patiently and when his breath steadied, he kissed them first on their lips, then jaw, neck and he moved lower as he reached their breasts again.

“I see now why did you decide to undress” he smirked, licking his semen off their skin.

“I knew you would make a mess. What an irony, usually you despise it.”

“Oi, you're asking to be punished.”

“I can think of a few ways you can do that, but at the same time I'm not sure if you're actually capable of doing that. A few minutes ago you were completely at my mercy. Who knew you could be this submi—” they gasped loudly when Levi caught their nipple between his teeth, then sucked, and rolled the other between his fingers. He smirked, looking up.

“You were saying?” he asked triumphantly and pulled away to take off his shirt. Hanji reached for their own one and placed it on the floor, so they could lie down a little more comfortably.

“I feel tempted to tease you more and check what else you can do to me” they admitted, wriggling their boots and pants off.

“You might regret it” he simply said, following their lead. “If not tonight, then tomorrow. And it won't be worth it.”

“We can discuss it once we're done” they pulled him close impatiently and kissed hard. He pushed them down, so they would lie on the floor. “It's cold” they winced.

“I'll warm you up” he assured, pulling away and looking at them loosing their hair. He never thought he would think that, but Hanji was freaking beautiful. They were intoxicating him in a way no other human being could.

“You're staring, Levi” they chuckled. “Are you stunned by my beauty?” Hanji joked, unknowingly saying exactly what he had in mind.

“Actually, yes, I am” he admitted and caressed their thighs. Laugh died down their throat, their eyes widened in shock as they looked at him.

“What?”

“I don't know how or why, but you look so fucking good right now, I've never seen a more attractive person” he admitted, kissing their stomach and going up. He had no idea why suddenly he was so honest and open, he would usually keep his guard up, not counting rare moments when he was breaking down in Hanji's arms, the way they were in his. But even then he wasn't talking much, they just knew. This night was so different, he was doing things he didn't think he was capable of and to his surprise, it wasn't terrifying him, he actually enjoyed doing it all.

“You think I'm beautiful and attractive?” Hanji stared at him dumbfounded. They clearly couldn't believe it.

“Of course I do” he answered, kissing all the way up to their breasts while his fingers brushed their sex. Hanji gasped at his touch and clenched their palm on his shoulder, sensing a nasty scar under their fingertips. He had way more scars than they had, but Hanji knew almost every one, just like Levi knew theirs. Both of them tended to their wounds, they were the only people the other trusted to take care of them. Of course, Hanji was more open and they could let Miche or Nana do the job, but they preferred to leave it to Levi. It was a way to gain his trust, he would never let Hanji take care of him if he couldn't take care of them in return. Just like he was doing now, fingering them with a skill he didn't quite expected he possessed. Yet it was there and it allowed him to give more and more pleasure to his lover. He watched them carefully, observing every reaction and the first thing he noted was that they were much quieter than he was, but it didn't mean he was doing something wrong. At least he hoped so, judging by the way they were moaning his name intertwined with "yes" and "just like that". It took him a while, but he finally made them come all over his hand and if he thought they were beautiful before, they looked fucking gorgeous now, all sweaty and panting, with neck and breasts covered in hickeys and bite marks, eyes closed, limbs spread and lips curved in a smile.

“That was amazing. You were amazing” Hanji praised him, caressing his cheek. Levi just looked at them with a glint of mischief in his eyes and never breaking eye contact, he put his fingers in his mouth, licking them clean, observing the growing desire in Hanji's eyes

“I'm just getting started” he said and climbed up their body to place a hungry kiss on their lips. Both of them moaned as he positioned himself and the tip of his penis brushed Hanji's entrance.

“Do you really want this?” they asked and Levi looked at them, raising an eyebrow.

“Yes, I do. I wouldn't do that if I didn't want it.”

“Good. I do too and I just wanted to hear it from you.”

“Why?”

“Consent is sexy” they shrugged. “Besides, after all we've been through, I really wouldn't want to ruin our relationship by making you do something you don't want to. You deserve all the best and I want to make sure you get it.”

Levi froze, looking at them with shock, disbelief, but also hope, deeply moved by their words. He kissed them, slowly pushing his member inside. He might have been inexperienced, but he wasn't an idiot, he knew what to do to not hurt his partner. Hanji winced a little when his cock stretched their inner walls.

“You okay?” he asked, brushing their hair out of their face.

“Yeah. Well, you are short, but your dick clearly isn't, so I need a moment” they chuckled.

“Don't make me regret it” he sent them an annoyed look. Only Hanji could crack a joke about his height when he was balls deep inside them.

“Sorry. I'll behave, you can go on” they promised and kissed him. Levi sighed heavily, absolutely done with them and pulled out, but as he thrusted back in, any bickering and jokes were left forgotten. Both of their brains went blank, not caring about anything besides their mutual pleasure. They had no idea for how long did their act last, it seemed like an eternity of thrusts, kisses, touches, moans and overwhelming pleasure. When they finally reached their orgasms, Levi simply collapsed on top of Hanji, knowing fully well he could do that and he wouldn't crush them. If it wasn't for his insomnia, he would have had more strength, but for now he was exhausted. Hanji embraced him and kissed his sweaty forehead.

“Thank you” he whispered, when their breaths steadied.

“It was my pleasure” they smiled, playing with his hair.

“I've always thought sex was dirty and disgusting. I don't know how did you do that, but you managed to prove me wrong” he said, apparently even Levi Ackerman confirmed theory that people after sex are more open and honest.

“Well, we're quite messy right now, all sweaty and sticky” Hanji pointed out, but made no sign indicating they were bothered by that.

“I don't care.”

“You? A clean freak? Don't care?” his lover looked at him with disbelief. They never thought he could say such thing. “Are you even alright?”

“More than alright. Tonight I'm just doing things I never thought I was capable of. Being dirty, having sex and actually enjoying it. Feeling this warm and fuzzy inside. That's so strange to me, it's nice, of course, yet I can't help but think about...” he didn't finish the sentence, but he didn't have to. Hanji knew him and understood like no one could.

“She wouldn't want you to feel bad. She did what she had to do.”

“Do you think she would be proud of me?”

“Of course! She would be very proud to see everything you've achieved. I'm sure you are someone she wanted you to be. Someone who lives a better life than her. I've never met her, but I'm sure she loved you more than anything” they assured him. Levi rarely spoke about his mother, it was very personal to him and no one but Hanji actually knew the whole story. They were the only person in the world he could open up to.

“Hanji, what am I to you?” he asked suddenly, his voice almost cracking because of the emotions. He pushed himself up, so he could look them in the face.

“What do you mean?” they were surprised by his sudden question.

“How do you feel about me? Please, tell me” he pleaded. Levi Ackerman never pleaded, he was never desperate and he never cared about other people's feelings. Except for Hanji's.

“You're my best friend” they started and a flash of disappointment crossed Levi's face. “You're the one I can deeply trust and I can always rely on. You're the first person I think about when I wake up and the last when I go to sleep. And if we were given a chance to live a peaceful life, you're the one I would share it with. I just love you, Levi” they confessed and his eyes widened with shock.

“You do?” he whispered barely audible.

“I do. I have for a few years by now. I just never thought you could feel the same about me. Tonight... well, let's say I was tired of being uncertain and I had to make a move.”

“I love you too” he blurted out and it was Hanji's turn to be shocked. They never expected him to actually say it. “For a long time I couldn't admit it, maybe I didn't want to, because I was scared. Everyone who ever loved me and whom I loved, are dead. I don't want you to die” he admitted. Hanji stared at their lover, processing everything he said, then moved up and kissed him hard.

“I can't promise that I won't die, but you know you can't get rid of me easily.”

“I know but—”

“No 'buts'. Stop thinking negative. I know you've been through so much, but you have to move on. You have to live a better life. For your mom. For me. For yourself.”

Levi thought about their words, he knew they were right. He nodded, defeated. One last time. Just once, he would let himself love and be loved. He would risk his heart being shattered once again. He knew Hanji was tough, they survived for this long, they could certainly live through much more. So he was safe for now. At least he wouldn't live in constant "what ifs" invading his mind anymore.

“Alright.”

“Great. Now let's call it a night, shall we? As tempting as staying like that sounds, I'd rather not give Moblit a heart attack in the morning” they snickered.

“Fine. Let's take a bath and go to sleep” Levi pulled away from them with a slick sound.

“Yeah, for once I won't be arguing” Hanji said, looking at the mess between their thighs. They both got up and got dressed, made sure to not leave any mess in the lab, went to their rooms to take fresh clothes and met in the bathroom. “You know that if the others find out, they're never going to let us live?” they asked when the two of them undressed once again and proceeded to clean themselves and each other.

“They don't have to find out.”

“You think so? This thing is way harder to keep a secret than any other thing we've said or done.”

“They know we help each other fall asleep, so even if they would catch us sleeping together, it's not the first time.”

“And you were furious when they saw us for the first time, now it's our advantage.”

“Yeah. Good thing it was in common area, it was easier to explain.”

“Let's hope we're lucky enough to keep it secret.”

They finished their bath reminiscing old times. When they left and got dressed, they headed to Levi's room where they fell asleep as soon as they went to bed. Both of them had trouble sleeping recently, yet the presence of the other one was soothing and calming enough, to let them peacefully sleep for all night and even longer than that. Because when they finally woke up, it was almost noon.

“Hey” Levi spoke, his voice was even deeper and lower than usual.

“Hey” Hanji smiled and rubbed their eyes. “Did we oversleep?”

“Seems like it. But I guess we deserved that much sleep.”

“Yeah... You look way better than yesterday. I mean, healthier, not more handsome and beautiful, that's physically impossible.”

“I can say the same thing” he brushed away Hanji's hair, taking it out of their face, then leaned in and kissed them.

“I KNEW IT!” Nanaba's sudden scream made the couple jump away from each other, as much as they could, being limited by the bed and their embrace. “MICHE, ERWIN, I WON THE BET!!!” she shouted and Levi furrowed his brows.

“What the fuck?!” he yelled at her.

“Yes, Nana, what the fuck?!” Hanji echoed. None of them got an answer, because Miche and Erwin appeared by the door.

“You didn't win shit, just because they share a bed it doesn't mean you won” Miche protested, crossing his arms on his chest.

“Besides, they're fully clothed and they slept together in the past” Erwin noticed. “It means nothing.”

“I saw them kiss, I swear!” Nanaba realized she didn't think this through, as she had no proof to convince them.

“Oi! What's that supposed to mean?” Levi yelled, sitting up, his partner followed his actions.

“Nana was convinced you're dating, while we were pretty sure you're not. So we decided to bet. If she found out any proof in a week, she wins, if she won't, we win” Miche explained. “But since we know you two have huge trouble sleeping and the only person who can help you is the other one, we don't count that.”

“Technically it's against the rules, but I can either allow that or risk getting two of my best people get themselves killed, because of sleep deprivation” Erwin admitted. “And since you said you're not dating...”

“Of course we're not dating” Levi scoffed.

“And that's why Hanji has hickeys all over their neck?” Nanaba pointed out triumphantly. The couple exchanged looks, they didn't expect to see anyone before getting out of bed, so they didn't mind less covering clothes. Which meant that most of the marks Levi has left on his lover's body were visible.

“We're not dating yet” Hanji precised, giving up. There was no point trying to lie, the evidence was obvious. “Last night we talked about our feelings, but we didn't figure out the status of our relationship yet. Also we would like to have our privacy respected, thank you very much.”

“So did we win or not?” Miche wondered, apparently that was his priority.

“I'd say under these circumstances we can say none of us wins or loses. The bet is cancelled” Erwin decided. “Now let's get back to work, you two, get out” he pointed to Miche and Nana “you two, get up” he pointed to Levi and Hanji “and we're never talking about it again, that's an order” he commanded and the three left.

“So much for keeping a secret” Hanji sighed, resting their head on Levi's shoulder.

“That's not what I wanted to do. But maybe it's for the better” he admitted, wrapping his arm around his partner and kissing their head. “We don't have to bother whether someone sees us or not.”

“Really? You're going to ruin your reputation of unavailable idol only to be able to kiss me in public?” they joked.

“Like I ever cared about my reputation” Levi rolled his eyes. “But there's one more thing.”

“What is it?”

“While I enjoyed the way you paid your debt last night, don't get used to it or I'll stop buying you anything” he said and Hanji couldn't help but burst out laughing.

[shenanigans-and-imagines]

Hi! Could you do whole alphabet for Echo too? I'm so inlove with your Rex one. So soft

A/N: Sorry, I couldn’t find a nicer gif of my boy. Also, REBLOG AND COMMENT IF YOU LIKE THIS! These take just as much time as a drabble or one-shot to finish. Spread the love.

A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)

Echo pre and post-Citadel is a cuddler.  He cuddles, and talks, and tries to stay awake for as long as he can, because he doesn’t want to lose a second with you.

B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

He loves your legs. King of looking respectfully whenever you wear something with a short hem line. 

Pre-Citadel, he liked his hands.  They’re steady and true.  Not to mention dexterous fingers which you seemed to appreciate.

Post-Citadel, he likes his eyes.  They’re different from before, a bit paler, sunken, but still undeniably human.  He needs to remind himself of that fact every now and again.

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

Pre-Citadel, he loved cumming inside you. Nothing felt better than the feeling of his cock buried in your cunt as you milked him for all he was worth. He could stay inside you forever. 

Post-Citadel, cumming on his part isn’t really an option, but he be damned if he doesn’t try to make up for it by having you cum again and again.

D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

Wanted to have a three way with you and Fives.  He wasn’t interested in having sex with Fives, rather he wanted to share you with someone he trusted.  He thought about he and Fives taking turns with you until you were sex drunk and covered in each of their cum.

He’d never dare bring this up with you or Fives.  All the same, even post-Citadel, he still thinks about it.

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

Not a lot.  He gets nervous around people he’s attracted to and often ends up repeating the last sentence they said on instinct.  Some people find it endearing, but it hasn’t gotten him laid that often.  He’s had sex once, maybe twice before meeting you. 

F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)

Pre-Citadel, you on top and riding him into the sunset.  Save a horse, ride and ARC Trooper.

Post-Citadel, you laying on your back allowing him a perfect view of your face as he fucks you with a vibrator. Bonus points if you dig your finger nails into his arms until they sting.

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

He’s the same both pre and post-Citadel. He puts all his attention on you, but every now something awkward happens. This makes him nervous, which means he rambles and says something that gets you laughing and then him laughing until you’re a mess of giggles. So a sweet balance of tender and silly.

H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

Pre-Citadel, pretty close shaven down there.  He generally tries to keep all things neat and titty and that includes his private parts.

Post-Citadel, well there isn’t anything to worry about.

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

Pre-Citadel, a nice balance of sweet and tender to just for fun. He called you beautiful every time you were together and tried to show how much he cared.  But, there were times when it was just for fun.  A pleasurable way to spend what limited time with you he could.

Post-Citadel, he’s still sweet and loving, but there’s more of an edge there.  A quiet desperation, as if he’s trying to prove something when you’re together.  The praises come more raggedly and a storm of unspoken emotion takes over him.  It’s more intense.

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)

Pre-Citadel, he didn’t do it that often and honestly a little embarrassed when he did. He can’t help but be paranoid he’s brothers will stumble in on him and he knows the ragging he’ll get if they do.  Plus, it feels...well, a little childish when he knows you’re just a phone call away.  At the very least with phone sex, you’re with him in some way.

Post-Citadel, there’s nothing to jack.

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)

Pre-Citadel: Fuck, he loves it when you call him a good boy.  There’s just something about that little endearment that drives him wild especially with you fucking yourself on his cock like you own it.  Add in some hair pulling and biting and he’s lost. 

So, needless to say, total sub.

Post-Citadel: Still likes to be called good boy, but gets a different kind of satisfaction in pinning you to the bed.  Has started experimenting with tying you to the bedpost and finding that he likes it.  Developing some dom tendencies.

L = Location (favorite places to do the do)

Pre-Citadel; your apartment on Courscant.  Just a little home away from his brothers, completely your own with no chance of either of you having to do the walk of shame and getting shit for it.

Post-Citadel: same thing, but has expanded to his room on the Marauder.

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

Pre and Post Citadel; seeing you in a short tight skirt giving him a perfect view of your legs and proper framing of your ass. Pair this off with a few dirty words in his ear and he’s checking the clock every five seconds for his shift to end.

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

Pre-Citadel: Pegging.  You tried it once, he wasn’t into it, moving on.

Post-Citadel: No restraints for him.  Nothing to take away his senses or any kind of agency.  He needs a way out at any given moment.

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

Pre-Citadel: split right down the middle between giving and receiving.  He was an absolute mess every time you went down on him.  His rambled and groaned and begged until his climax hit him like a train.  He’d be a trembling mess once you were done with him. 

On the other hand, he loved giving. If you decided to ride his face, he was a happy man.  Maybe a little too enthusiastic and messy, but damn if it wasn’t satisfying.

Post-Citadel: It’s all about the giving and his technique has improved considerably.  He has learned how to tease it out, make you squirm and even make a smug remark or two before finally letting you cum. This pacing also will keep him down there for hours.

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

Pre-Citadel: Fast and enthusiastic.  He wanted to make you feel good, feeling energizing thrill when you were together and that meant wanted to make you cum fast and frequently.

Post-Citadel: He’s more willing to take his time.  He wants to enjoy every second that he can with you and that means slow and steady, absorbing every little twitch and moan your body produces.

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

Pre-Citadel: More often then you’d think.  He wants to give you what you want, but if you guys ever worked together he feels like he needs to be ready to go at a moments notice.  So that means a lot of quickies in supply closets and empty locker rooms.  It was against regulations, obviously, but he did gets a kind of thrill in breaking the rules with you.

Post-Citadel: Not as much his thing.  He really, really wants to take his time with you and he’s more than willing to wait.  Honestly, seeing you so pent up for him sends it’s own kind of trill down his spine.

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

Pre and Post-Citadel; He’s willing to experiment.  You guys do your research and properly talk about it before hand, setting boundaries and safe words, if needed.  If there is one thing you guys have always been good at, it’s communicating.

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

Pre-Citadel: The rounds didn’t last so long (10 to 15 minutes), but he had a great recovery time.  Number of rounds averaged about 2 to 3 per night.

Post-Citadel: Literally as long as you can stand, and maybe a little longer.

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

Pre and Post Citadel: Plenty of toys and frequently used; vibrators, dildos, handcuffs, cock rings, the works.  If anything post-citadel, the number has expanded.

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

Pre-Citadel: Terrible at teasing.  Just the worst. Cannot tease to save his life. Needs to give you everything the moment you ask for it.

Post-Citadel: Has learned how to tease and is an asshole about it.

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

Pre and Post-Citadel: Talks a lot during sex.  Rambles about anything and everything that comes to his mind. It’s like a filter has been removed.  It starts as desperate breathy whispers and end with loud declarations and pleading.

W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)

Pre-Citadel: He actually considered turning deserter for you.  He never told you or anyone, besides Fives.  But there were moments with you laying quietly in his arms, he wondered what would happen after the war.  He didn’t know if he would have to say in the GAR or if he would be free to leave.  And if he was forced to stay, would he? He couldn’t imagine keeping this up forever; meeting in dark corners, sneaking out to your apartment, as if what you were doing was wrong. If the war ended and the Senate decided to keep them as soldiers, he would leave.  He would leave for you.

Post-Citadel: He still wonders about the war and how it will end.   He wanted to be your husband.  To give you children and a quiet life somewhere warm and safe.  But, given what he was now, normal would never be an option. It eats at him in the dark with you pressed quietly against him.  If he were a selfless man, he’d let you go.  But he won’t.  He can’t. He doesn’t want to.

X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

Pre-Citadel: Standard issue thick clone dick.  Can and will fill you up until you’re bursting at the seams.

Post-Citadel: The dick is gone and the Techno Union did not deem it necessary to get him a replacement one. Technically they do exist, but they’re ridiculously expensive and most won’t sell to Clones.

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

Pre-Citadel: Surprisingly high.  Before he met you, he was convinced he was the horniest virgin in the GAR. So, when you did get together you guys were going at it like rabbits.  Call it years of repression finally letting loose.

Post-Citadel: The drive isn’t what it was, but he still wants to give you pleasure.  More like 2 to 3 times a week as opposed to every night.

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

Pre and Post-Citadel: Can and will stay awake for as long as he can.  Even if you can see his eyes drooping, he’ll force them open for as long as you’re awake, rambling long into the night.  He wants to be with you as long as he can.

[thebluestbluewords]

fitting rooms have locks for a reason

Malvie + Ben, a little spicy, technically part of my queer parenting/babyfic/polyamory 'verse. Not explicitly stated, but it's got some pretty heavy d/s themes. ~1600 words.

*

“I don’t think this is ever going to be a good look on me.” Mal says doubtfully, fisting the extra fabric of her skirt up as she steps onto Evie’s fitting dais. “I might just be too short for this to ever look good.”

Evie does not roll her eyes, because she is a good girlfriend who is working with her girlfriend’s changing ideas about her body, rather than against them. “It doesn’t look good now, obviously. You have to shut up and let me finish pinning it first.”

Mal drops the skirt. “Fine.”

Finally, “Thank you.” Evie says graciously, and gestures for their boy to come forward. “Servant boy, more pins!”

Ben ducks his head. Evie’s got him on his knees today, his feet looped together with one of her scarves so he can’t move easily even if she wanted him to stand. He gets quiet sometimes, when they boss him around like this, but they’ve talked about it at length and he insists that it’s better when they let him get to that point.

He’s not that far down yet today. “Your highness,” he says, holding out the magnetic dish with the wickedly sharp straight pins that Evie uses for fittings. She could tie his hands too, but half the fun is pulling him around into odd positions and seeing how long he’ll be able to hold it before she either has to move or scold him.

It’s a good day, so Evie’s going to give him a fighting chance this time. “Stay right there for a sec, babe. Don’t move a muscle,” she says, pulling his arms, and the dish sitting in his hands, up so that she can reach easily. It means that his arms are stuck awkwardly just above his head, but his shoulders are already relaxing into the pose. “Thank you.” she adds, on second thought. A little praise never hurt anyone.

“Evie--” Mal tries, as Evie gathers the fabric she’s been holding up out of her hands. It’s a few simple tucks that honestly, Evie doesn’t even need her to model for. She’s been designing for Mal practically as long as she’s been designing for anyone other than herself, and between clothing and their other activities, she knows the shape of her girlfriend’s body better than her own.

“Shh.” Evie says, and brandishes a pin. “I’m almost done, just hold on.”

Mal shuts up.

It really only takes another second, and then there’s just the hem to get up, and their boy to shove around again, until he’s moving a little looser and easier, just like Mal does when Evie finally finds the dresses that make her feel like the best version of herself, and that’s it.

Evie drops the hem to Mal’s legs, and the spare pins back to the bowl. “Do you want to try walking in that, Mally?”

Mal steps down from the little fitting dais that Evie’s got set up, and does a little runway walk over to the mirror propped against the far wall of the studio. “It’s not bad.” she admits, swishing the flowy skirt around her legs. “I like the pleats.”

Evie tries not to talk up her own accomplishments more than absolutely necessary, but Mal does look a full treat. “Told you,” she says, because well, she did. “Lift your arms, how’s that?”

Mal raises her arms above her head obediently, and gives a little wave. “Good.” she says, and shakes her shoulders out, like she’s dancing. The dress shifts with her, fabric floating along the elegant lines of her body. “I like it.”

“Excellent. Let me see you now, give me a twirl.” Evie says, gesturing. Her own dress is a simple one, form-fitting black with a sheer blue jacket that leaves her arms free for pinning and fitting her designs. It’s one of her new favorites, now that she’s been doing a lot more of the actual work end of her business lately, and a bit less of the studying end. She’s still got her team, of course, and two years of business management classes have taught her how to manage all the loose ends of the little world she’s made for herself, but it’s still nice to have a reliable outfit stable for getting shit done in.

Mal twirls. The hem lasts for two rotations, and then Mal, being herself, even though they’re old enough to know better, gets too excited and spins fast enough to make her hair fly up. The hem, predictably, falls out.

Mal looks guiltily up at Evie. “Oops.” she says, a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. “You might need to re-pin that one.”

Of course Mal wants to make them go through the process again. Evie should serve her right and make her hold her own pins this time, just to give their boy a break.

“That’s fine, I’ll get it set back up where you need it.” Evie says instead, kneeling down to gather the loose edge back up again. It’s not so bad really, just the front piece that’s come undone from her loose attempt at figuring out how high Mal will want her hem. “I’m gonna leave a pretty generous hem this time, just in case we need to take it out more later.”

“In case what, I need to run away again and we don’t do this for another month?” Mal says bitterly. “That’s clever of you. Knowing when I’m going to have another breakdown.”

“Or if you want to wear the dress again, M.” Evie says gently, repinning the soft fabric. “That’s also a thing you can do.”

“People will talk.”

“And what, are you going to listen?” Evie asks, glancing up at Mal from where she’s almost finished getting the skirt up again. “Don’t take criticism from people you wouldn’t go to for advice, babe. I don’t care what the gossip rags say about your outfits, and neither should you. I can make you something blingy to wear over it, if you need to change it up that badly.”

“No!” Mal exclams, smoothing a hand over the top of the dress, where it drapes over the faintly rounded curve of her belly. “I like how it is. Don’t change a thing.”

“Don’t complain if you don’t want to hear my solutions!” Evie says, gesturing with an empty hand. “You’re all pinned up again, if you want to get out of this and let my pin boy do his work with you.”

Mal does crack a smile at that. “Ooh, and what kind of work could that be, I wonder?” she asks, eyes sparkling. “I’ve heard good things about his handicrafts, but if you’re still going to use him for any other projects I’m sure I could find other ways to work with him.”

Evie glances over, just to make sure they’re all good.

Ben meets her eyes. He’s looking a little bit dreamy, but not like he’s in the stratosphere just yet. They’re fine. “I do have a few more designs that could use work,” Evie admits. “And it is easier to get those woven patterns you like nailed down if I’ve got a second pair of hands at my disposal.”

Mal smooths her skirt again. “I think it would be nice,” she says, looking at the both of them, watching them watch each other, “If we could. Uh. Test out the versatility of this dress.”

“See how it’s going to hold up for some extracurriculars?” Evie offers, sweetly. “Test the range of movement you’ve got in the legs?”

Mal’s a blusher, which is unfortunate for her and very fortunate for her partners. “Maybe I want to make sure it’s going to fit a little something else under the skirt?” she says, going for lofty and disinterested, and ending up somewhere around nervous-pleased and eager. “It’s important that it can accomodate, uh, my changing body?”

Good lord, if this is what Evie’s going to be dealing with in miniature she’s never going to make it through their kid’s youth. “You can do all the testing you need, so long as you don’t break anything and you have him back in one piece for the next time I need a helper, m’kay?” she says, and gives Ben a little nod.

He takes the cue, which is good, because it means he’s still in the game. It’s easy enough for Evie to guide the two of them, both of her beautiful idiots, over to the gold fainting couch she’s got in the corner for exactly this purpose. It’s not exactly set up for three, but it’s a simple enough switch for Evie to slip herself down beside Mal, half behind her, so that she can get her mouth on that soft spot behind her ear where she likes to be kissed. It takes a second longer for their boy to finish settling into his own position, but that’s to be expected when she’s got him helping like this. It wouldn’t do to have the help in place before they want him there. This is for Mal, after all.

Speaking of. With all the work that Evie’s just been putting in on the skirt, it wouldn’t do to have Mal messing that up either. Evie reaches down and flips it up, leaving Mal’s pale thighs exposed to the light.

Ah, and their boy is in place now. Good.

Evie trails soft fingertips down Mal’s side, until she’s got her nails, matte red and dark like old blood today, on the pale edge of her skin where it meets the dark fabric of her undergarments.

Ben is keeping his hands to himself, because he’s a good boy who knows what they need from him. He leans his head against Mal’s inner leg instead, nudging his mouth up against the opposite side as Evie’s fingertips.

“Mally,” Evie asks sweetly, directly into her girlfriend’s ear. “Do you want more from us?”

Mal shivers in response, which could be good or bad, and then pushes up into the touch. “Yes,” she breathes, and turns her head to press her next words up against Evie’s lips. “Please, Eves. Need you both.”

[kinkyacademia]

Could I request a scenario or even headcanons (whichever is easier) with Overhaul of how he would be with fem s/o and she just so happens to have a erasure-like quirk.... (I’m sorry it’s so vague I can elaborate if necessary) thank you so much!

So the thing is it is 3:30AM and my dog is alseep next to me, hands not working, I want to write sex.Okay I ended up rewriting and finishing the request, but the fact that my intro was so dumb still makes me laugh XD

-Mod Pasta🍜🍝

💊You had met Overhaul when he was just starting the Shie Hassaikai, you being fresh out of a mediocre Hero Course and still struggling to find your place in the world.You were always told that hero life suited you, but that it would be hard to find work because of your quirk. Why did it have to be hard? Why were everyone’s compliments so backhanded? You wanted to do good, but it felt like the government didn’t care.

💊He pulled you out of that mess and depression, telling you that you were incredible, your quirk was a blessing, wrapping his arm around you without flinching. Without flinching. One of the first things he said to you was, “You’re clean, you may have a quirk, but it’s clean.”

💊That was about a year ago. Overhaul sometimes asked for you assistance with Eri’s “temper tantrums,” Or to teach certain members a lesson, or just to make himself feel temporarily clean. The more skin-to-skin contact he had with you, the better his mood would get that day. There were many parts to his business that you opposed, especially the use of Eri, but you didn’t want to be useless and deny him your service. This wasn’t the easy route you had to remind yourself. You were helping.

💊More contact meant less clothes, and despite his adverseness to germs, the closest he could get to you was sex. He was infatuated with you, and for the first time in his life, he opened his being to someone. It was all on his own terms, of course, but you were more than happy to oblige. You were helping a man achieve his dreams after all, and what was more desirable that a driven person?

💊You had to admit that Kurono throwing you at Chisaki like a happy pill was a bit annoying, but you also felt important. You were this important to one person, especially a very important man - this was what you wanted. You wanted to help others, and this did the job just fine despite the obvious drawbacks. Overhaul made it very clear that you could return to the hero world whenever you wanted, but reminded you of what would happen: You would be shunned for leaving for so long, you would never find work, you would fall into a pit of despair and never be recognized.

💊Technically you only needed to touch someone once to cancel their quirk for a couple minutes, but Overhaul obviously enjoyed your continued use.

On one particular bad day, you were drinking tea in the backyard when you heard footsteps approaching, blocking the sun from reaching you and casting a shadow, “Yes?”

“You’re needed (L/N),” It was short and sweet, but you knew what Kurono meant. His voice was strained, and you pushed yourself up slowly, giving him an apologetic smile.

“Is he okay?”

“Not exactly,” He nodded to the back door, and you felt a prick of annoyance at his rushed tone, but proceeded inside nonetheless. You went down a staircase, down a few winding stone halls, then found Kendo Rappa standing outside of Overhaul’s room, arms crossed in front of him as he pouted, glaring at you. You looked away, hoping he wouldn’t confront you.

As you passed him, reaching for the doorknob, he spoke up with a crackly tone, indicating how his conversation with the masked man went, “You’re going in? He’s pretty pissed,” he chuckled, reaching for your hand.

“That’s okay,” You giggled, waving him off, “Thank you though.”

“I warned yah,” He shrugged, looking up and down the hall before leaving you, throwing one last sentence over his shoulder, “We should fight!”

“Right,” You muttered, rolling your eyes. It was like his departing phrase: fight me, give me a battle, see you next round, etc. You pushed his warnings out of your head, taking a deep breath before opening knocking with one hand and pushing the door open, “It’s me.”

“Close the door,” Just as you were got inside, you were ordered around. You had to swallowed your pride and not state that that was exactly what you were going to do. Usually he praised the ground you walked on, but Kurono and Rappa were right: this was a particularly bad day, likely because of Rappa.

You sat in front of him while he looked over a set of papers, “Did Chronostasis send you?” He hummed, turning a page. You nodded.

“Yeah,” Your eyes traveled to a few books that had fallen from his shelves. The fact that they weren’t picked up made your nerves stand on end. The clean-freak himself wasn’t cleaning.

You got up to clean the books up, and he didn’t stop you. Once everything looked orderly, you turned to him, approaching him now from behind his desk, “I guess today was hard?”

“Correct,” He mumbled, getting to the last page, “I would rather my subordinates do what I ask of them without question, but some need motivation,” He clicked his tongue, rubbing his fingers over the paper delicately. It looked like he was trying not to crinkle it, but his anger caused the edge of the paper to turn in. He stared at it for a second, then slowly placed the paper on top of the stack, shaking his head with a groan of disappointment.

You smiled, gingerly placing a hand on his shoulder to provide the much-needed relief he craved, “They’ve fought before, but last time their reasons were jaded. You provide a clear goal: Maybe that’s what’s important to them,” You gave him an experimental squeeze. He didn’t respond, his eyes closed as he thought. A moment passed, and you began to feel an awkward silence brewing. Suddenly he pushed his chair back, reaching up to grab your wrist and pull you down to eye level.

“I’m their boss. You,” His eyes travelled to your chest, then back up, causing your cheeks to flare, “You’re too perfect to give trash like them excuses.”

“Oh,” You whispered, heart pounding. Your surroundings became sharp and in better focus as adrenaline surged through your veins, “Thank you.”

He let go of your hand, and you crouched in front of him awkwardly, awaiting his word. You found trouble thinking for yourself these days: it was just so easy to let Overhaul make the decisions. He pulled his gloves off, putting them in his jacket pocket before removing the coat and placing it on the back of his chair. You knew what was coming, and it excited you to no end.

“You should be ready,” He started working on his mask, and you eyed the awkward man before reaching under your skirt and hooking a finger around your shorts and panties. You stepped out of them, looking around. You ended up placing them on the ground next to his seat, turning back to him. He was staring at your chest, and you instinctively went to cover your breasts.

“Over-”

“Leave the skirt,” He continued to stare with hungry eyes, “I enjoy all of you, (F/N),” He raised a hand up to form the come here sign. You obliged, and he reached a hand out to your legs. You too the cue to climb onto his seat, straddling him and sitting on his knees, “You’re a pure form of human.”

“I think you underestimate your own worth, you’re just as amazing as me,” Your hand came up to his neck, resting against it as your quirk took hold once again. His mask was on the desk now, but a black one underneath had taken its place. You rarely got to kiss him, but he seemed to enjoy the contact of the kiss rather than the emotions behind it. He was better at expressing those through speech and touch.

“We’re powerful together,” He settled that, “But that’s not important now… Tell me about your day,” You chuckled- he was quite monotonous when it came to casual talk. His bare hands went to your shirt, pulling it off of you. He wasn’t one to hold back - the moment your shirt was off, he went to your bra. Skilled with his hands, it dropped immediately and they went to your breasts.

“It was-” You had to pause when he took your shirt off, “Good! I went and made lunch for Eri. She’s so big now,” You hummed with content, then was cut off by his roaming fingers, “You’re cold,” You whispered with a laugh. He stopped for a second, then nodded slowly.

“You’re warm,” He stroked your breasts downward, his fingers reaching your skirt. His eyes flickered up to your own, “You know I enjoy watching you.”“Yeah,” Excitement bubbled within you as you looked down at his lap. Your boyfriend could even be labelled as nice after sex, having been as intimate as possible with the girl who gave him the relief of being “clean.”

He started to seem impatient, leaning closed to you. Your stomach did flips, and you reached for his belt buckle, undoing it and pulling it off. You placed it on the ground, then undid the button and zipper to his pants, pulling them down a bit. All that was left was his boxers, and this was where the leader-type man would usually take the reigns. You were given them for today, however, and you had some feeling of pride in it

You pulled the hem down, enough for his semi-erection to spring loose. You gently gripped it in your hand, enjoying the veins and texture. The rest of his body had a smooth, flawless feeling, likely due to using his quirk on himself. He hadn’t done the same to his member, and the contrast was a strange, but interesting aspect of the man. His breath caught for a second, and your eyes flickered to his own. They seemed expectant. You gave an experimental pump, and he took a short, sharp breath. You felt your own core aching - you had never been with someone other than Overhaul. The Hero Course strictly forbid fraternizing, and everyone was too good two shoes to try anything serious. Overhaul’s style, the way he ordered you, the way he pleased you - it was all you knew, and you knew you liked it a lot. He always left you satisfied, if not yearning for another round.

You raised your hand to your mouth, licking it before going back down to lubricate him. You bit your bottom lip, seeing he was fully erect and ready. Your heavy-lidded eyes met his own, and his hands made their way under your thighs, lifting you up slightly, “I’m growing impatient.”

“Sorry,” You chuckled, pushing yourself up on the arms of his chair and scooting forward. You reached down and position himself at your wet entrance, already remembering the intoxicating pleasure. Overhaul was a scientist after all, and he took data in so he could improve results. Sex never got old with him. You slowly sat, and your sigh of pleasure mixed with his sigh of relief.

“You’re just… perfect, you know?” You smiled, taking a few seconds to adjust to how deep he already was inside of you. His hands returned to your ass under the skirt, his hands still cold against you.

“I am clean, never perfect,” He shook his head, and you pushed yourself up a bit, then sat back down on his member. You gasped at the deep feeling, rolling your hips forward to relish it. You could see his jaw clenched and you reached up to rub it.

“You’re perfect for me, I never want anyone else,” Your hero side showed a bit, and you raised yourself up again, starting to find a rhythm. You weren’t used to riding, but you learned quickly. You were finding out what felt deeper and oh god what made your head spin.

“I feel the same to you,” He squeezed your ass, and you yelped, then laughed, a small sigh of content escaping your lips. You were starting to like pleasing yourself on him, and you knew he liked being inside of you, so it was a win-win. As you used his shoulders to support your bouncing, you got a surprise when his hips instinctively bucked up into you. He swallowed hard, and you realized he was holding back for your own sake.

“Ah… Fuck…” You moaned, rolling your hips into his own. His hands shifted to wrap around your waist, using his small thrusts to get even deep than your bouncing. With the joint effort, both of you felt pleased. Even Overhaul was groaning, his teeth grit. Your head fell next to his own on the side of the chair, your breathing heavy. You knew you were close, and he was as well.

“Overhaul!” You both were startled by a loud shout from behind his door. You pulled back to look at him with dazed confusion, and when there was a bang on the door, he leaned over and grabbed your shirt off the ground. You pulled it on, but the moment you did, a very angry Rappa entered the room. Your blood ran cold - Overhaul was still inside of you!

Overhaul was much better at handling the situation than you. He whispered for you to grab your phone and just play on it until this was over. After a lengthy conversation about the politics of the Yakuza and where Rappa stood, he finally calmed down. You had to use all your might not to react, looking away from Rappa and hiding yourself in the crook of Overhaul’s neck, looking at your phone mindlessly.

Rappa finally left, slamming the door as he did so. Once he was gone, you both waited a moment before you pulled back with a laugh, placing your phone on his desk and then turning to him, “That was close, good thing I kept my skirt-” When you saw how intense his eyes were, you had to do a double take. He’d really been holding back all of those emotions this whole time?

His hands slid under your ass, and he suddenly stood up, taking a step forward to place you across his desk, “It certainly was (F/N).”

“D-Do we get t-to finish?” You tried to play dumb, but your heart was racing, face flushed as his hands slid to your thighs. He grabbed them and pulled back, then snapped his hips forward. You were yet again at his mercy.

“Wait, I thought I was-” You began to whine, then was interrupted by another snap of his hips. A small gasp escaped your lips.

“I still own over you,” He reminded you, “I own over your perfect existence,” He immediately started at a fast pace, already riled up from being edged before. You had to grab the edge of the desk, back arching. You choked back a cry of surprise and pleasure.

“Ah-yes!” You exclaimed, legs wrapping around his back and keeping him close. You were both still aroused and stimulated from before, so you felt your orgasm coming quicker than expected.

“You’re perfect in every way,” He was barely panting, while your breathing was hot and heavy. You whined, gasped, and moaned, pitiful at best against his expertise when it came to your body. Each of his thrusts hit you in a pleasurable place, and you couldn’t hold back for long. Riding him was nothing like this - he was the master of pleasuring you.

“Fuck…” You quickly reached your climax, and once you did, you cried out and pulled him close to you, toes curling and muscles taught. He stayed buried inside of you, then once you were finished, you felt his own orgasm fill you with warmth. His level of control over his own body still surprised you.

After calming down and him pulling out of you, he set to cleaning up the mess with wipes and his quirk. You got your clothes back on, making sure he was better now. His mood was vastly improved, “Should I stay?”

“You may if you would like to,” He shrugged, wiping his chair down. You happily did so, sitting on his chair once he had moved onto the desk. He gave you a temporary glare, and you just giggled childishly. He rolled his eyes.

“I’ve got to say, that was a pretty silly situation.”

“It was,” He agreed, but you still wanted a laugh from him. You dramatically pouted.

“Aw, but you never laugh! Everybody laughs,” You whined, kicking your legs out.

“I’m not everyone,” He commented, then glanced at you once again, “I laugh. I laughed last night at dinner.”

“Chuckled,” You pointed at him, and he nodded slowly.

“That’s laughing,” He paused for a second, then nodded to himself as if to confirm his own belief. This left you laughing as well: he was just so odd.

[collecting-stories]

Versus - Alt. Ending (Kiara)

A/N: @poguesrforlife suggested that Kiara get the girl and the idea just stuck with me so I had to write it. Here is the alternate ending to Versus in which Kiara gets the girl.

Versus Masterlist | Outer Banks Masterlist

///

While you thought about who liked you there was an obvious question that you were avoiding, who did you like? Knowing that JJ and John B might both have feelings for you was flattering and muddy the feelings you were having about another pogue in your group...or rather an honorary pogue.  

You knew it didn’t technically matter who you liked, there was no chance that they liked you back. It was why you found yourself contemplating the possibility of John B or JJ. You didn’t have feelings for either of them now but you were best friends so maybe there was some way you could grow to feel something. And, unable to decide how you really felt about it, you sought advice from the closest of your friends.

-

“What about ‘no pogue on pogue macking’?” You asked, sitting on your board with Kiara. The two of you had gone out alone to surf and talk, away from the guys and their weird behaviour lately.  

“I mean, yeah, I guess you could choose no one.” Kiara shrugged, “but honestly, forget the friend group and shit, if you had to choose, who would it be? First person that pops into your head?”  

You opened your mouth to answer and she held up her hand. “Don’t tell me. Just...you thought of someone?”  

“Before you even finished your sentence.” You replied.  

“Yeah, so the let’s all be friends isn’t gonna work cause you’re gonna have those feelings. As much as I hate to say it, we aren’t kids anymore, it was only a matter of time before one of them liked you. I mean we all hang but not like you three.”  

“That’s crap though, I don’t wanna ruin a friendship over stupid feelings.”  

“They aren’t stupid. And if they’re your friends than they’ll understand and move on.” Kiara replied, “but I don’t think you should drag it out.”

-

“Hey,” Kiara started to say, rolling her head to look at you. The two of you were laying on your bed, feet dangling off the edge. You were shoulder to shoulder on your backs, looking up at the glow in the dark stars you had put up in sixth grade. “Remember how you said you thought John B and JJ liked you?”  

“Yeah, when I said that yesterday.” You’d gone surfing with her yesterday and told her about their weird behaviour.  

“Yeah, so, I have to tell you something but I don’t want you to freak out.”

“You can tell me anything Kie.”  

“This is like,” Kiara shrugged, “I don’t want it to ruin our friendship.”  

You sat up, pulling your legs in crossed each other, and looked down at her, “okay, now you’re freaking me out. Just tell me.”

“I like you.”

“What?”

“Well I wasn’t sure at first, I’ve never liked a girl before but I know you have and I don’t know...I’ve just been feeling kinda different lately about us. When we have sleepovers and stuff, it’s not the same. I don’t want it to be the same.” Kiara confessed.  

“You like me?” You asked again, searching for any hint that this was some joke.  

Kiara sat up too, mirroring your position, “it just kind of...happened.”  

She inhaled, holding her breath as you placed a hand on the side of her face and leaned in. You pressed your lips against hers, soft and careful, still unsure if she might pull back. When she didn’t you deepened the kiss, tongue slipping out to brush her bottom lip. Kiara shifted closer to you, one of her hands coming to rest at your side, just below the hem of your shirt. When you finally pulled away she was smiling. P

“So, you like me too?” She asked.  

“Yeah, I just thought you weren’t interested in girls otherwise I totally would’ve made a move sooner, seeing as it worked out so well in my favor.” You replied, leaning in and kissing her again.  

“God you are so-“

“Hot? Irresistible?” You questioned.  

“Full of yourself.” She teased, initiating the kiss this time.  

-

John B had organized a bit of a get together at the Chateau for the holiday weekend. Only because you and Pope had both agreed that a barbecue was necessary and John B was the only one with access to a grill. You and Kiara pulled up in her Subaru, the boys already standing around outside, John B trying to figure out how to use the grill.  

Pope was the first to see the two of you, waving before calling out, “you’re all dressed up,” to you. Not really dressed up, dressed up, but you were wearing your better pair of jean shorts and a newer bikini.  

“Not really,” you remarked.

“The lace on those aren’t ripped off.” JJ teased, pointing to the crocheted lace on your shorts.

“Hey JJ,” you held your hand up, flipping him off. John B and Pope whistled and Kiara put her arm around your shoulders.  

“Leave my girlfriend alone JJ.” She said, kissing your cheek and smiling at them.

“What?” John B almost spit his beer out and Pope’s mouth hung slack.  

“Oh man,” JJ laughed, he leaned over, smacking John B’s chest, “dude, I told you she had a thing for Kie.”

“What? But I...what?” John B sputtered.

“Sorry boys,” Kiara announced, “you snooze you lose.”

“Not a prize!” You piped up. Kiara pulled you into a hug that soon evolved into a group hug as JJ and Pope piled on. You looked over, eyes meeting John B’s and waved him into the hug. He nodded, conceding and joining in on the hug. 

-

taglist: @maplelattes22 @poguesrforlife  @freckled-and-daydreaming  @chasefreakinstokes @millie-753 @fangirlwithme @alex12948 @howdyherron @katherine097 @tangledinsparkles @tragicmisfits @carbonated-beverage @mariofgreengables @damonsalvawhore27 @ssprayberrythings @dopedoodes @dolanfivsosxox @belledutchess @poguelifeeee @jjsthumbring @faded-blue @parkerpetertingle @jjmxybank

[izaswritings]

Title: Faults of the Mind

Synopsis:  Having escaped the perils of the Dark Kingdom, Rapunzel finally returns home—but all is not well in the Kingdom of Corona, and the black rocks are quickly becoming the least of her troubles. Meanwhile, over a thousand miles away, Varian struggles with new powers and his own conscience.

The labyrinth has fallen into rubble. A great evil stirs in the world beyond. The Dark Kingdom may be behind them, but the true journey is just beginning—and neither Rapunzel nor Varian can survive it on their own.

Warnings for: cursing, threats of harm, aftermath of trauma, references to past blood and death, and references to past character injuries.

-

AO3 version is here.

Arc I: Labyrinths of the Heart can be found here!

Previous chapters are here.

-

Chapter V: The Answer

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.

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The lovely Moon, however, did not agree.

For three mornings and nights, the Sun lingered at the edges of the sky, hoping desperately to see the woman once again. But Moon was not there, hidden away with the shadows, and each day Sun left the horizon a little dimmer, a little more heartbroken. Still, she did not give up hope. Her heart, forever filled with light, rallied against her despair.

And on the other side of the great sea, concealed in darkness like a cloak, the Moon hid still, not wanting to be found. For the Moon was a secret being, often reclusive, and dancing was as dear to her as her own heart. That she had been seen embarrassed her terribly. That she had been seen dancing by a beautiful stranger, who had looked upon her with such awe…

And though the Moon thought she should simply run away, and hide from this stranger forevermore, something bid her to stay. Maybe it was the honest wish in Sun’s eyes, visible even from a distance. Or the lingering warmth of Sun’s smile, before Moon panicked and ran.

Perhaps it was the memory of her song.

And so the Sun continued her fruitless search, and deep in the shadows, unable to pull away, the Moon too slowly began to fall…

.

.

.

For the first time in months, Varian wakes with the sun.

Light streams through the guest-room window, falling bright and clear across his face. Beyond the frosted glass, the early morning sky blushes pink and new, clear and cold but for a few distant swaths of cloud. Though the wind rattles at the panes, it’s locked up tight, and the room is warm and cozy. When Varian rises to press his hand against the window, it is icy, and his touch leaves a faint imprint behind, the heat of his palm melting through to the frost.

It’s… peaceful.

Varian wonders at that thought, turns it over in his head again and again, examining it at all angles like a shiny new toy. He feels—not great, technically. His eyes are hot and gummy from lack of sleep, and his cheek still aches with a faint bruise, and his body is sore from the market… and yet. There is a stillness to it all. A sort of softness. Not like something has settled, but as if, for a moment, it has hushed.

He’d cried last night. Like a child, Varian thinks, with some secret curl of shame. When Yasmin had returned to the bathroom Varian had been hunched over Ruddiger, almost hiccupping from the sheer amount of tears. It hadn’t been all her fault—hadn’t been sparked entirely from her words, or her questions. Part of the breakdown had simply been from everything. In that moment in the middle of the night, it had all finally struck him, and sunk in.

Yasmin had said nothing upon seeing him. She had pushed him no further. The rest of that midnight makeover had gone almost mind-bogglingly mundane. After the haircut and impromptu lecture on proper nail care, as well as a long-overdue bath, she’d sent him off back to bed without any more comments about Corona or the attacks or anything. And when Varian had returned to the room, tired and reluctant and secretly terrified he’d open the door and see Adira sitting there… he’d entered to find her cot untouched and the room empty.

He’s not sure when he passed out—sometime around three in the morning, maybe—but now he is awake again, facing the day, and there is something lighter in his chest. Maybe it was the exhaustion, or the bath, or the drowsiness that comes from crying all the conflict right out of you, but for once, Varian’s sleep had been completely and utterly dreamless.

He exhales hard, watching his breath fog on the glass. His eyes are still sore from crying, and he rubs at them preemptively, sucking in a deep breath. With the dawn all his fears feel lighter, farther away. His head isn’t as fogged.

Day two, start, he thinks to himself. Gods.

Varian turns back to his cot, and sits to give Ruddiger a good head scratch, and then finally sets about getting dressed. He waits for Ruddiger to find his usual perch on Varian’s shoulders, then snatches up the yet-unfinished nightlight—hollow crystal and unpoured glowing solution—and heads down to the kitchen.

Ella is already there, cooking breakfast, and she looks up with a smile when she sees him. “Just in time,” she says, and goes to hand him a plate full of cooked eggs and fresh-cut ham, still sizzling slightly from the pan. She pauses when she sees the crystal in his hands. “Oh?”

“Um… Yasmin said you had something to seal it…?”

“Ah, the nightlight! Yes, she mentioned it.” Ella holds out her hand. “I can do that right now. Watch the eggs?”

Varian hands it over, biting back any fretting—the nightlight solution is already mixed and glowing, no extra steps necessary, she can pour the damn thing without issues, he’s just being silly—and hesitantly takes the spoon she offers him. Bacon and eggs. Shouldn’t be too difficult, right? Surely he’s gotten better at cooking since two years ago, when Dad banned him from the stove.

Ella returns five minutes later to three burned eggs and extremely crispy bacon, and Varian standing bright red in front of it all.

“So,” Varian says. “Bacon, um, bacon does not cook better with 300 degrees—trying to concentrate the heat was a bad idea—it does, uh, cook faster though, but. Um. Sorry.”

Ella is badly trying to hide a smile behind her hand. “…I’ll salvage it,” she says, muffled laughter in her voice, and hands him the sealed crystal. “Go, go, eat.”

Varian settles down at the table, still red in the face, and distracts himself by turning the finished nightlight over in his hands. Ella has put a lovely silver clasp on top, sealing it shut, with a little loop so he can hook it on a necklace chain or on his belt. The nightlight itself has a soft pale pink shine, warm and comforting, and it radiates quiet warmth in Varian’s hand, the crystal comfortable in the curve of his palm.

Varian eats his breakfast slowly, rolling the crystal absently against the table and keeping one eye on the stairs. He hasn’t seen Adira at all yet, not since yesterday, and he’s not really sure if he can face Yasmin yet, either.

It’s not that he’s avoided thinking about what Yasmin said to him yesterday, Varian tells himself. That question of forgiveness and redemption. It’s just… he doesn’t really want to think about it right now.

(He doesn’t really have an answer.)

Still. For all his watchful wariness, he jumps when he sees Yasmin stomping downstairs, and goes absolutely still when she marches up to him.

“Awake at last, are you,” Yasmin says critically, and eyes him up and down. “Well, I see the night has done you well—and you are clean at last, with a nice haircut to boot, if I do say so myself. Fantastic.” She claps her hands. “Come along. I have one last thing for you, and then I must be off. Chop chop.”

Varian hurries to his feet, ruefully thinking on how this is already becoming a habit. He’s only been here for two days, come on. “Wait, where are you going?”

“The city, obviously—with luck, the authorities should know much more by now, and I hate to miss on information. Now, hurry up!”

He follows her upstairs, wondering, but this time instead of her bedroom Yasmin shoves her way in a smaller side room squeezed in at the end of the hall, thus far unexplored. Varian peaks his head around the doorframe, interested despite himself. It’s a small, cluttered room, devoid of proper furniture, with only the bare frame of a bed stripped of sheets and mattress, and boxes piled up underneath. Yasmin is kneeling by the bed, and as Varian watches she picks out one chest and drags it out with a grunt of effort.

“Must be something useful still in here,” she’s muttering, pawing through the chest. “Hmph, too fancy, too old, too big… ah-ha.”

Varian likes to think himself adaptable, but even he has to take a moment to blink at the… thing Yasmin is holding up to him. “Uh… what is this?”

“New clothes. Obviously.” Yasmin stretches the shirt out, tilting her head critically. “You are nearly exactly the size Devdan used to be at your age. Yes, this will work. I will barely have to tailor these at all.” She tosses the shirt at him; Varian fumbles to catch it. She turns back to the chest. “Hmm, let’s see…”

“I don’t need new clothes,” Varian protests, half-hearted. He looks down at the shirt. It’s soft in his hands, off-white with a high collar and stiff sleeves. It looks… fancy. “And who’s Devdan?”

“I suppose you could call Devdan my nephew. Unofficially speaking. The son of a dear friend of mine. They stayed here, for a time, much as you are doing now.” Yasmin holds up a vest, now, and squints at it in the light. “Does not matter, you are not meeting him, he is in Arendelle with his father and none of your concern.” She eyes Varian up and down, gaze lingering on his threadbare hems, and sighs. “And you most definitely need new clothes. Those do not fit you at all.”

Varian picks at the hem of his shirt, unable to argue with that. His shirt, his pants… even his boots are all either cheap hand-me-downs or whatever he and Adira could find on the road, and none fit him properly, or even really keep him warm. Still. “I want to keep the coat.”

Yasmin gives the coat in question a stink eye. Varian shoves his hands in the pockets, offended on its behalf. “It’s a great coat!” he insists. “Heavy trench coat! Lots of pockets! It looks awesome!” If it were made of stronger stuff it would even be perfect for alchemy, like his old one was, but as it is this coat works just fine. He likes the pockets, the way the sleeves pool over his hands; it’s something he can hide in, and there’s a comfort in that.

“It is practically eating you,” Yasmin says, scornfully.

“I—I’ll grow into it!”

Yasmin’s whole face scrunches up at that, doubtful, but at last she shakes her head. “Fine, whatever, they are your bad fashion choices.” She shakes out the vest she is holding. “But I am getting you at least one nice outfit before you go, boy, so help me gods.”

Varian rolls his eyes.

The morning passes quickly after that. Varian tries on three pairs of boots and finds two that are both sturdier and better fit than his current ones, and Yasmin hands them off immediately, waving off Varian’s protests like smoke in the air. “I am being paid for this,” she snaps, at last, when Varian’s hesitance apparently gets too annoying. “I would have bought you new clothes entirely if not for the damn pirate attack; be grateful I have now been limited to hand-me-downs only. Honestly!”

Another few minutes of hemming and hawing over clothes later, at last she and Varian come to an agreement. Yasmin takes up the new outfit with the promise to have the clothes tailored and ready for wear by the time he leaves, and then pushes him out of the room without fanfare.

“That’s that,” she says, when Varian stares at her blankly. “The last of what I needed to do with you. The rest of the days are yours. Have fun, or whatever you angsty teenagers like doing these days.”

Varian splutters. “Angsty—?”

And all too soon, Yasmin is gone again, out the front door and into the unknown without any set time to return. With nothing more to do and the rest of his stay looming over him, Varian stands at the cusp on the staircase and hesitates for a long while. He’s been left here again, in the house with only Ella and Adira—who he has still not seen—for company.

He thinks he should probably find Adira. He thinks he should probably say something to her. Varian thinks very hard on this. He brings a hand to his bruised cheek—now molted green and pale yellow in the daylight—and in the end he goes to sit outside, back out on the front porch, watching the waving grasses and the wind play around the garden.

It’s not running away, Varian tells himself. He draws his knees up to his chest, inhaling the crisp morning air. It’s not running away if he has nothing to run from. He doesn’t even know where Adira is, right now, so there’s no real way this is running from her. Really.

He buries his head in his hands and groans. Oh, who is he fooling? He… he doesn’t want to see her.

She’s never hit him before.

He’s not entirely sure what to do about it—what to think about it. Nothing about that moment seems quite right to him. He’d panicked and summoned the rocks, all utterly without thinking, and then Adira had… but at the same time, he thinks, she hadn’t seemed angry. He’s pissed her off before; he’s broken down and yelled and been a brat, and the most she has ever done is snap back at him. So this—this wasn’t anger, he thinks. But in a way that is almost worse. Anger Varian can understand. But—fear?

He doesn’t know how to imagine Adira afraid. Something in him recoils at the very idea. Adira can’t be afraid. She can’t be. She’s too—confident, boastful, annoying—she’s too strong. She can’t have been afraid. Because if she was… if she hit him out of fear, of either Varian or the rocks… if Adira was afraid…

From the moment he met her, all those months ago at the edges of the Dark Kingdom, Varian had always thought Adira knew what she was doing. For all that she bothered him, angered him, infuriated him—he could trust in that. Adira would know what to do. She may not tell him what that was, but she still knew it. But now… now he isn’t so sure. Now, with yesterday in mind, everything comes into sudden focus.

What if, Varian thinks. What if Adira is just as lost as he is?

What if she doesn’t have the answers?

That terrifies him most of all. Before, the question was how to get her to give him the answers. Now it is a question of whether there is an answer at all—and he hates that. He hates that. He doesn’t even want to think about it, and at that thought his fingers tighten on his sleeve, and Varian buries his face in his arms.

Adira was right, he realizes, sudden, cold. I really do just run away.

Not just from her. Not even just from Corona. He’s running from everything else, too. The Moon—the rocks. Varian is still trying to run away from it all. The Moon is stronger than him. The rocks are stronger than him. The pirates, definitely. It’s all so much, all so big, and Varian is just one person. Fifteen years old, nearly sixteen, and yet in these past few months he has felt so small.

He doesn’t have that surety, anymore. That old, fanatic confidence in what was right and wrong and what had to be done. He doesn’t even have alchemy, or his gloves. And worst of all—

What will you do if you can’t be forgiven?

(The mirror, bright and silver, and every time he sees a flash of himself in the reflection his eyes turn away. We all have to face the mirror at some point, Yasmin had said, and she is right— but it is easier, still, to look away. To pretend he isn’t there. To pretend that person staring back isn’t him.)

Worst of all, Varian thinks, is that he doesn’t know what he’ll do. If—if he goes back, and apologizes, and is hated anyways. He’d like to be—better. He doesn’t want to be the person he used to be. But can Varian even trust himself anymore? How does he know what the right thing is? He’d thought he’d known before, and look where that had gotten him. He’d hurt people. He’d been… cruel.

And at the time? Varian had wanted to be that person. Varian had liked it.

What is to stop him, he thinks to himself, cold all the way to his bones—what’s going to stop him from becoming that person again?

Maybe this is why he’s running. Maybe this is why Varian can’t face Corona, or the rocks, or the Moon. Maybe it’s because he knows, deep down, that this dream of redemption is probably never going to last.

Maybe. Maybe. The very idea makes his throat go tight, his eyes burn. Varian presses his hands against his eyes, breathing deep. Ah, stupid. So stupid. This is what happens when he thinks about stuff—this is what happens when he stops running from his thoughts. Stupid, stupid, stupid…

“Something wrong, Moony?”

The thought ends, his mind abruptly blank. Varian flinches, going stiff, and snaps his head back to stare. His breath catches. Adira. She’s standing in the front door, leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, looking down at him. Her head tilted in question. He—he hadn’t even heard her come up—but he’s been so out of it lately, that’s probably no surprise.

It doesn’t matter. She’s here. She’s… here. She’s here, and she’s waiting for an answer.

His mouth goes dry. His cheek throbs with a fresh ache of pain, and Varian fumbles for his words, struggling to wrench his mind back to conscious thought. “U-um, I…”

Nothing. The words die off.

Varian presses his lips in a thin line, and looks away, staring hard at the ground. The silence stretches.

Adira sighs, so soft he almost misses it. Her feet thunk heavy on the porch steps; she sits down beside him, gingerly, and Varian would flinch, except—she’s not next to him. Not really. She sits a few feet away, and the distance makes it easier.

Varian peeks out at her from the corner of his eye, trying not to move his head. He thinks he should probably say something, but his mind is abruptly free of thoughts, and anything he can think to say… isn’t very kind.

Adira isn’t looking at him either. She sits with her elbows propped on her knees, staring grim at the horizon line, her gaze distant and seemingly lost in thought. Blue breaks bright across the morning sky; sunrise is almost blinding. Even now Varian’s every breath mists like he’s breathing fire and smoke, but the sun shines so bright that he can feel the touch of warmth, beating through even the chill.

She doesn’t speak. The silence settles. Varian watches Adira and Adira watches the horizon, and slowly but surely, Varian relaxes. He rubs his shirt hem between his fingers and then settles Ruddiger more firmly on his lap, hugging the raccoon to his chest, and finally looks away, not quite willing to turn his back to her but feeling at ease enough to turn his gaze.

“Well?”

Varian jumps. His head snaps around to stare. His shoulders hunch. “What?”

Adira snorts. “I wasn’t just asking to start the conversation, Moony. You seem like you’re…” She eyes him, up and down, and shakes her head. “Spiraling,” she decides.

“I was thinking.”

“Hm. Well, don’t do that, then.”

“Don’t think?” He wants to be scandalized; bizarrely, instead, he has to bite back a laugh. It’s just so ridiculous—even when trying to fall asleep, Varian’s mind has always run at a million miles per hour.

“Don’t mope on whatever is making you look like someone stabbed your cat,” Adira corrects.

“I don’t own a cat.”

“Gods.”

“No, but I don’t—”

“Varian.”

He shuts up, turning away. He has to bite back a tiny smile.

“And now you’re feeling well enough to mess with me,” Adira mutters, but she sounds more bemused than truly annoyed.

“I don’t feel well at all, actually.” His voice is light, airy. Varian ruffles his fingers through Ruddiger’s fur. “I couldn’t sleep. I cried all last night.” He scrunches Ruddiger’s face between his hands, scratching under the racoon’s chin. “And my face really, really hurts.”

Silence.

There is a long pause. Adira shifts. “Ah. I deserved that, I suppose.”

“Mm-hm.”

“… I didn’t come out here just to bother you.” Varian squints at her. Adira raises a judgmental eyebrow back. “No, I didn’t. Honestly.” She shakes her head, the words trailing off, and there is another long, awkward pause before she finally speaks again.

“I came out here to apologize.”

Varian goes motionless, caught off-guard. He eyes her, sideways, and his lips press thin. This is uncharted territory, and he isn’t sure if he likes it. “…What?”

Adira’s eyes drift away, fixing back on the horizon. She shrugs. “You heard me,” she returns, mild. She leans back, stretching out her legs, her elbows propped up against the porch steps. Her expression is resigned. “But I’ll say it again, if you need to hear it twice.”

Varian watches her. Adira sighs, then turns and looks him square in the eye. “I’m sorry, Varian,” she says. Her voice is strong, each word intent. “For yesterday. I shouldn’t have hit you.”

Varian looks away first, unsettled. He’s not sure what to think of this—not sure what to make of the ease of it all. She says it so plainly. Like it’s easy. It makes something small and petty deep inside him go tight with a weird kind of envy.

But all he says is: “You hit me all the time in training.”

“That’s different,” Adira says, simply. “And you know that.”

It is, and he does, but he’d still wanted to hear her say it. Varian draws up his knees, resting his chin against his legs. His cheek aches. He feels suddenly very tired. “It doesn’t matter,” he says, almost mumbling the words. He stares out at the rising dawn. “Not really.”

Adira’s voice is firm. “It matters.”

“I was summoning the rocks. If you hadn’t—”

“There were better ways to handle that.” This time, it is Adira who falters. For a moment she almost seems to stumble, fumbling for the words, and the sight is so bizarre—so unlike her—that Varian can’t help but stare. Adira looks away. “I—I will admit that I… panicked. Forgot myself. Whatever.” Her voice hardens, frustration turned inward. “It’s no excuse. It should never have happened, but it did, and I’m sorry.”

Varian turns back to Ruddiger, curling fingers into soft fur. Ruddiger noses at his palm. “I thought you were too great to make mistakes,” he says, only slightly sarcastic, and he can hear Adira roll her eyes.

“Moony, half the reason I’m so great is that on the very rare occasions I make a mistake, I own up to it. The other half is that, yes, I rarely make mistakes.” She clears her throat. “And… that was one. So.”

“Uh-huh.” Typical Adira. But still— the note of her usual confidence makes him relax. Thank gods. She hasn’t gone completely weird, then.

But then… that does, in hindsight, make her apology uncomfortably genuine. Varian rubs at his hands, feeling something like cold, and tries to forget the look on Adira’s face when she’d hit him. The way she’d looked right through him. “…What does that mean, anyway? Forgot yourself?”

Adira says nothing for a long moment. Varian kicks at the dirt, his chest tight. Typical, he thinks, but this time the thought has no fondness.

“…It’s a long story,” Adira says, at last. She sounds tired. Varian’s head snaps up. “And not a happy one.”

“I don’t really care.” He watches her, intent. “I, I want—” He bites his lip, mentally backtracking. “If you’re really sorry… then tell me. I want to know why.”

“Still manipulative, I see,” Adira says, dryly, and she seems almost resigned. “But… fair enough.” She tilts back her head, watching the sky, and takes a deep breath.

“I have—experience. With the black rocks. What they are… and what they can do, when out of control.” She sighs, heavy, for once sounding almost weary. “You remember the labyrinth? The Dark Kingdom?”

He has never forgotten it. Not even when he really wants to. “…Yes.”

Adira nods. She links her hands. “I grew up there,” she says, simply. “I lived there. I swore to protect it with my life.” She tilts back her head. “And then I watched it fall.”

She waits. Varian says nothing. Adira shrugs, and looks back to the skyline. “As I said. I… panicked. For all of my many, many talents… I am… not good at this.” Her mouth twists like she’s bitten into a lemon. “But again. That’s no excuse.”

Varian pulls up his knees, wrapping his arms around them. Ruddiger scampers up his back, settling warm on his shoulders, but for once the comfort is muted. Varian links his fingers to keep from rubbing at his torn ear, and sighs into his arms. The anger has faded in him, turned ashy and dull, drifting away like smoke. She told him. He asked, and she gave him an answer. He rests his head in his arms.

“It doesn’t really hurt,” Varian announces, at last, to his elbows.

“Hm.”

“Seeing the rocks hurt more.”

“…Varian—”

“But it did hurt, a little,” Varian says, and finally lifts his head. “So. Thanks. For the apology, I guess.”

“…Of course.” Adira shifts, looking uncomfortable. “I… I meant it.”

Yeah. He thinks she really did. Varian nods, and Adira looks away, and this time when the silence returns, it feels a little lighter than before.

Varian stares out into the fields, watching distantly as the grasses bend and break to the breeze. The sunlight is starting to warm the crown of his head, near-uncomfortable. He feels—calmer, now. Like a peace has fallen over his thoughts, a tension unraveled from his shoulders. He looks back to the horizon, the burning blue sky, and wonders which way Corona is from here.

“Are you…” He trails off, hesitating, then tries again. “After you leave here, are you—going to Corona?”

Adira stills. “…Yes.”

Varian ducks his head in a nod, studying his fingers. He remembers the mirror, from yesterday. He remembers staring into his own face, and crying, not even really sure why. He remembers Adira smacking his chest with the staff, pushing him back, her voice like a snap.

This is your problem! You run away!

Is he running away? Maybe. Probably. Yes. But is he right to?

If the pirates really will attack Corona… then shouldn’t Varian be running to Corona? Shouldn’t he want to help?

…He doesn’t know.

And more than that. More than anything else.

Does Varian want to go back?

(He thinks about it. He thinks about all of it. The people of Old Corona, who walked away and left him alone; the King, who lied, who was responsible for the rocks in the first place. He thinks about Cassandra, who gave him a chance and hated him when it all went wrong; thinks about Eugene, smile gone, anger in his voice. Find someone else to lie to you! He thinks about Rapunzel—Rapunzel, who turned him away in the snow; Rapunzel who—who stood tall, and strong, and unwavering between him and death.

Cassandra, who gave him a chance— who wanted things to get better. Eugene, who sat Varian down and told him the truth long before Varian ever wanted to admit it. And he thinks about Rapunzel, who cried in that cave and for a moment must have hated him as much as he hated her, who still held him when he broke down and who offered him her hand in that awful, lonely tower.

Will you come with me?

He thinks about it.)

Varian closes his eyes. He swallows. I’ll go with you, he thinks. How easy those words should be. How simple it should be to say them. And yet.

And yet.

The wind howls. The grasses bend. Adira sighs and stands, and her hand comes down on his shoulder, squeezes not gentle but firm, strangely comforting even so. His cheek burns. He doesn’t flinch.

“You still have time to think on it,” Adira says, quietly. “If not Corona, then Port Caul… or anywhere you’d want to go. Yasmin won’t let you stay here, but she’ll make sure you’re settled, wherever you choose to go. There are other options. Corona isn’t the only road to take.”

Adira pauses. Her hand tightens. “But Moony?”

He doesn’t move.

“Sooner or later, you really are going to have to choose.”

His head lowers. Varian doesn’t answer. And Adira’s voice drops, bitter with something he cannot name, something almost like regret. “You can’t outrun anything forever.”

He wonders what she ran from. He wonders when it caught her.

He doesn’t ask.

Adira walks back inside without another word, and Varian stays there—sitting on the porch, knees to his chest, watching the sun rise and the horizon burn, thinking of home.

.

As rain sleets the darkened streets, Cassandra shivers in the cold and draws her coat closer.

Corona at midnight is a picture of silent beauty, even in the midst of a storm—lit by a soft lantern glow and utterly silent but for the distant whisper of the waves and the wail of the wind through the spiraling streets. But Cassandra is in no mood to appreciate the sights—the sky above is dark and clouded, pouring rain, and the winds are sharp with a lingering winter bite. The mist makes her hair frizz, and even in her warmest coat, she can’t quite defeat the chill starting to nip at her fingers. She smacks her hands together and grits her teeth, and gives her companion an icy glare.

“So,” she says, “mind explaining to me why exactly you called me out here at the coldest goddamn time of the day?”

“Personally, I thought you were immune to the cold…” Leaning against a darkened storefront, Eugene gives her a smile that is almost a smirk, humor bright in his face. “Ice queen! Don’t tell me! Could it be your cold heart is thawing?”

She glares at him, because it is raining and she’s cold and he’s the one who called her out here in the first place, with a rambling letter full of nothing. He’d underlined must tell in person three times, and then written TOP SECRET in the largest letters possible, and for all that Cassandra had rolled her eyes she’s here anyway—and now what, he’s mocking her?

She puts a hand to her sword, and lifts a brow. “I will cut you.”

“Hm. Guess not, then.”

“Eugene.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He straightens up, yawning into his arm. “Don’t get all in a twist; this isn’t fun for me, either. Gods, if only spring could come faster…” He trails off with a sigh. “Look, I’m sorry about all this, but this kind of information—” He shakes his head. “I couldn’t trust it to a letter.”

Cassandra stiffens, clenching her teeth at a sudden flare of heat in her gut. “You—found something?” Bitterness is a sharp bite on her tongue, weighing in her chest. Her thoughts twist and turn. Already. He’s already found something. It’s not just Rapunzel. All of them—in this twisted game they’ve found themselves in, Rapunzel and Eugene are stumbling upon all the answers, while Cassandra…

Her fists clench. Useless. She swallows it back. “What did you find?”

“Well.” Eugene runs a hand down his face. “Lance and I… we got a lead sooner than I thought.” He pauses. Exhales a shuddering, shaky breath. “It’s, um… not good.”

Cassandra watches him. Waits. The rains drums behind them, swept into a downpour by the wind. It pounds at the ground like a hail of arrows.

“You know what Blondie told us about? The people trying to back Corona in a deal?” Eugene meets her eyes. “Well. Have you ever heard of the Baron?”

Cassandra stares at him. The Baron. The biggest crime lord on the continent, with enough power and prestige to have a known name and a whip-tight false legal business. Everyone knows he works shady, but no one can prove it, and it’s made him one of the most dangerous enemies of Corona for that reason: enough power and cruelty to do whatever he likes, and clever enough to escape the law as he does it.

The Baron. Blackmailing Corona. Oh, god. “Please tell me you’re joking.”

“Unfortunately, no.” Eugene holds out a slip of torn paper, and Cassandra takes it, eyes scanning over the words. “This was written by his daughter, Stalyan. And if she’s a part of this, then he is most definitely involved.”

“…This just says Vardaros. How do you—”

“I’m… familiar with her handwriting.” Cassandra stills. “And Lance found a dagger with his crest in a drawer. We’re sure. Like, 99.99 percent sure, but if you doubt the .01 percent—”

“Why are you familiar with her handwriting?” Cassandra straightens. “Wait, how do you even know his crest? If we could identify his shipments from the get-go, the guards would have…”

Eugene winces. “…Oh.”

“Eugene—”

“Well, okay, first off, his crest is a golden spider against a red background, so jot that down. And, uh, I… Lance and I, I should say, we have… experience with—the Baron. Past experience.”

She narrows her eyes.

“Fine fine fine, I was set to marry his daughter, okay!?”

Um. What? “Stalyan?”

“Yes! But I freaked, I left her at the altar, and man oh man, I do not regret it, that family is… anyway, that doesn’t matter. Just, trust me when I say they are definitely involved, okay?”

Usually, such a story would make Cassandra roll her eyes, pinch the bridge of her nose and groan. Of course Eugene was set to marry the Baron’s daughter; of course she is involved in this whole tangled mess of political calamity. Why not? But something about the whole situation grates on her.

Barely two weeks out of the castle, and he’s already—!

The whispers are growing. She feels cold. The distant light of the streetlamps almost seems to flicker, and the rain hums like a song, a mutter of helpless disappointment.

Why does everything go easy for him?

Something in her snaps. “Why didn’t you bring this up sooner?” Cassandra snarls, and steps in close, one hand reaching out to fist in his shirt. She drags him forward. She just barely remembers to keep her voice low, hidden by the downpour. “Why didn’t you say—”

“Excuse me?” Eugene looks startled. He puts a hand over her wrist, his grip tight, trying to pry her off. “What are you— gods, Cass, it wasn’t important!”

Her hands seize up. “Of course it was—!”

“No, it wasn’t!” Eugene looks thrown, caught somewhere between hurt and anger. His hand tightens on her wrist; he twists her off, but doesn’t follow through with the move, prying her hand away from his collar and then holding it up, almost in warning. “It was a long time ago. And it was my business. My past. Stalyan was important in my life, sure, but that was both five years ago and also now not my life. I wanted to move on. So yeah! I didn’t mention it!”

He hesitates, then lets go, stepping back out of range. Cassandra watches him, eyes narrow. Eugene crosses his arms. “Look,” he says, a little quieter. “I get it, okay? I’m sorry for not bringing it up sooner. But it wasn’t important then. It is now, and I realize that, and I’m telling you. Get off my case.”

“I—”

“Seriously, what’s with you today?” He shakes his head, looking her up and down, something like concern furrowing his brow. “Are you… doing okay?”

“Excuse me!?”

“Well, you don’t usually bite my head off at the drop of a hat,” Eugene says, almost wry. He frowns. “And you look… uh. Hey, no, seriously, is everything okay?”

Cassandra’s hands curl, but something in his words strikes home. He seems genuinely concerned, and she turns her face away, shame a sudden spark in her gut. What is she doing? He’s—he’s right. She’s being unfair. He seems as out-of-breath and soaked as she is freezing, which means he must have rushed here as soon as he got the news. Without a coat, even.

He’s right. But that still doesn’t stop the sudden lock in her throat, or the sharp twist of jealousy in her chest, bitter as poison. How can it be that in all this time, she’s found nothing, whereas he and Rapunzel so intimately and effortlessly stumble across the answers? How can she possibly hope to protect them—to stand against the next labyrinth—if she can’t even help them with this?

It’s like they are leaving her behind, like being left in the dark, and the whisper rises again, beating in the back of her mind like a mantra. It’s not fair. It’s not fair.

But that’s no excuse. It’s not Eugene’s fault that Cassandra is useless—she shouldn’t have taken it out on him. He of all people… he’d stood outside that labyrinth too. He’d understand.

“Cass…?”

Her jaw clenches. She turns her face away. Yes, she thinks. Eugene of all people would understand. She could tell him. She thinks, after all this time, all they’ve been through—he might even listen.

But her throat locks up. The whisper curls. He was useless then, but he isn’t now, is he? He’ll just pity you.

And—and just like that, she can’t say it.

“No,” Cassandra says. She shakes her head, taking a deep breath, and meets his eyes again. “No. I’m fine. And—I’m sorry. That was out of line.”

Eugene looks hesitant. “Look, if you need to talk…”

“I’m fine.” She takes another breath. “Just… just tired. Night shifts are hell on earth. And lately, the dungeons have been… bothersome. Everyone’s been fighting, and it’s just… ugh.” It’s not even entirely a lie. Just last week, two prisoners had almost murdered one another for near no reason at all. Strangest of all was that they were usually pretty friendly with one another. Prisons are typically high-temper places, but lately… Cassandra doesn’t know. It’s just exhausting, whatever it is.

“Well, that’s no surprise.” But the joke seems weak, almost lackluster. He’s still watching her. Damn it, he’s not letting this go.

Cassandra fishes for a distraction—and finds it. “Hey,” she says. “This Stalyan thing. Have you told Raps yet?”

Bingo. Eugene looks away. Cassandra crosses her arms. “Eugene.”

“I was hoping you could,” he says, weakly, giving her a hopeful sort of smile. It’s the same smile he uses to con people. Cassandra lifts a brow, unimpressed. “There’s still some stuff I need to check out. Weird jobs floating around, an island to stake out… I can’t come back just yet. But soon.”

Cassandra sighs, suddenly tired. “You should tell her.”

“Cass—”

“Look, I know it’s really the least of our issues, but Raps… really cares about you.” Cassandra looks away, the words heavy. “If you and Stalyan have this complicated past, then she’d like to hear about this from you. Personally. Especially on the off chance we actually meet this lady.”

Eugene slumps. “I know,” he says, sounding tired. “But I’m not sure, if I go to the castle, if I’ll… be able to walk out as easily as I did the first time. Or worse, on the other hand— if I get banned for good…”

Cassandra looks away. She can’t argue with that. Who knows what the King is doing? Rapunzel is holding her silence, and they’re both getting caught in the middle of it. The chains chafe. “That said. I’m not exactly in a good position to talk to her, either.” She isn’t really sure if she wants to, right now, but she keeps quiet on that. It’s not—she doesn’t blame Rapunzel. She doesn’t. She’s just… she just needs some space. From both of them, apparently, given how this conversation is going.

Cassandra comes to a decision. “Write a letter, then. That’s a bit easier, isn’t it? And in that way, it’d still be from you.” She meets his eyes. “She needs to hear this from you, Eugene.”

Eugene looks away first, shuffling on his feet. He pushes a hand back through his hair, still dripping from rainwater. His smile is rueful. “Going for the throat with that guilt-trip, huh.”

“If it works, it works.” Cassandra smirks, for a moment truly holding back laughter. “You should have expected this, anyway. I always go for the throat.”

“Oooh, guard joke.” Eugene rolls his eyes, then sighs again, leaning back against the wall. “I hope we don’t meet Stalyan. Really, I do. She isn’t exactly known for… reasonable action. Or moral rules.” His head drops. He looks tired. “But… you’re right. I should tell her. Uh. Wait a minute for me to write it?”

“It’s not like I have anywhere better to be,” Cassandra says, and she rolls her eyes as she says it, even as the words make something pit in her gut.

Eugene just grins. “Hah, good point. Okay.” He hesitates—and then, awkwardly but sincerely, claps a hand on her shoulder. “But… I mean it. Thanks, Cass. And if you need anything…”

“I know.” Cassandra manages a smile, almost fond. “I got it.”

It’s a happy moment—something warm despite the midnight hour, something bright despite the pouring rain. A moment with a friend. She should be happy. She should enjoy this. She should take comfort in the fact that for all she isn’t contributing, she’s as much a part of this team as before.

And yet. And still.

Her throat is tight. Her eyes fall to the ground. Useless, the wind seems to whisper. The rain drums on in the back of her mind. Always useless. Do you really think you can protect them like this?

Can you protect them at all?

And by her side, unnoticed, her hands curl into fists.

.

Despite Varian’s disdain for it, he has heard tales of magic all his life.

Before alchemy, before logic, before the wonders of science convinced him magic was misconception and the truth lay only in the beakers, Varian was a young child enchanted. Every night, once the sun went down, his dad used to sit him down on the house steps and talk, quietly, of fairytales. Of magic and heroes and long-ago adventures, of daring and clever trickery. But the stories his father had loved most of all, the tales his father told quiet and hushed like a secret—were the stories of radiant Sun and her devoted, lovely Moon.

The tales had never really appealed to Varian, even then. The romance bored him, the magic made him frown, and the happy ending made him sigh. Where was the excitement? The swords? The great battles? But at this his father’s face would crease, would pull into a frown and a faraway gaze, and Varian soon stopped asking.

Of course, he knows better now. Most of Corona—most of the continent—knows not the tale of romance but a tale of mortal enemies, Sun and Moon fighting to the death over the fate of humanity, enemies from the very start. Why Varian’s dad knew and told a different story is a question that, even now, Varian has more guesses than actual answers for—but it doesn’t really matter. That’s not the point.

Days after his talk with Adira, with the sun just set and Varian alone back in the guest-room, he paces back and forth across the cluttered floor and thinks. He is alone in the room but for Ruddiger, whose little head follows Varian back and forth across the floor; Adira is downstairs with Yasmin and Ella, discussing Port Caul. It’s a conversation he’s not keen on hearing about, and so he is here—thinking. Weighing his options.

Varian thinks about Corona, about Rapunzel; he thinks about the labyrinth and the ruins of the kingdom buried beneath it, the symbol on the wall and on his father’s hidden helmet; his dad, dead in the amber. And he thinks about stories. He pivots before he hits the wall, ponytail swinging by his face, and thinks about magic, about legends, and how much Dad’s midnight tales could get wrong.

Magic, he thinks. Magic. He’s never liked it. Can, unfortunately, no longer deny it. It’s the lingering warmth in his chest from his Sundrop reversed almost-death, the icy cold pain in his hand from taking the Moondrop opal. It’s here, it’s part of him now—and it is, also, the rocks.

The rocks, which are now Varian’s. The rocks, which he can’t control.

He grits his teeth, thinking hard, pivoting again before he hits the wall. His fingers itch for chalk—he wants to write—but also, he’s pretty sure Yasmin would murder him in his sleep if he wrote on her walls, so that’s a no-go. Unfortunately.

In contrast to the last few days’ unending trauma conga line, the last few days in Yasmin’s home have been almost dull. After his talk with Adira, that morning of the second day, nothing more of note happens. To make matters worse, this also happens to be the last night. Tomorrow, Adira leaves for Corona. This is it—his last chance. There is nothing more to do. Nothing he can do. Except think, and pace, and wonder.

He has to make a choice.

Varian isn’t sure what choice that is, yet; where he’s going to end up is one, and Corona is most definitely the other, but somehow that doesn’t feel like enough. It’s more than Corona, somehow, and that’s where the problem lies—it’s a choice about the rocks, and Moon, and Adira, and redemption. It’s a choice about mirrors. It’s a question of where he’s going to go next, and all the alchemy in the world can’t help Varian here, as much as he hates to admit it.

It’s a choice about magic.

Because Varian knows: the rocks aren’t going away. He knows this better than anyone. He tried to run; they got him anyway. And if the disaster in Port Caul and the mishap in the gardens was any clue, then the rocks are here to stay.

He squeezes his eyes shut at the reminder, and mid-pivot his hand seizes with a sharp stab of icy pain. Varian stops, winces, and grips his wrist. The Moondrop power, again. It’s always ached more in the nighttime hours, but these last two nights it’s been near-unbearable.

He exhales a harsh breath, looking down at his hand, stretching out pale fingers. There’s nothing there. No mark to prove he ever took the Moondrop in his hand. Except for the missing half of his ear, there is very little to prove he even went on that journey with Rapunzel and the others; of his trial in the labyrinth, there’s nothing at all. Some days, bizarrely, he wonders if maybe he dreamed the whole nightmarish scenario up, those endless days of torture nothing more than a fever dream.

He almost wishes it was a dream. But he knows better.

And he’s been running from that too, Varian realizes then, with a sudden flash of exhaustion. The labyrinth. That awful, nightmare place. The place where he broke. The place where…

(Rapunzel’s offered hand, bandaged and bloody. Her pale smile. The distant glow behind her eyes, and her quiet plea. Will you come with me?

And this, too. Varian, who rose to his feet and took her hand.)

He closes his eyes, breathing deep, and turns away to sit on the cot. His hands are shaking, now—both of them. Not from power, or the cold. Just from the memory. Ruddiger curls up by his side, crooning comfort, but Varian can hardly feel it.

A glint of light catches his eyes, sudden illumination. He lifts his head. There’s a break in the night-time cloud cover, and with the passing of shadow the moon seems brighter than ever. Varian looks at it for a long time, hands lowering in sudden thought.

If he needs to start somewhere… why not start with the source? The cause of his fears, of this panic. The rocks, at the root of everything. The rocks—which he has no control over. And he needs control, Varian realizes suddenly. He needs control, or the next time things go wrong because of the rocks, it really will be entirely his fault.

And more than that—he is afraid to sleep. Not just because of nightmares, now, but because of the Moon herself… and he hates that. Fearing his own dreams was fine, but being afraid of someone else’s? No. He’s sick of her games, her twisted dreams; he’ll stick to his nightmares, thanks. But… he has to sleep sometime. He has to dream sometime. If he’s going to have to face her eventually, then why not on his terms? His way?

The thought is… really, really tempting.

Still—for a moment, Varian is utterly frozen. His next exhale is shaky and thin. Oh, gods. Oh no. He isn’t really thinking of doing it, is he?

He lifts his head. His eyes catch on the window—on his reflection. Wide eyes. Pale face. Clenched fists.

…Oh, gods, he’s really thinking of doing it.

No, no, no. Varian takes a deep breath. He’s not going to panic. He’s not. Adira is right. So is Yasmin. He can't run away anymore. If nothing else, he thinks, remembering the rocks, Old Corona, his dad— he has to try.

His fingers clench, tight fists, and he uncurls them slowly, watching the crescent imprints of his nails fade away. He looks back at his reflection. He takes a breath. Then another. Something burns in his chest—the echo of Sundrop fire, searing away the cold touch of death.

“Moon.”

One heartbeat. Two. His hand stings. His eyes, in the reflection, are a blue so bright it seems almost unnatural.

“Are you there?”

The inside of the house is warm. The candlelight soft and golden. But for a moment his hand aches with an icy chill, and something like a shiver crawls down his spine. The air is weighted. All at once, it is so much harder to breathe.

How interesting.

In the window, his reflection wavers. Tired blue eyes and a grim expression, replaced now by a cruel grin.

Calling upon me so soon, little boy?

Fear seals Varian silent. He has to fight to think. His chest feels numbed, disconnected. He can’t believe she really… she really came. She’s here. He’s forgotten how she felt— her presence like a physical weight; power so strong and malevolent it seems to twist the very air.

He forces the words through numb lips. “I…” He clears his throat. His terms. This is on his terms. He called, and she answered. The thought steadies him. “I—I have some questions.”

Moon barely blinks, but her thoughtful hum distorts the air like static. So demanding. I never promised you answers.

The whispering taunt strikes at something deep within, lost beneath the fear. Varian’s lips curl back, and his hands grip tight at the cot covers. “Tough,” he snaps, before he can think better of it. “I’m going to ask anyway.”

The reflection shimmers. He gets the impression, suddenly, of a person right behind him—the grin bearing down at the back of his head. An icy hand grips his shoulder, fingers curling like claws into his collarbone. White hair, glowing soft as starlight, drifts by his head. This time, Moon’s voice rings clear and cold in his ears. Such rudeness. Such anger. Have you no thanks for your savior?

“Savior?” She is so close it is abruptly hard to breathe, and the walls feel closed in all at once, the labyrinth re-created. Even the window cannot banish the sense of darkness, closing in. Still—his hands clench. The outrage grounds him. “You ruined my life!”

Oh no, child. I’m afraid you did that all on your own. I just came in the aftermath. She circles him, ghostly afterimages fizzing in her wake, like a skip in time. The labyrinth was months ago for you, honestly. Don’t tell me you’re still upset?

Varian grits his teeth. His hand fists in his shirt. He forgets, in this moment, to be afraid.

“You—” he splutters, cold with fury. “Of course I’m upset! You tried to kill me—you practically did kill me! You hurt Rapunzel! You trapped us! You impaled me! And, and everything else—”

Aren’t you over it by now?

He snarls at her. “Are you?”

For the first time, her smile wavers. The Moon’s eyes narrow, and her lips thin, and she turns her head away.

Varian watches her, breathing shaky, and leans back, deliberately putting space between them. He breathes in, a longer inhale. He—he needs to calm down. It’s a bad idea to snap at an immortal goddess, no matter how awful she is. Probably a worse idea to sass her.

But still. The Moon gets to him. Everything she does—everything she is—the labyrinth, the rocks, Port Caul—!

No. No, Varian has to stay calm. He has to try. She’s here, as terrible as this is, and he can’t miss this chance for answers—for the truth. So long as it gets him what he needs, he can sit through almost anything.

When he opens his eyes again, the Moon is looking back at him. In the mix of shadows and moonlight she seems almost ethereal; her eyes glow like spotlights, her hair drifting as though underwater, coiling across her shoulders. Her smile, as ever, is fixed perfectly in place, but… there’s something grim in the expression, now. Something bared, and furious, and seething.

If you called me here just to whine to me, I feel it is important to express a warning. She leans in, and her smile widens; in the glint of moonlight he can see the serrated edges of her needle-like teeth. If you invoke my name in vain again, trial or not, you will not escape the experience in one piece. Her form wavers, beginning to fade. Learn some respect, child, or I will teach it to you.

Varian freezes. Her form is turning ghostly. Through her, in the window-reflection, he can see his eyes flicker back to blue.

“No, I—w-wait!”

Pressure bears down on him. Do not dare to—!

He wheezes, the air abruptly thin. “I didn’t—invoke—in vain or whatever, I—I just wanted to talk!”

A pause. The pressure eases, slightly.

…Talk.

“Y-yes.”

Are you fucking with me, boy?

“A-am I—?” His voice squeaks. Despite everything, he almost laughs. Somehow, he never imagined an immortal goddess knowing modern cuss words. “N-no, no, no. I—I’m not.” His hand seizes in pain; he winces and grips at it. “I really did… just want to talk.”

You have a very funny way of showing it.

He bows his head. He should let it go, he shouldn’t rise to her taunts, but—

But he doesn’t want to let it go.

“You locked me in a labyrinth with someone I—hated. At the time.” His voice is quiet. “You hunted me down, you, you almost killed me—did kill me… and the black rocks, your rocks, they… from the moment they entered my life, it’s all been one big downward spiral.”

Varian curls his fists in the covers. “So yeah. I won’t lie. I… I really, really hate you.”

Cold pricks at the back of his neck. He closes his eyes, willing himself not to flinch. He thinks of Adira, standing tall, staff pointed down—the first training lesson she ever gave him. It’s fine if you hate it, Moony, she’d said then. But that doesn’t mean you can’t learn from it.

And Yasmin, in the market, when he lashed out at her charity: I do not have to like you to do you a kindness.

He is not here to do Moon a kindness. He doesn’t want to help her. But Varian knows enough now to know that this power—the black rocks—aren’t going away. And Varian doesn’t know magic. He doesn’t know anything.

He doesn’t have to like the Moon, he thinks, to learn from her.

“But I don’t think you like me, either,” he continues, and lifts his head, offering a thin smile. Moon’s eyes narrow. “Just a guess. And that’s fine. Whatever your reason.” He meets her eyes, tired blue to unwavering white. “I just… figured if I couldn’t run, I may as well as try and ask you all my questions head-on.”

She doesn’t look convinced, still, her eyebrow lifted in an expression of great contempt, and Varian starts to panic. He lifts his chin, forcing confidence to hide his shaking hands, his mind casting back. The dreams, the dreams—gods, what had she said back then? He can hardly remember. Something about a game?

He chances it. “And you have to admit,” he says, chin up and eyes rolling, trying to force the old arrogance that once came easy to him, “whatever your plans, it’ll probably be way more fun if I actually know what you want me to do, right?”

Silence. The Moon’s eyes narrow further. Her smile is gone.

Varian refuses to look away. His mouth is dry. His throat is tight with the tension, the threat. He meets her gaze and holds it, and his palms are slick with sweat.

A long pause. And then, at last, the Moon shifts.

You are right that I do not like you. The flicker of a crescent smile. If I had my way, your corpse would be buried with my labyrinth… but the Sundrop challenged me to watch. To learn. To… see what I might have missed. I do think she’s delusional, and I cannot wait to be proven right, but… here I am.

For a moment Varian doesn’t understand what the hell she’s talking about—and then clarity strikes. Rapunzel’s comment to Moon in that other world, he realizes. Her declaration that there was no use in telling Moon why she’d saved Varian because the god would not understand. Had Moon—had Moon taken that comment as a challenge?

The idea is laughable. And yet—here she is. Here they are.

Moon reclines in the air, her attention distant, unfocused. And your boldness is amusing, I suppose. And your ignorance in these past few days has… already vexed me.

Her mouth works, as if feeling out the words. Her smile returns, pale, a bare of teeth. Oh, why not? Fine. Ask your questions. I cannot promise you answers… but I will at least hear you out.

Varian almost falls off the cot. He gapes at her. “Really? Are you serious?”

Ah, and now I find my patience waning…

He feels almost scandalized. “Is that a joke—”

Tick tock, child. The brief humor drops from Moon’s voice. Speak your mind or shut your mouth.

“I…” Varian trails off, taken off-guard. He swallows hard. He has so many questions, he has no idea where to even begin. What he wants to know most of all is about the rocks, but… best to start small, he thinks. “Why… why did you warn me about the pirates?”

Hmph. Isn’t it obvious?

“Um… no?”

Moon blinks. …Humans. So limited in their view of the world. She considers him, and tilts her head, gaze distant and thoughtful. Let us just say… in that human city, I sensed a danger too great for you to handle, and hoped to ward you off before I’d have to step in. She sighs then, heavily. As you can see, that worked out spectacularly.

“You… why?”

You think I like the idea of advising an annoying human whelp? The longer you stayed away from danger, the longer I could ignore you. I’d hoped to avoid this part for a while yet. But of course you didn’t listen. And now, here we are. Stuck with one another.

“That’s not my…!” No. No. Stay calm, Varian. He has to stay calm. “…Never mind.” He takes a breath, swallowing down the anger, and changes tracks. “But I don’t get it. Why the pirates? How did you even know they were there, or—or going to attack? It doesn’t make any—”

I could be in the middle of a burning desert at midday on the damn Summer Solstice, and I would still know the touch of that… foul magic. Her lip curls on the words. Her eyes slit, bright with hatred. Of course I sensed them.

“Magic?” Varian shakes his head. “What magic? They were—they were just pirates! Just human!”

Human? Certainly. But you are a fool if you think that it was all it was. Or do earthquakes usually strike a city right when a raid is underway? Such timing cannot possibly be coincidental. The Moon laughs. Dear, stupid child. You should have seen this coming. Why on earth do you think my labyrinth existed in the first place?

“I—” Varian blinks. Frowns. To test Rapunzel, to get what the Moon wanted, to prove Moon right about… something? About humanity? He’s not sure. He had only ever caught snippets. Because you’re a cruel, heartless person and you found it funny? But he can’t say that, she’d probably stab him again, and once was more than enough, thank-you-very-much. “…I don’t know.”

Typical. Well, I will tell you what I told the Sundrop. There is something coming, child. There is a rot that grows forever beneath the deep, and it lingers in this world like a curse, even in sleep. Her voice drops. But now, I fear… it sleeps no longer. It is here. It is coming. The rot’s reaching fingers have finally found our throats.

Her words are low, cold, serious with all the weight of an incantation. Varian stares at her. He doesn’t move. His breath shudders out of him. Realization washes over him, cold as ice. “The pirates,” he whispers. “Corona?”

I have no interest in the games of mortals, Moon remarks. For one, they are usually very boring. But recently, human politics have become… rather interesting. Unnaturally so. I have my suspicions. And I know what I felt, there in that city.

The meaning of her words finally sinks in. Varian looks down, his mind whirling. The attacks had terrified him. Corona at war had chilled him. But this makes something deep within him go small and tight with fear. This is more. This is like the labyrinth—a force more than science, or logic, or even magic. A force that Varian, slowly and reluctantly, is beginning to think of as fate.

“It’s aiming for Corona.”

The Sundrop’s own home? But of course it is. How better to draw her out? If I was not bound to my kingdom, to my Moondrop opal, I would have done the same.

He shakes his head, his mind spinning. “Wait, but—that doesn’t make sense—the labyrinth—”

I had more than my own reasons for the labyrinth. The personal benefits were just a bonus. Though. I admit, by the end, I perhaps got a bit… carried away. Her chin lifts. Fortunately, the situation is salvageable. I have my doubts the Sundrop is strong enough, yet, though she is certainly better suited for what's ahead after my labyrinth, but you…

She looks him up and down, doubtful, and her lip curls. Unfortunately for us both, my kingdom is gone, and so you are my only real conduit. For the moment, anyway. With luck, soon you will no longer be necessary, but for now… well. Do your best to not get speared anytime soon, boy. Replacing you would take more effort than I can spare.

Varian swallows, trying not to react. That—doesn’t sound good, though he can’t say he’s surprised to hear it. The Moon seems to need him, for now… but that probably won’t always be the case. If she made a place like the Dark Kingdom once, presumably she could do it again. Maybe. He thinks.

Ugh, magic.

Varian takes a breath, pushing the thoughts aside for later. Okay. All very interesting information, but… not what he needs, right now. He called for this conversation for a reason. “Okay,” he starts, careful, calm. He straightens his shoulders, and does his best to meet her eyes. “Actually, that was…something I was hoping you could help me with? The not-dying thing.”

Moon’s lip curls. She hooks her chin in her hand and regards him through narrowed eyes. Explain.

Well. Okay, then. “How do I… the, the black rocks.” He steadies himself. “How do I control them?”

A smile flickers across Moon’s face, sly and cruel. Your mishap yesterday. Hah, yes, I sensed that.

He doesn’t like the look of her smile. “…Right. H-how do I stop that from happening again?”

Moon considers him. Her smile widens. He can see the gleam of knife-like teeth, and then she leans back and stretches, laughing softly under her breath. Oh, who can say?

Varian’s eyes narrow. His fingers clench. He has to fight to keep his voice steady. “You, obviously.”

Moon is still smiling. Her eyes glow in the darkness. Don’t get smart with me, boy.

He grits his teeth. “I—”

Your distress over this silly power is amusing, and far more entertaining than your frankly dull nightmares. And I have been so bored… no, on this I don’t think I shall tell you. Have fun finding out.

Varian stares at her, breathless, feeling gutted. She won’t—? And then the rest of her words sink in, and his lips peel back in a snarl. Blood roars in his ears, and for a moment the whole world feels very still, cold and quiet. She is smiling. She is laughing at him. And suddenly Varian wants nothing more than to snap that smile right off her face. He wants to make her bleed.

“I was wondering something else,” Varian says, sweetly, the heat rushing through his head. His fingers strangle the cot covers. “Why do you look like that, by the by?” He gestures, casually, to his face. His hand is shaking. His teeth ache.

Moon’s smile drops at once. Her eyes go wide. Her lips peel back from her teeth. And Varian smiles where she does not, bright and poisonous and angry, and says, “I mean, I’ve already seen the scars!”

Pressure slams down on him. The air goes snap-cold, burning against his skin, and Varian just barely keeps from crying out. All at once, the Moon is no longer distant, no longer ghostly—she is here, she is right in front of him, so furious that the air warps around her very image. For a moment, that smooth façade drops. For a moment, he can see the scars in question—the great ruts that carve up her face and shatter her eye, the cracks crawling deep through her stone skin.

You— dare—!

Varian lifts his head with difficulty, struggling against the unyielding hand slowly crushing him to the ground. His smile has dropped, the sweet anger fallen, and now all he is is furious. “I hate you!” he cries, too incensed to be any more articulate than that. “I hate you! You and your stupid—tell me how to control the rocks!”

Moon’s voice shakes with a snarl. No.

“Tell me!” Varian shouts back. Something roars in his ears. Is it blood? The wind? Or most frightening of all—power? “Tell me how to stop this!”

The Moon leans close. Her smile is a bare of teeth. Her eyes are bright and vivid with rage.

FIGURE IT OUT YOURSELF.

Something shatters. Wind howls. For a split second, Varian is falling, dropping in free-fall—

His eyes snap open.

His throat catches on a scream, and he lurches half-way out of the cot before he realizes where he is. Yasmin’s house. The guest-room. His bed. The room is lit blue by the midnight; the air is cool, the candles all blown out.

Sweat plasters his bangs to his face. He feels feverish. The room is far too warm, but maybe that is because Varian himself feels as if he has slowly frozen solid. His heart beats unsteady and rapid in his chest. He has—he is—what?

Soft breaths. A warmth by his side. He looks down and reaches out, and—Ruddiger. Ruddiger?

Ruddiger is sleeping. Ruddiger is calm. He…. He’s not acting like either of them were ever in danger. Come to think—had he—had he been in the room at all, after Varian called the Moon’s name? He can’t remember.

It’s quiet.  Dead silent. Varian looks across the room, and sees Adira in her cot, blankets pulled up, still in sleep. She hasn’t moved. No, wait—when had she come in? Wasn’t she meant to be talking with Yasmin?

Varian turns to the window, his hands shaking. The sky outside is clouded and dark—no moon to be seen past the clouds. And the person looking back at him from the reflection is… himself. Varian.

It’s just him.

Slowly, his panicked breaths ease. Varian settles against the pillow, his mind racing. A dream. It had just been a dream.

And yet—he remembers it perfectly. He lifts his arm—the Moondrop one, the one that always burns whenever magical fuckery is abound—and looks at the hand. His veins are dark and blue. There is frost on his fingers, slowly but surely melting away in the heat.

Ah. Not just a dream, then. That is… that is… gods, he should have guessed. Moon and dreams. Maybe that conversation was never on his terms after all. Typical.

His breathing has gone very shaky. Varian falls back against the pillow. He stares wide-eyed at the ceiling, letting it all sink in. Breathes in. Breathes out. Rewinds the whole conversation back in his head, all the information bombshells and that disastrous ending, and slowly covers his face with his hands.

“Oh,” Varian says, weakly. “Oh, fuck.”

.

Morning comes almost too soon.

Varian doesn’t really sleep that night. After his conversation with the Moon, his mind is running too quick for rest. The information—the Moon herself—all of it is just so much, and he spends the rest of the night half-way between passing out and staring at the ceiling, his mind spinning, caught somewhere between regret for lashing out and a petty sort of inner voice that insists he probably should have insulted her more, that secretive conniving jerk. Watching you struggle is amusing, ha-ha-ha, Varian wants to punch a wall.

The night drags on, near torture, and Varian drifts in and out of sleep, until finally he blinks open fever-hot eyes to the crackle of distant birds and the morning rime on the gleaming window. Dawn, come again. He closes his eyes and sighs. Then he sits up.

Adira left sometime when he was half-way passed out; her stuff is gone, bags packed and cot rolled up. That’s right, he remembers, all at once. She’s leaving today. Last night was… the last night. Yasmin’s home is no longer open for shelter.

He sits there for a time, listening to Ruddiger’s sleepy snuffles and looking out the window with a distant stare. The sunlight sparkles over the frosted fields, crisp and clean, and he watches the light glitter for a long moment. He’s exhausted, but he feels oddly calm. The darkness is gone, chased away… and finally, Varian knows what to do.

He can’t deny the horror of it all—the fear creeping through. The sense that whatever’s going on, it’s something way, way more than he can handle. But if something like that is coming for Corona…. for Rapunzel and the others…

Varian looks down at his hands. He takes a breath. Takes another. And then he sets his jaw and gets to his feet, and starts packing.

By the time he pads downstairs, Ruddiger on his shoulders, his bags are packed and Varian himself is dressed in the new clothes Yasmin tailored for him. He fiddles with the sleeve as he thuds down the steps, unsure of how to clip the cuff, and Yasmin snorts when she sees him, the older woman standing at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee in one hand.

“Dear gods, have you never worn a vest before?” She sets down her cup and goes over to him, tugging the sleeve from his hands. Varian watches intently as Yasmin buttons the cuff, memorizing the fabric fold as she steps back and pulls his vest straight, the heavy fabric sitting snug and fit on his shoulders. She surveys the outfit with a critical eye and hums. “Well. Not bad for a rush job.”

Varian makes a face, pulling at his hem. The clothes fit well, but they are unlike anything Varian has ever owned—and not just because he’s still missing his gloves and apron. He’s wearing a cream cotton tunic with buttoned sleeves, paired with a low v-cut blue vest embroidered with golden skeletal floral stitching and buttoned with small silver half-moons, the swirls of soft gold stark against the dark blue. The black pants are cut in a sailor-style, the ends tapered half-way down his shin to tuck in his boots. A dark magenta sash ties around his waist, the color so rich it nearly shines in the light. Above it all Varian’s oversized trench coat with its many lovely pockets envelops him, the pink nightlight swinging from one notch, the sleeves rolled up twice and still too long for him. Combined with the new haircut and the ponytail Varian is currently struggling to tie, he looks like an entirely different person.

He’s not sure if it’s a good look or a bad one, but it’s definitely troublesome. This stupid ponytail especially.

As if in answer to his thoughts, Yasmin snorts and pulls the ribbon from his hands. “At least you brushed your hair,” she murmurs, turning him around. “Pay attention. You will have to tie it yourself after this.” She pulls back his hair and secures it tight atop his head. “See?” She takes the end of the tail and loops it, tucking the strands away. “And do this to make a bun. Whichever style you please. Simple.”

Varian undoes the bun with a sigh, letting the hair fall as a normal ponytail. Ruddiger bats at it, letting it swing. He’s not used to having his hair tied back; the pull and weight of the ponytail on his scalp makes his nose wrinkle. It’s not uncomfortable so much as… odd. “I look like some nobleman’s kid.”

“Tsk. Nothing so fancy. Merchant schoolboy, perhaps. Apprentice wizard for the imaginative.” Varian scowls at the joke as Yasmin turns back to the table, sipping at her cup. “Regardless, it will help. The less you look like you, the easier it is to hide. Besides. New clothes and haircuts are a nice way to actually feel as though you are getting a fresh start.” She sips at the drink again. “It will help. Two birds with one stone, I believe the saying is? Like that.”

Varian hums, unconvinced but not really wanting to argue, and drops into a seat with a sigh. He takes Ella’s offered cup of coffee with a weak smile, then glances around the kitchen. “Um, where’s…?”

“Here.” Adira moves into the kitchen, taking a cup of coffee herself. “Thanks.” She turns to Varian and looks him up and down, and lifts one brow at the outfit change, but all she says is, “You seem tired.”

Varian shrugs, his eyes dropping to the mug. In the dim reflection of the drink, his irises seem almost unnaturally bright. He grimaces and looks away. “I…” He doesn’t want to discuss his talk with the Moon, not yet, and definitely not with Yasmin here—if she finds out he summoned and then insulted an immortal god in her house, she might strangle him with his new sash—so he shrugs as casual as he can. “Just, um, ah… t-thinking?”

There is a long pause. All three woman stare at him. Ella and Yasmin exchange a meaningful glance. Adira closes her eyes and sighs.

“Adira,” Yasmin says, conversationally, “he really is a god-awful liar. What on earth are you teaching him?”

“I take no responsibility for this.”

“Simply dreadful,” Ella murmurs sadly.

Varian sips loudly at his drink and ignores them. He’s a great liar, damn it. The best. He fooled Rapunzel down in Corona’s tunnels, hadn’t he? He just needs time to prepare, is all, that’s not his fault.

Ruddiger gives him a supportive chitter. Varian sighs.

“Well, regardless.” Yasmin sets down her cup. “Good morning, lovely weather we are having, etcetera —all pleasantries out of the way, I will get to the point. While I admit it was… interesting to have you both here, I must say it is time you moved on.” She looks between them, and her eyes linger on Varian for a long moment. “So. When will you be going?” The slightest of pauses. “And… where?”

The silence stretches, awkward, tense. No one moves. Ella is watching them. Yasmin sips at her drink, her gaze heavy on Varian’s head.

Varian pulls his mug closer, cupping the warmth in his palms, drawing strength from the weight of Ruddiger by his side. He keeps his eyes on the floor. “My bags are all packed,” he says, to the floorboards. He can feel, rather than see, all of them go still. “I’m…” For a moment he stutters on it. For a moment he fumbles.

Then he takes a breath, and says it anyway. “I’m ready to go,” he says, at last. “To Corona.”

In the ensuing quiet, Yasmin’s sharp and relieved exhale is clear.

Adira is quiet for much longer; she shifts slightly, and Varian’s eyes snap to her, searching, afraid. But Adira is calm, near-expressionless, and her voice is even when she replies: “Then we leave together.”

Varian ducks his head in a nod.

He hears Adira stand, but keeps his eyes down, and almost startles out of his seat when a hand abruptly finds his shoulder. He freezes, stiff—but all Adira does is leave it there, just for a second, her touch warm and grounding.

For a moment he thinks she’s going to say something—what, he has no idea—but all she does is squeeze his shoulder, once, then take her hand away. “…We’ll leave soon. Finish your food.”

Varian glances up through his bangs, watching her go. He feels a little wondering. That warmth in her voice—what was that? And the hand on his shoulder… he knows Adira isn’t big on physical contact. So then, what was the point of that?

He turns back to the room to find Ella with her face politely turned away and a smile on her lips, and Yasmin looking insufferably pleased with herself. He narrows his eyes, feeling the heat rise to his face. He grips his cup protectively. “What?”

“Nothing.” Yasmin sips at her drink. She is smirking. “Just… I am very good at my job.”

Ella smacks her arm without looking.

“I mean, we are all very proud of you, congratulations on your character development, whatever, make good choices.”

Varian rolls his eyes, and tips back his drink to hide a smile of his own. He finishes his meal quickly—when Adira says leaving soon she usually means leaving now—and sneaks away some bread for Ruddiger to snack on later, getting up from the table. He is half-way out the door before he hesitates.

He glances back. Yasmin raises an eyebrow at him, bemused, waiting. Varian chews at his cheek, deep in thought.

On his end: the market, the haircut, the clothes. But he remembers also the way Adira gave him answers that day in the field, when before there was nothing, and her new strange attempts at mentoring, odd but not unwelcome. He gets the sudden sense he isn’t the only one Yasmin has been bothering, and tucks his hands behind his back.

Yasmin is annoying and rude and cold, and still a stranger in many ways… but in these past few days, Varian knows, she has truly and honestly helped him.

“Thanks,” Varian says, rushed and hurried, and just barely looking Yasmin in the eye, and then he runs out of the room before Yasmin can laugh at him, or worse, look touched.

Packing takes no time at all, both Adira and Varian already prepared. Before Varian knows it, he and Adira have waved goodbye to Ella and taken up their packs, walking away from the little cottage in the fields for the last time. To Varian’s embarrassment, Yasmin goes with them, claiming to see them off, dressed in her heavy winter coat with a wrapped package under one arm.

Varian avoids looking at her best he can, his face red, regretting that moment of thanks with all his being, and pretends badly he can’t hear her laughing at him as they walk.

They reach their destination quickly, thank gods—a merchant camp nestled in-between two farms, a small circle of carts by the road. It’s apparently the same merchant camp as before, the one from Port Caul, just moved more inland to escape any drama from the recovering city. There are far less carts than before—most of the merchants having fled after the attack—but there is still a few lingering, and Yasmin approaches one at once, already bartering for their ride.

“Javon, yes? I have heard you are on your way to the west. I would like to discuss a deal with you—”

In less than ten minutes they’ve gotten safe passage assured and a deal made, Yasmin shaking the merchant’s hand with a grimly satisfied smile. She walks back to them with her head high. “There you go,” she says to Adira. “My final favor for you—free of charge, even.” She glances back, and they both watch as the merchant loads their extra bags onto his cart. “Lucky we came when we did. The others are going east and he is leaving now.” She turns back. “I suppose this is goodbye again.”

Varian looks up at her, surprised by the words and the sudden sense of loss. How strange, he thinks. He’s really only known her for a week or so—but what a long few days they have been. He feels as if he’s been here far longer.

Adira tilts her head. “This is it,” she says agreeably.

“So it is.” Yasmin crosses her arms and looks Adira up and down. “Well. It was far more excitement than I should ever like again… but it was good to see you, Adira.” She sighs. “Just, please. For the love of all the gods. Write to me next time?”

Adira almost seems to smile. “We’ll see.”

“Tsk, bothersome woman.” But Yasmin almost seems pleased, and when she looks down at Varian, she cocks an eyebrow and settles a hand on her hip, near-smiling. “Well, boy, I hope you remember what I have taught you.”

Varian meets her eyes with some difficulty, but manages. The echoes from their conversation still sting, but he takes a breath and refuses to look away. “I’ve, um… been thinking on it.”

“That is all I can ask.” Yasmin offers a hand. “You are a brat and a pest and more trouble than you are worth… but perhaps you are not so bad.”

Varian rolls his eyes, unable to help himself. “I really don’t like you.” But he takes her hand, and feels almost cheered. He manages a smile. “Um. But… uh…”

Yasmin snorts. “You do not have to thank me again. Once was enough. Uncomfortable for both of us. Do not.” She hesitates, then takes the package out from under her arm and holds it out. “Ella’s idea. From both of us. Blame Adira.” She pauses again, and then scowls at him. “Open it later, once you are gone and I cannot see. Got it?”

“Okay…?” Varian takes it. Tests it. It’s soft, so not a book… “What—”

“Once you are gone!”

“Okay, okay!” He stows the package away in the satchel. Ruddiger chitters up on his shoulder, clearly curious, and hangs down his back to sniff at it. Yasmin’s scowl turns to him.

“Goodbye, Yasmin,” Adira says, drawing the attention back to her. Yasmin fixes her with a frown.

“You will keep in touch?”

Adira shrugs. “I’ll try.” She hesitates. “It… was good to see you too.”

Yasmin makes a face. “Yes yes, goodbye, go already. You are going to give me hives at this rate.”

Adira briefly smiles at that, a hard sort of grin that is almost laughter, and turns away with one last wave over her shoulder. Yasmin, too, for all her annoyance, seems more fond than truly irritated. Varian looks between the two of them and shakes his head, turning to follow Adira to the cart. Ridiculous. He doesn’t understand them at all.

It feels almost anti-climactic, after everything. With every step, Varian waits for something to go wrong. He steps to the cart. He gets in the cart. He sits down in the back with Adira and watches the road. Nothing. The sky is cloudy but dry and the cold winds are beaten back by the warmth of his new clothes and heavy coat. It’s dizzying. Is he really leaving?

The merchant snaps the reins and calls the horses to a trot. The cart lurches into a roll. Varian draws his knees to his chest and watches as Yasmin slowly shrinks away against the gray skies and endless fields. How strange, he thinks. How funny. Leaving really is that easy.

He looks down at the satchel, and pulls out the package. He looks at it for a moment, and hesitates—but, well, if they’re going, isn’t that the same as being gone…? Technically?

Varian sneaks a glance at Adira, who is sitting cross-legged with her eyes closed. She opens one eye under the attention, and looks at him blankly for a full second—then snorts, softly, and closes her eyes again.

Well. He supposes that’s technically permission. Right? Totally. Yes. One-hundred percent.

He looks at Ruddiger. Ruddiger pats at the package with one paw and gives a meaningful look. Which—yeah, okay. There’s no saying no to that.

Varian opens the package.

It’s well-wrapped, sealed tight; it takes him a few tries to rip it open. He tears off the paper in one long strip, setting it aside for Ruddiger to play with later. There is an extra layer of tissue paper to get through, and he tests the thing in his hand, frowning. It’s light—soft, and malleable in his hands. He turns it over and pulls off the paper—

His breath catches. Varian goes absolutely still. In the corner of his eyes, he can see Adira is almost smiling.

Gloves.

Yasmin has given him alchemy gloves.

For an instant, all Varian can do is stare. The gloves are made from heavy leather, with stiff stitching and an oily waterproof sheen. They’re a little different from his old ones—a block maroon trim lines the ends—but still. Gloves. She’s given him…

And it hits him, all at once. Every question, every fear, every moment of struggle—every time he’s had to fight against the anger that burns constant in his chest, every instant of pushing back against the urge to run away. Nothing has changed, in the end. Nothing is very different. He’s still not sure what he’ll do—what he’s even doing now—or even the difference between forgiveness and redemption and why it matters.

But he holds the gloves in his hands, this gift he didn’t ask for and didn’t expect, and—he wants to. He wants to know. He wants, at the very least, to try and find the answer.

Varian blinks rapidly, feeling tears starting to well up. His breath hitches. His eyes burn. He lurches to his feet, standing shaky on the rocking cart, and leans over the back with his hands braced against the ledge.

“Yasmin!”

In the distance, he sees her head rise. He’s too far to properly read her expression, but she’s looking at him. She is waiting for an answer. Varian pitches his voice as far as he can. “I’ll—I’ll be good! I will!”

He lifts his voice, calling out, his words echoing across the fields: “I promise I’ll try!”

Yasmin’s form is growing distant, indistinct. She doesn’t yell back. But she raises her hand, a quiet goodbye silhouetted dark against the pale gray sky, and Varian almost thinks she might be smiling.

And then the cart turns down a bend in the road, and she is gone.

Varian sits back down in the cart and wipes the tears from his cheeks, pulling on the new gloves with trembling fingers. His smile wavers bright and thin on his face. The weight of the gloves makes a knot catch in his throat. For the first time in over a year, in a long, long time… Varian finally feels complete.

It’s not that things are better, really. He’s still afraid—still shaking with it. Going back to Corona still fills him with dread, and he has yet to learn how to deal with the rocks. But for the first time in a while, for all the problems ahead, Varian finally feels like he can face them. Adira’s presence by his side is almost a comfort; the cart, lurching down the road, is finally going somewhere. He finally knows where he’s headed. He finally has a start to this long road he has chosen to walk.

He reaches up and rests a hand on Ruddiger’s head, and the raccoon sniffs at the new gloves and squeaks, delighted. Ruddiger is warm and weighted on his neck, a soothing constant. Varian tilts his head back to that cloudy and bright sky, and his smile pulls hard at his cheeks. It’s a small smile, a fragile thing—but it is there, faint but real, and maybe that’s enough.

.

It’s not working.

Her head aching with the strain of staring at an empty canvas for far too long, Rapunzel blows a strand of hair from her face and settles back on her heels, one hand propped on her hip. She lowers the paintbrush almost reluctantly. The canvas is… it’s a mess. Colors an ugly swirl, a tangle of mish-mashing hues, and she changed her mind on the subject half-way through, and now…

Oh, it’s awful. A lost cause. She sighs and moves the canvas away from her frame, her heart heavy. Another one bites the dust.

Usually this works. Art has always been Rapunzel’s avenue of expression—her way of wants, of desires, of dreams. The new mural spread out on her balcony floor, for instance. But this time, something’s gone wrong. It’s not so much art block as it is something else—a restlessness, an itch, an emotion she can’t pin down. There’s something she’s feeling, something she needs to get down on paper, and yet…

She can’t figure out what it is, this time. It’s not working. For the first time in forever, Rapunzel has found an issue she can’t work through with paint. She isn’t exactly pleased with this astounding phenomenon.

Or maybe, Rapunzel thinks glumly, settling back on her bed, watching the rain pool outside her window—maybe it’s just too much. She’s had… so much to think about, these past few days. The attacks, the blackmail, Vardaros, the Baron…

Stalyan.

Rapunzel’s lips thin, her mouth twisting on the thought. It’s—she’s not stupid. She knows, she knows Eugene loved others, once, knows he was a rogue and a flirt and… well, she knows. Stalyan isn’t a surprise so much as she is… a name, at last, to put to the once many nameless faces. And she isn’t even really the problem. It’s just—

Rapunzel had to learn through a letter.

It’s that which grates on her most of all. This stupid situation—this stupid mess—and it’s so silly, anyways, because Eugene has written the exact same thing. I wish I could have told you in person. I’m sorry I couldn’t. And still, she can’t stop thinking about it—about all of it. Having to learn all this stuff through a letter, and then Cassandra hadn’t even been able to give the letter to Rapunzel. She’d had to sneak it through her window via Owl, because the secret passage route to Cassandra’s rooms only works so long as it remains undiscovered, and…

It’s—awful. It’s just awful. And annoying. And… ugh.

Rapunzel falls back eagle-spread on her bed, bare feet kicking in the air, hair loose and pooling on the floor of her bedroom. Beyond her window she can hear the soft drip of rain, a storm that has lingered over Corona for almost a week now, and she closes her eyes to the soothing sound. It’s only morning, but— she’s exhausted. And she’s already pushed her hands to the limit, from her frustration with the canvas. And she’s still in her nightgown. Maybe—she just needs a break. Maybe she should just go back to sleep…

A knock sounds at the door. “Um, Princess?”

Elias. She bites back a sigh and pries her eyes open, lifting her head. “Yes?”

“Um, your, your parents—um, uh, the King and Queen… request your presence gr-greeting some guests to the castle…”

Oh. Rapunzel closes her eyes. “The…um…” She should know this. “The merchant groups. Yilla. Renewing contracts.” More importantly—it’s busywork. All the politics are already figured out. She resists the urge to sigh again, louder this time.

The queen hasn’t pushed the question about her hands, even though she obviously wishes to. In that way, Rapunzel’s parting comment has left its mark. That doesn’t mean anything else has changed. Her parents are still, even now, trying to keep Rapunzel in the dark.

She scowls at her bedcovers, lowering her head to cradle her forehead in her palms. Pascal, on her shoulder, pats her face in quiet sympathy. “I’ll be right out,” she calls to Elias, exhausted with it all. “One moment!”

She gets dressed as quick as she can, in the stiff formal gown Rapunzel hates but her parents prefer for formal situations. Pascal helps wordlessly with the bodice, and while usually Rapunzel would braid her hair for this, she has neither the time nor ability—after her painting session her hands are stiff and frozen, tight with pain, and she grabs for the beads, instead. Pascal helps her with the clasp, and when Rapunzel pulls on her gloved she has to do so with her teeth.

She’s pushed it today, she thinks, somewhat mournfully, and massages gently at her palm to loosen some of the pain. Her fingers still won’t curl right. Pascal gives her a look.

“I know,” Rapunzel mutters, exasperated, and hides her hands behind her back when Pascal opens the door.  Elias stands in the door, hand raised as if to knock again, amber eyes wide—when he sees her he squeaks and hurries aside, hands scrambling at his halberd.

Rapunzel sweeps out into the hall, right past Elias, and heads for the stairs. He scrambles to keep up, eyes wide behind his helmet. Despite everything, the sight almost makes her want to smile.

“We’re meeting in the throne room, right?”

“Ye-yes…”

She does smile at him this time, hoping to put him more at ease. She doesn’t dislike Elias—doesn’t really know him, honestly—but he doesn’t seem the bad sort, and his nerves are understandable. He’s stressed, too, and his support during the dinner conversation has endeared him to her a little. He reminds her, strangely, a little of Varian—less confident, and not at all angry, but… young. And trying his best, with all that’s been given. Quiet kindnesses.

The thought of Varian makes her smile falter. Rapunzel turns away. She hasn’t thought of Varian in… too long, she thinks. She’s tried not to. It’s—useless to worry about him, when he is so far away and she is unlikely to ever see him again, but sometimes thoughts like this crop up. It’d be a stretch to say she misses him—even now, after the labyrinth, she isn’t sure where they stand, and he’d been cruel to her for so many months before that—but sometimes she wonders how he’s doing. If he’s okay. If…

Useless thoughts, in the end. She tries to push past them. Quick, Rapunzel! Distraction!

“It’s—” Hello, train of thought, where did you go? Rapunzel clears her throat. “It’s… been a hard couple of weeks, hasn’t it?” She bites her lip, staring down at her bare feet. “I want to say, I’m sorry for all the trouble—”

“It—it’s no trouble!” Elias fumbles, then seems to blanch when he realizes he’s cut her off. He swallows hard. “It’s… it’s an honor, my princess.”

“Mm…”

He watches her, hesitant, and then slowly relaxes. “But…” His voice trails off, going small, and he takes a quick breath. “Ye-yes, it… it has been, um… quite a week. Haha.”

An understatement, really, and to such a degree she almost smiles, even though it isn’t really funny. Eugene’s letter had filled Rapunzel in on that, too. There’s been another harbor attack—the city of Port Caul, in the kingdom of Lencia, brought to its knees. It’s not at all near Corona—a two months journey at best—but it’s a major trade partner, and now it won’t be trading at all, not for a while. Another route lost.

“The castle has really been up in arms…” She glances back at him, wondering. “I meant to ask you—was it like this before I came back, too? It all feels so sudden to me, but…”

Elias hesitates. “It, um, it was… actually was kind of sudden,” he admits, voice small. “First it was a letter… and the routes started closing… and—and then—” He cuts himself off, looking away, and shrugs one shoulder. His lips are pressed thin and tight.

“…Oh.” There’s not much she can say to that. Rapunzel turns away, eyes fixing back on the hall. They move down the final flight of stairs, stepping out into the main wing of the castle. The grand hall stretches out wide before them, pale and blue in the dim light of the morning rain. The lamps burn small and golden, little haloes of light.

“Act-actually…”

Rapunzel blinks, looking back at Elias. The boy looks conflicted, his breathing quick and funny. “Hm?”

“I… I have a friend. Addy. Adeline. Um.” He shifts in place, his grip tight on the halberd. Rapunzel blinks, her attention focusing. He looks—afraid. Almost ill. She straightens. This is serious, apparently. “She… we—explore. Sometimes. Tunnels… and, and—dungeons.” He bites his lip, hard. “I’m, I’m sorry, I mean, I don’t know if it’s… um, im-important? But I know—you’ve been looking around—and all this, it happened… at—the same time. As the attacks. And, and everything else.”

Rapunzel watches him, closely, stopped fully now. Elias cringes under her attention. “Maybe? But my friend—Addy—she thinks—there’s s-something—in one of the cells, in the dungeons, and we heard them—and after that night, everyone started getting so angry, all the time, and Addy, she thinks—” Elias cuts himself off mid-word. His eyes go wide. His attention fixes over her shoulder, and stutters to a stop. “C-C-Ca—”

Rapunzel follows his gaze. Her breath catches. Pascal squeaks on her shoulder. “Cass?”

Down the hall, exiting through the other set of doors, is Cassandra. After a week of silence, seeing her is like a shock—for a moment, Rapunzel feels frozen, staring. Cassandra walks down the hall with her fists clenched and her eyes dark, mouth twisted on a frown. She’s not dressed for guard duty yet, and she doesn’t seem to have noticed them, her head bowed to stare unseeingly at the polished castle floors. But she’s here. She’s right here.

The conversation completely forgotten, Rapunzel races forward, almost tripping in her haste. “Cass!” she cries. “Cassandra!”

Cassandra stops in her tracks, her head snapping up. Her eyes widen. “…Rapunzel?”

“Cass!” She barrels into Cassandra for a hug, squeezing her tight. Cassandra hugs her back almost on automatic, and when Rapunzel pulls away she still looks stunned, blinking fast. “Oh, it’s so good to see you! I haven’t talked to you since—” Last week, she means to say, but then she remembers Elias at her back and the fact her father has banned her from seeing Cassandra at all, and blanches. “—sssssssince I came back! To Corona! Haha!”

Cassandra blinks and then gives Rapunzel a look, almost bemused, a faint smile pulling at her lips. She doesn’t seem to have seen Elias yet. “Since you’ve been back,” she agrees, almost a question, her eyebrows raised. She looks Rapunzel up and down and blinks again. “What’s with the get-up?”

“Politics,” Rapunzel admits, sighing heavily. She scowls down at the formal gown and then lifts her head with a weak smile. “Um, merchant contracts, I think.” Lower, she adds, bitter: “Busy work.”

Cassandra’s face is momentarily unreadable, but then she visibly shakes herself and frowns. “That’s… I’m sorry, Raps.” She squeezes at her shoulder. “Chin up, yeah? You’ll…” She trails off, suddenly, her eyes catching over Rapunzel’s shoulder. Something flashes through her eyes. She stops talking.

Rapunzel glances back, seeing Elias, standing small and nervous at the end of the corridor and trying desperately not to look at them, and sighs, her headache returning. Right. Elias. Replacing Cassandra, watching her for the King…

“It’s fine,” Rapunzel says, subdued. She tries for a smile. “He’s… he’s fine. He’s actually very sweet, honestly.”

“Sweet for a spy.” Cassandra’s voice is cold. Rapunzel frowns at her, and she shakes her head. “No. No, that’s good. I guess. Sorry.”

“Yes…” Rapunzel leans in, hugging Cassandra again on impulse. She’s missed her, missed having her by her side, missed just having a friend. “I mean it, though! It’s been a while. How are you?”

“I’m fine.” Cassandra steps away from the embrace, tone clipped. She rubs one hand at her upper arm, starting to look agitated.

“I’m glad.” Rapunzel steps back too, giving her some space. Her voice lowers. “Actually, um, I wanted to thank you—”

“Don’t mention it.”

“U-um, okay.” Rapunzel blinks fast and then rallies herself. She needs to go soon, but before she does— “I…” She drops her voice to a whisper. “I’ll try and get out tonight or tomorrow—I know we can’t really do anything, but maybe we could talk for a bit? Or visit Eugene? There’s some stuff I want to—to talk through, and—” She smiles, weakly. “I miss you guys.”

Cassandra doesn’t smile back. When she speaks, her voice is flat, and she is not whispering. “Are you serious?”

Rapunzel blinks fast, taken aback. “Um—”

“We don’t have time for this.”

“I—I just thought—”

“It’s not like I’ll have anything to report, anyway. Have I been any help at all these past few weeks?” She scoffs, cutting Rapunzel off before she can answer. “Besides, it’s not a good idea. Are you trying to get me into trouble?”

“I—no!” Rapunzel steps back, stunned. “Cass, of course not! I just thought…”

“We’re not even supposed to be talking right now,” Cassandra adds, poisonously, eyes snapping to Elias, and something in Rapunzel snaps.

“Cass!” Rapunzel shouts, and Cassandra’s eyes crack back to her. Rapunzel stares at her. She doesn’t say anything. The silence almost seems to echo. Cassandra’s eyes are wide.

“I don’t understand,” Rapunzel says, helplessly, her voice tight, and Cassandra outright freezes.

“You—!”

For a moment her face tightens, and she almost seems to snarl—and then the moment fades. Cassandra’s eyes squeeze shut. She brings a hand to her temple. Her lips curl not into a snarl, but a grimace. “…Sorry.”

“Cass…”

“Sorry. I just—haven’t been sleeping well.” Her hand drops. All at once she sounds tired, dull and worn thin. “It was good seeing you, Rapunzel. But let’s just… I’d rather not get into any more trouble than I’m already in, okay?” She turns away. “See you around.”

“Cass!”

It’s too late. Cassandra has already gone.

Rapunzel watches Cassandra go, feeling almost cold. Her breathing is tight. Her hands are aching. Her teeth clenched. Cassandra turns the corner and vanishes from view, and Rapunzel stares after her for a long time, something in her shaking. Pascal, on her shoulder, is frowning. His tail pats Rapunzel’s cheek. Rapunzel doesn’t move.

Hesitant footsteps approach her side, the clank of armor. “…Princess—are, are you okay?”

She breathes. “I’m fine.”

Elias is silent for too long. Rapunzel turns to him. “What is it?”

“You—you look—” He falters, his voice going small. “Um.”

The observation startles her. Rapunzel stares. “What?”

Wordless, Elias points a hand to his face.

Rapunzel raises a hand to her cheek, feeling numb. Her gloves come away damp with tears. She stares at it, wide-eyed, and thinks: Oh.

Oh.

The empty canvas, the uncertain emotion. The tangle of feeling in her gut. And this, too—the burn behind her eyes, inside her chest, in her heart. The roar in her ears. She knows this. She knows this.

Her mouth is dry. Her hands are shaking. She is struck with the sudden urge to—to break something, or scream, or just sit down and cry. Why is everything going wrong? Eugene, leaving. Stalyan—this part of his past he never shared, and he couldn’t even tell her to her face. Varian, missing, whose presence haunts her like a ghost—her parents—

She knows why Eugene can’t tell her. She knows why he didn’t want to. She knows it isn’t Varian’s fault that everyone is hounding her; she was the one who chose to let him go, after all, which is the main issue. Her parents are another story, but… she’d accepted this. She’d known this was coming. She’s fighting it. She was ready for this!

And yet.

Her hands shake.

Rapunzel stares at the floor, feeling cold, feeling flushed. She rubs hard at her face, trying to stop from crying. She hates this. She hates crying like this—her throat all twisted and her words all gone. She hates this.

Cass.

It’s not fair. She knows Cassandra is hurting. She understands why. But Rapunzel didn’t ask for this, either.

Why won’t you just talk to me?

A long time ago, after Varian nearly killed Rapunzel with the arrow and everything spiraled into pieces, Cassandra had sat Rapunzel down and asked her to be honest. To trust her. And Rapunzel had promised. She had promised, and she has—she has tried, over and over, again and again. She is trying so hard to be honest with them, even when it hurts, even when it’s about things she wishes she could lock away and never think about again. And it infuriates her. It rises in her like a burning wave, strangles her throat and makes her eyes hot, because—

I’m trying to be honest with you, Cass. So why won’t you be honest with me?

Why won’t you talk to me?

Rapunzel swallows hard. She closes her eyes. She breathes through her teeth. She raises her hands and threads them through her hair, yanks once and yanks hard, and then smooths the strands back with shaking, aching fingers.

Elias’s voice is so quiet. “I’m—I’m—I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault.” Rapunzel pries her eyes open, breathing past the wall of emotion beating against her chest. “I—it was always there, I guess, I just—I didn’t realize. Really.” She reaches a shaking hand and dabs away the tears with her gloves. “Sorry.”

Elias looks miserable. His eyes fall. “I…” He hesitates. “If there, there’s anything I can—”

“It’s fine,” Rapunzel repeats, quiet. She rubs her face dry and breathes in deep, pulling on composure like a cloak. Heat coils tight and bitter in her gut. She hates it. She hates this. “…We—we have somewhere to be, anyway. The merchants.”

Elias nods, hesitant. His eyes cannot seem to decide whether to stay fixed on the floor or on her.

“Right,” Rapunzel says. She takes another breath. “Right.” She rubs the last of her tears away and straightens. “Let’s go, then.”

His lips press. His head dips. But Elias does not argue, and he leads her to the throne room with his head low and his shoulders bowed almost in something like guilt.

She should say something to him, probably—but she’s tired. She’s so tired. She is so angry she aches with it. Her hands are shaking like a storm, and she has to fold them behind her back to keep her poise. Even her hair feels heavy, right now—a ball-and-chain, the weight of destiny. Awful, awful, awful. Her eyes burn. She wants to go home.

Rapunzel enters the throne room with her head high and her mind a million miles away. She is late, and the advisors look testy; Rapunzel’s mother meets her eyes for one second before her gaze flickers down to Rapunzel’s hands. Rapunzel moves them behind her back, poised, her expression unchanging.  

Her father watches the exchange warily, his lips pressed thin. He seems to realize something is wrong. He studies her face. “Rapunzel—”

She meets his eyes. “Yes?”

He quiets. He looks away.

Rapunzel bites back another sigh, and heads for her seat by their thrones, settling into the chair exhausted relief. She folds her gloved hands in her lap, half-hidden in her skirts, and Pascal jumps down to settle in her palms, the weight of him warm and soothing against the ache. Rapunzel forces a faint smile for him and then keeps her eyes on the great doors. As soon as this is over, Rapunzel is taking a nap.

She’s so tired.

Trumpets sound, loud and echoing, and the noise makes her flinch. The merchant caravan is announced by the herald, their issues presented… the doors, swinging open, admit a bald middle-aged man with sweat on his brow, dressed in dark red threads. Yilla, the merchant leader. He walks with wringing hands.

And then, stepping up beside him— a woman.

Even from a distance, the newcomer is visibly striking. Long, dark brown curls frame a heart-shaped face, her clothes expensive and well-tailored. She is tall and smirking, her head high and proud, and she almost seems to be laughing as she leans over to the herald, whispering something in the man’s ear. Her smile is cold and bright and unwavering on her face.

Something washes over Rapunzel then. A warmth. A whisper. A hiss of threat. She straightens in her seat. Her head spins. Her eyes feel hot, burning. There is something here—something about this woman—that makes her every nerve scream in warning.

The herald is still listening to the woman, and when she finishes speaking he goes pale in the face. For a moment he fumbles. His glance back at the King is terrified.

“And—and if I may present,” says the herald, stuttering and shaking on his tongue, “with the merchant Yilla… his g-guest, Lady Stalyan of Vardaros!”

.

.

.

Deep in the dungeons of Corona, locked far away from the commotion above, a lone prisoner sits slumped against the wall.

His once-long and beautiful hair has gone ratty and grimy with time; his hands hang limp before his knees. His shoulders slump forward, his head bowed—in defeat, perhaps, or maybe sleep. In this dismal and empty dungeon hall, the prisoner rests with his eyes closed.

Water drips in the distance. Someone yells. The creak of metal armor from patrolling guards passes by and fades, again and again. And still, the prisoner does not move. Still, the prisoner does not speak. His shoulders are tense and taut. His fingers curled. His eyes closed, his ears straining. Not a man asleep at all—not defeated—but something else. He is listening. He is waiting. He has been waiting here for over a year.

And then, at long last: he hears the answer.

Something shifts in the shadows. An echo hums in the air, a low buzz like a swarm. The prisoner’s fingers seize and twitch at the icy touch trailing his shoulders, and then still at the whisper echoing in his ears.

His eyes burn. His smile pulls wide and cruel. The prisoner starts to shake, laughter wheezing through clenched teeth, and in the shadows of his eyes, his hatred shines bright and green.

“It’s finally begun, huh?” He crosses his legs at the ankle, lounging back against the wall. He exhales a long sigh. The air ripples at his breath—an echo, a whisper made manifold, a twist of magic like an oily rot. Halfway down the hall, a guard is struck with a blinding rage, his innermost anger set to boiling, and turns to strike his fellow. A sword is drawn with a shriek of steal. Someone screams.

The commotion catches an audience—another set of guards—footsteps pound on the stone, the men come running. The guard, down the hall, is apologizing. His sword is bloody. His fellow lies still on the cold floors. I don’t know what came over me, the first guard is saying, high and hysterical. I didn’t mean to. I didn’t want— I’m sorry, I don’t know what came over me. I didn’t want this. I didn’t want this!

And far away from the disaster, safely hidden in his cell, Andrew tilts back his head to the dungeon’s grimy ceiling and laughs.

“Finally,” he says.

I don’t know what came over me!

“Let the countdown begin.”

[yeats-infection]

@sqvalors tagged me in a lil writing meme... if you’d like to participate please do and tag me! 

ao3 name: fluorescentgrey but i also post some things as drglass (dr. glass is the second song on the fluorescent grey EP by deerhunter, so if i make another pseud it will be likenew, then washoff, etc.) 

fandoms: about two thirds of my fics are harry potter or star wars but there are a lot of random little goodies. currently i have shifted into the terror (2018) mode. 

number of fics: 59 right now... i will throw a party when i get to 69... 

fic i spent the most time on: this is funny because some of these technically took me like six months or more of working on them extremely intermittently... namely, bone machine. the series in the garden has taken me the most time generally... and in that, minuet did take me several months of working really hard while i had a schedule / commute that was not conducive to having a creative practice... 

fic i spent the least amount of time on: hilariously, literally my most popular fic by ninety miles, the witcher PWP that i wrote out of spite in two or three hours. 

longest fic: the source codes series... particularly heelstone which is 102k. i wrote these two stories in a single summer like a crazy person and i hate talking about them because i find them WAY too gooey. honestly, that’s why they are so long. it’s all the gooeyness!!!!!! 

shortest fic: yes, the answer is the witcher porn again (this silly thing is going to be the answer for many other questions in this little meme but i’m just going to stop talking about it while i’m ahead). the west end is just about 50 words longer and is much better and is a much better and more interesting story. 

most hits: we’re just going to pretend it’s sex and dying in high society, which has the second most hits. this is certainly due to the fact that @wolfstarwarehouse hypes this story a lot for which i am endlessly grateful! 

most kudos: recovery position has the second most kudos so let’s go with that one! i have been very touched by the response to this story, though i do personally like the sequel beachcoma a little more... i understand why not everyone wants to read it because it is a little more bittersweet. but it also comes from my soul. 

most comment threads: the two stories in the source codes series are leading here, because i only posted two chapters at a time so that i would get maximal validation, lol. 

most bookmarks: in order to talk about a story i haven’t talked about yet, the rosary has the fourth-most. i think this fic is truly my r/s swan song... i said everything i wanted to say and did everything i wanted to do. it’s a really good mystery/noir story that i didn’t think i could pull off until i did! and i love the OCs in it who have sort of manifested these secret headcanons for me that i may expostulate upon someday. thank you to @piovascosimo for the inspiration to write it. 

total word count: 1,000,478. lol! 

favorite fic i wrote: cannot possibly choose but probably the top five in order of date posted are: desperado, a handful of dust, doom town, beachcoma, jump into the fire

fic i’d rewrite / expand on: i already said all of source codes because it’s way too gooey, i also could make hard time killing floor blues a lot tighter, and a memoir of the flesh deserves a way better ending because i was rushing to make the yuletide deadline...

share a bit of a WIP: i was trying for a while to write a band of brothers AU where they are vietnam vets who start growing cannabis... based on the steve earle song “copperhead road.” this could have been SO good but the plot was too huge and unwieldy so i gave up. my roommate is obsessed with this idea and keeps asking me how it’s going so i may yet finish. but there’s a bit below the cut.

The knock at the door in the night was a sharp shock, bright as lightning, that sent them both back to Khe Sanh and before. Nix ducked. Dick went behind the doorframe. They kept low into the kitchen, where Nix took his old officer’s pistol out from where he kept it hidden behind the fridge. Then they went to the door, keeping to the edges of the hallways.

On the porch was Liebgott. He could have made his own way in likely right onto the couch without either of them noticing, so it was something that he had knocked on the goddamn door. It was particularly something given that none of the boys from Easy should have known about the grow operation, or even about Dick’s farm, being as Dick’s address on file at the V.A. was a post office box in town and Nix’s was still in Jersey. These considerations were nil to somebody who had spent the better part of five years in the bush of Vietnam. He took a last draw from his cigarette and put it out against the rubber sole of his boot, then he put the butt in his pocket. As far as Nix knew, he hadn’t said a word since January 1970.  

“Joe,” said Dick diplomatically. He put his hand out and Liebgott took it. Then he took Nix’s. He had handsome dark eyes, but they were full of a wall. You could tell he saw you, but it was like nothing followed the necessary channels to the brain to spur emotional response. It had been like this even while he was still talking, and after a while you got used to it.

“You comin' in,” said Nix, knowing he probably would even if he wasn’t invited.

Inside, they all three sat at the kitchen table in silence nobody was about to break. Finally Dick got up and went to the drawer where they kept the rollies and their share of the product. He passed a sheaf of papers and a film canister full of bud to Liebgott across the table. Nix understood as well as Dick apparently did that there would be no getting anything over on this kid, who had eyes in the back and sides of his head. He’d probably had a nice tour of the property before coming inside. “You hungry, son,” Dick said.

Liebgott shook his head. He extracted one of the buds from the canister and inspected it. They did look mighty good if Nix said so himself. They looked artful in Liebgott’s hand. There were black scabs across his knuckles and a dark rime of filth under those fingernails which still existed. He seemed satisfied enough with what he saw to take a paper out of the sheaf and start shredding the flower into it.

“Captain Nixon calls it Easy Diesel,” said Dick, like he was trying to pretend it wasn’t the funniest thing in the world.

Liebgott looked up and a smile flashed across his face like the savage golden light of a flare falling over the far hills. His smile was sort of brutal, like the edge of a knife in a barfight, or like a seething animal. Luckily it went away as quickly as it had come. He rolled the joint with a quick grace and lit the business end with his old silver Zippo Nixon hadn’t seen since the war. There was a skull engraved on one side and on the other it read IF YOU ARE RECOVERING MY BODY, FUCK YOU.

“I don’t know how you found us, Joe,” Dick said thoughtfully. “You don’t have to… tell us. But we ain’t exactly keen to have just anybody here.” He paused and looked quickly to Nix, who tried to make it abundantly clear by means of eyebrows that he wasn’t sure they ought to go down this road, wherever it was leading. Dick ignored him. Liebgott was watching them, fully understanding their attempted clandestine exchange. “We ain’t exactly keen to have the DEA here,” Dick said at last.

The cherry at the end of the joint atomized with a crackling hiss. Liebgott looked between Dick and Nix with extreme seriousness sullied only by his exhaling a dignified white cloud out his nose. Then he nodded, once, curtly, demonstrating he understood his orders as they had been relayed.

Nix flashed Dick what he thought was a what have you done type look. But Dick looked totally unbothered. He should have gone into this business years ago for how violently unflappable he was. He said to Liebgott, “I’ll get some blankets and you can make up the couch.”

Liebgott shook his head to say no need. He got up, careful not to scrape the chair against the floor, shook each of their hands again, and in less than a minute’s time he was back out the door with nothing more than what he’d come in with except the joint.

Nix and Dick, on the porch, listening to the crickets, watched him disappear into the darkness.

“Are we hallucinating,” said Nix eventually.

“I sure as hell hope not,” Dick replied. “We’ve got to ship all that product or we’ll starve.”

-

In the morning Nix was in the field, inspecting the plants. Liebgott was standing there at his quarter for god knew how long before he cleared his throat and Nix jumped about six feet in the air. There was a smirk shifting across Liebgott’s face that he would have been better about hiding when Nix had been his commanding officer. He looked like he hadn't slept. Back over there he had looked like that a lot, but it had been different, because of all the uppers they were taking. He cocked his head back over toward the long driveway and then he was off across the dew-wet grass which had already soaked through the hems of his canvas pants and his destroyed shoes.

Nix followed, like a duckling behind a hen. Liebgott still walked as though there were eyes in all sides of his head quickly processing information as he moved. Nix doubted you ever lost that kind of skill, even if in the real world it made you look like a mental patient. He caught up so they could walk side by side through the dew-wet grass. “What did you think,” he asked Liebgott.

Liebgott passed Nix the universal sign of furrowed brow that meant please clarify.

Nix gestured with pinched fingers to his own mouth as though Liebgott were also deaf. “The grass.”

He shaped his hand into an a-ok sign.

“You get any sleep?”

He nodded an infinitesimal nod, like the answer was a secret just for Nix to know.

“Well if you think it could be better just tell me how.”

Nix had had a high school friend whose sister was deaf from scarlet fever and whom he had watched on occasion communicate with her by means of sign language. Early on, back over there, he had sent off to command for a book, but by the time it came he understood it wasn’t that Liebgott couldn’t speak, he just didn’t want to. It was something like how people’s hair supposedly turned white if they witnessed some evil thing, or how people became ascetics in the name of god. If you were really fucked up on drugs or fear or otherwise, or if the natural magical thinking from childhood hadn’t been fully beaten out of you, you might have seen it as the sacrifice he had given to the forest for letting him out without a scratch so many goddamn times. It had been a bit of a trial to explain this to Spiers, who was practical almost to a fault, sometimes.

Liebgott showed another a-ok sign. Then he did a thumbs up which Nix knew meant it was good.

All in all it was smart. If he was still talking, Nix might have asked him, what have you been up to? You been sleeping on the street? You been to the V.A.? What did they tell you? And the answer would’ve been nothing good. Instead they just walked in the cool grass together in the sunshine and the morning was beautiful, and the air was sweet. It was all lovely until Liebgott had to physically stop him, laughing, somehow silently but also hysterically, from stepping right onto the razor-thin tripwire stretched invisibly across the dark gravel.

In the kitchen, Dick was doing the numbers. He took his glasses off when Nix came in and put the coffee on. “He learned a thing or two from Charlie,” Nix said, leaning against the counters.

“Who, Joe?”

“Our driveway is thoroughly ratfucked.”

“Hmm,” said Dick. He put the glasses back on and turned back to the accounting book. He was going to do this whole thing as above board as was humanly possible. The vivid daylight came through the window and struck the lens of his unstylish Ray-Bans and threw a kind of prism of color upon the white paper and the chicken-scratch sums. Nix felt like maybe this was something you would paint if you had the necessary implements and artistic ability. “Maybe we should see if we can get any more help.”

-

He was mildly ashamed to say it, but the doc had always kind of creeped Nix out. He imagined a hypothetical conversation with Dick, who he knew loved the kid, almost like a son: Listen, don’t get me wrong, he’s a good kid, I owe him my life, yadda yadda. But either he’s dropped the brown acid one too many times or the voodoo exorcism went FUBAR.

The doc had arrived on the farm on the heels of Sunshine and Rainbows, aka Mr. Bright Eyed and Bushy Tailed, aka one Edward “Babe” Heffron. Nix had written Babe in South Philly, being as he was a connoisseur of bud and once upon a time had been famed among their company for smoking anything anyone put in his hand, often to his own detriment. The operation was getting big enough that Nix needed another pair of hands, other than Liebgott, of course, who was still fortifying the long driveway whilst giving away his cover by playing Led Zeppelin IV as loudly as was possible. It was a tough calculation, because Babe was a genius of pot, but he couldn’t keep a damn secret, and lo and behold he had dragged along with him a dark shadow in the human form of Eugene Roe. They came up the driveway in a big old Ford pickup that rattled its rust off in the potholes. Liebgott had dismantled the traps specially for their arrival when they had called from Williamsport to say they were an hour out.

“I figured we could use a medical professional to lend some credibility to the operation,” said Babe thoughtfully, sparking a joint on the porch over sweating jam jars of iced tea.

Roe snorted or something but it wasn’t really a normal person’s self-effacing laugh. Winters clapped his back. Nixon knew Roe had dropped out of medical school after two years but there was no need to say anything. Everyone knew that. Now he was working construction and Babe claimed to be working as a mechanic in a garage, but this seemed suspect given the state of the car they had driven up in.

“Well we sure as hell are glad you boys are here,” said Dick magnanimously.

Babe exhaled an opaque cloud that rivaled Nix’s own father’s ability with a stogie. “Can we see the bush?”

They went out all together to the field and ducked between the rows of corn. Babe knelt in the soil. It was damp with dew and quiet in here. It would have been almost like over there except it smelled good. “What’s the cross,” Babe said, inspecting the plants.

“It’s an indica blend…”

“Well, I can tell that,” he said.

“So you’re an expert on the plant now too?”

“I’ve just smoked an awful lot of joints in my life, Captain Nixon.”

Roe snorted again. When they all looked to him he said, “You said in the letter there was some kind of altruistic reason for all this.”

“It’s medicine, Gene,” Babe said gently, but also like they had had this conversation thirty thousand times. Nix filed away for later the intimation that Roe had read the letter he’d sent Babe at home in South Philadelphia.

“I guess you don’t remember the psychic break you had at the Do Lung Bridge.”

Babe waved this remark off, even though Nix remembered it too. It threw a chill down his back, like a water balloon had hit him at the base of his neck. “That was laced,” Babe said.

“With what!”

“I don’t know! Something bad!” Babe turned to Dick and Nix. “Gene’s teetotal,” he said, like this was a big old point of contention.

So that counted out the bad acid. Maybe he was just like this. Maybe he had had those big sad bug eyes as a child or an infant or a fetus in the womb. “Good on you, Doc,” Nix said.

“I ain’t trying it,” Roe said, folding his arms over his narrow chest, “no matter what it does.”

The doc was a tough cookie. Babe had claimed, over there, about as high as the Byrds song, that the doc came from a long line of the kind of folks described in Dr. John’s “Gris-Gris Gumbo Ya Ya” and that, as such, he could heal wounds with his mind. When it didn’t work, as on the night when Jackson died, or the night when Hoobler died, or in the forest when Muck and Penkala died, or the night when Liebgott stopped speaking, he went to sit for a while on the edge of camp until Dick went over and made him eat something. Nix watched them in a state of confused envy, and then he went to write the letters to the families, so that Dick wouldn’t have to.

At dusk, after they ate a light dinner of corn on the cob and rice and beans, he took the boys up into the hayloft with an armful of blankets. “Sorry this is the best we got,” he said. He had said that about a hundred god damn times since they got here.

Roe looked like he wanted to say, you’ve got to stop apologizing for everything. Instead he said, “Where does Lieb sleep.”

Babe perked up. “Joe’s here?”

“You didn’t see him in the driveway?”

Nix sighed. “He’s gonna want to know what he did wrong that you saw him,” he said.

“Does he still — ”

Nix shook his head. “Not a peep.”

In a couple days time, he couldn’t take it anymore, and he was hot and tired and stoned, up to his elbows in earth in the field, showing Babe how to replant the hatchlings he’d grown from seed. “You guys room together or what?”

“Me and Gene?” Babe’s eyes were red in the corners from smoking and from the sun. “What about you and Dick?”

Dick, who had the radio on inside turned up as loud as it would go, so that they would hear it in the field, playing Crosby Stills and Nash doing “Suite: Judy Blue Eyes.” “What about me and Dick?” said Nix.

Babe was a smart kid. He realized this was going nowhere. With muddy hands he popped one of the seedlings out of its little pot and cradled it into the ground. “Well, I think he thinks he’s looking after me, but in actuality, I am looking after him.”

[arabellaflynn]

Behold, the Halloween costume. I gave up on finishing the coat on time when the sudden advent of winter (it snowed in Boston, and stuck, on the 30th) made it clear that I wasn't going outside in it this year, but I did complete the dress for some nice photos.

There is a pattern for these given in Franz Joseph's technical manual, available here if you want one, but it's more of a base than a usable pattern. For starters, the grid sets out a pattern size 12, which is too small even for me -- too shallow in the bust, and way too narrow in the shoulders -- and the grading instructions ("Ratio unit up or down for larger or smaller sizes") are absolute gibberish, as anyone who produced either clothing or patterns professionally would know. Humans do not expand equally in length or width, or even proportionally in all parts of the body. If you want a real-world example of this, ask a busty lady about shopping for button-down shirts. Settle in for a rant.

It's also missing a number of construction details which are necessary for the dress to behave as it does when worn. The collar stands like that, for example, because it is a completely unshaped piece of ribbing stitched into the neck opening. (Collars that are meant to fold down are larger around the outside diameter than the inside diameter, for reasons that will be obvious if you think about it a bit.) Unsupported fabrics tend to fold at the stitching line, however, so to get it to stand evenly all the way around instead of just flapping forward at the deepest part of the front neck, exposing the seam allowance, and creasing at the corners to lay flat, it needs to be attached to an understitched facing on the interior of the garment. It would commonly be done as a front and a back, each a strip 2-3" wide following the shape of the neck opening and seamed together at the shoulders, but the pieces are absent from those given on the grid. 

[I will also point out here that the collars on these things behave completely fucking differently in every picture I can find. The tech manual pattern gives a symmetrical opening and fails to point out that the collar is supposed to be taller in the front than in the back, nor does it say where the seam in the ring should fall. In other diagrams and photos, the collars are slightly asymmetrical, slanted towards the insignia in the front, and dipping entirely to a point at the back right shoulder where the panel seam is. I suspect that the originals were cut by eye, and were probably slightly different from batch to batch.]

The "flap" in the skirt, designated (F) on the diagram, is not a slit but a kick pleat, which would require about a 2" extension on the edges of the front left and back right pieces in order to form the overlap. The pattern as given doesn't give correct construction of a slit either, which needs a bigger allowance or a facing at the open edge, and reinforcement at the top. The thing drawn there will just gap awkwardly when worn and slowly pull open the stitching of the seam above it as you move.

I will give them credit for some subtle shaping. The front and back panels are not quite the same -- the front is ever so slightly convex, to account for the bustline. The dress is oddly squat when laid flat, as most of the shaping is in the extreme swerve of the side seams. 

There are no finishing instructions given. The originals were probably just pinked on the inside to cut down on fraying and hemmed by machine, as the stitching was unlikely to show on camera. My version is lined, both because I intend to wear the damn thing more than once, and because the hems can be felled flat to just the interior layer, resulting in a garment with no visible topstitching anywhere. I used a historical flatlining technique because I didn't feel like matching up a billion pointed seams a second time, but if you find that sort of thing fun you could bag-line it like a modern garment. Similarly, the insignia and rank braid are attached to the outer layer only, with no stitches coming through to the lining. The zipper is concealed in a side seam. Space clothes, I feel, should be held together by magic. The existence of any stitching at all is implied only by the exterior seams, which are more of a design feature than anything. 

All of this is applicable only if you actually care. Only the series regulars (Uhura, Chapel, Rand) and guests featured in the episode consistently wore duty tunics with the asymmetrical pieced panels. Most of the extras wear a much simpler design -- a princess seam, kimono sleeve bodice attached at the waist to a pair of trapezoidal panels that form an A-line micromini skirt with kick pleats. Faster to construct and easier to alter, and most of them never get close enough to the camera for it to matter. Of annoyingly sexist note is that the female extras all seem to be in science blue or support red. The gold uniforms (designated in the tech manual as "tenné", a heraldry term for a saturated tawny yellow) are command track, and for the most part only the male extras filling in at the helm seem to wear them. To hell with that -- I'm the one making the damn thing, and my sleeves say I'm captain.

The TOS uniforms are one of the few examples of cosplay in which I come out looking appropriate, rather than overly sexualized. I look stacked like Lt Uhura because I am stacked like Lt Uhura. The late '60s were really the last time fashion was designed for my figure. Not that 36-24-36 doesn't still go over well IRL, but couture-wise, everything after that has been sketched for an idealized body that's much taller, and usually much less wildly curvaceous, than I am. There are few better examples of the difference than comparing the classic Nichelle Nichols to the new Zoe Saldaña. Nichols is constructed like a classic Hollywood pinup; Saldaña is built like a Balanchine ballerina. The new costumes with the princess seams and cap sleeves would look oddly-proportioned on Nichols, while the old tunics with the pieced panels and kimono sleeves would make Saldaña look twiggy. It's all in the cut.

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[sunlightbabe]

in proper fashion

Pairing: gwilym lee x reader A/N: … sis snapped. here’s roughly 10.5k of regency au for @supersonicfreddie ‘s big tropey writing challenge!! i had waaay too much fun writing this and hopefully y'all enjoy it too <3

Ophelia trotted into the drawing room with her head held high and her tail wagging happily behind her. She looked utterly pleased with herself, like the idiomatic cat that ate the canary- or rather, what you guessed to be more accurate, the English Setter that convinced your father to sneak her a few table scraps. Ophelia licked her snout as she walked over and joined you where you were reading on the couch.

“You’re not supposed to be up here,” you reminded her. Ophelia, for her part, curled up next to you and settled her head on your lap. You petted her a few times, fingers carding through her soft, speckled fur, before resting your hand on her back and turning your attention back to your book.

“Nothing is so painful to the human mind as a great and sudden change. The sun might shine or the clouds might lower, but nothing could appear to me as it had done the day before-”

The front door opened in the next room over and Ophelia raised her head, bumping into your hand and pushing your book out of the way. You huffed just as your mother strode into the room, her fingers working to untie the ribbon on her bonnet.

“Oh, there you are! I was hoping to have caught you before you left. Mrs. Adelaine told me the most exciting news during our-” Your mother cut herself off as she came to a stop before you. Her eyes landed on the dog and she lowered her hands to her hips. You tried not to look too amused but judging by the way her mouth pressed into a thin line, you failed.

“How many times must we have this discussion?” Her tone was exasperated as if to suggest that, in her opinion, you’ve had this talk far too many times already. “Furniture is meant for humans, not animals.”

You gave Ophelia a reproachful look. “You need to apologize,” you told her as you gently poked her nose. The dog merely blinked at you and you bit your inner cheek to hide a smile as your mother sighed. She turned her eyes to you and you muttered out an apology before firmly patting Ophelia’s flank. The dog got up and moved off of the couch before curling up dutifully at your feet.

“When we agreed to allow you to keep her-”

“I know mother, it won’t happen again,” you apologized quickly. You wanted to stop her before she really got going. The last time she had lectured you, she had droned on for the better part of an hour, and that had simply been about some mud you had dragged into the house. “What were you saying about Mrs. Adelaine now?”

Your mother’s face lit up as you reminded her of the gossip she was so eager to share with you. She finished untying the ribbon under her chin and removed her bonnet, placing it delicately on the table. “Mrs. Adelaine heard from Mrs. Kennedy that someone will be moving into the Lee estate by the end of the month!”

This wasn’t your first time hearing the news. The day before, your friends had told you all about the rumors during lunch, wondering if you knew who would be moving into the currently vacant home just down the street from where you lived.

You had known more about old man Mr. Lee than anyone else in town. An argument could have been made that you were the only person in town to actually know him. His house neighbored yours, technically speaking, even if there was a considerable amount of distance between the two homes, and you had grown up playing in his fields and, eventually, aiding him around his house. He had been quiet and borderline reclusive, only heading into the town proper to do his shopping when absolutely necessary- but even that was a task you had eventually taken up for him as he had gotten older. Mr. Lee had been quiet and came across as a little gruff at times but he was nothing but kind to you. It was Mr. Lee that had sparked in you an interest in reading and he had allowed you to freely borrow any of his books on the condition that you told him exactly what you thought of them when finished.

His passing the year prior had hit you hard.

And if anyone were to know more about the new neighbor, it would have been you.

Your mother looked at you expectantly and you guessed that she was hoping you would be able to provide her with more information on the matter, information that she could then share with her friends. You smiled and secured your cloth bookmark between the pages of your book before shutting it and placing it beside you on the couch. “That’s certainly exciting. The estate finally went up for sale, I take it?”

“I’m not sure,” your mother answered, looking a little disappointed that you didn’t know yourself. “Mrs. Adelaine heard that someone inherited it, I believe, although I never heard about Mr. Lee having any children?”

“He didn’t.” It was part of the reason he took such a liking to you, you theorized. You were the daughter he never had. “But he had family out in London. Maybe he left it for one of his nieces or nephews,” you thought aloud. Mr. Lee hadn’t talked of his family often, but when he did it hadn’t been with malice or distaste. On the rare chance that he had spoken of his brother, or his brothers children, it had always been simply, like how one would talk about the weather.

You knew his will discussed the matter of his house and his property, but you had never actually seen the document yourself. All you knew was that he had left you several of his books, all favorites of yours that the two of you had spent many hours discussing, and the dog that was currently laying at your feet.

Your mother hummed in thought. “Is your father home?”

“He’s either in the kitchen or the dining room,” you replied, “and I think he’s been feeding Ophelia human food again.” At the mention of both her name and ‘food’ in the same sentence, Ophelia perked up and turned to look at you, head tilted to the side.

You watched as your mother grabbed her bonnet and walked out of the room, calling your fathers name. She was done with your company, it seemed, but that hardly bothered you. You were eager to get back to your book and see how the story of the Modern Prometheus came to an end.

Ophelia whined and you looked from your book to the entryway. No one was there and you nibbled on your lower lip and turned your gaze to hers. “… well, I won’t tell if you won’t.”

You patted the cushion next to you and once again, Ophelia hopped onto the couch and sat by your side. You tangled your hand in her fur and knew that if dogs could smile, the two of you would share sporting grins.

»»————-　 🌺 　————-««

“Ophelia! You stupid dog!” Your breath came in shallow pants as your running slowed to a gradual and stuttering stop, one hand clutched to your chest, the other still holding up the hem of your dress. You watched as Ophelia continued her path down the cobblestone road and ran out of sight, her leash flapping freely behind her. You struggled to catch your breath and shook your head at your own stupidity. One of your stockings had needed to be readjusted and you had ever so foolishly set Ophelia’s leash down on the road for just a moment to fix it. One moment of inattentiveness was all she needed and your morning walk had quickly turned into a morning sprint. With a groan, you stomped your foot against the ground like a petulant child. There were things around the house that needed to be done today, you didn’t have time to run around after her like a chicken with its head cut off. You pulled the skirts of your dress up a little more- not that it mattered really, the edges of the pale fabric were already stained with grass and dirt- and continued down the road, cursing under your breath with every step. Even though she was no longer in sight, you knew where Ophelia was headed. She always ran off to the same place whenever she managed to get free. You were thankful that she was consistent, at least, although you thought you had moved past her frequent attempts at escape. Apparently not. The grass glittered with dew as you steadily made your way towards the Lee estate, a path so familiar to you that you swore you would have been able to walk it with your eyes closed. The spring air was brisk and crisp and everything looked a little muted under the early morning light. It was far too early for this nonsense and you could only hope that all this running would tire Ophelia out and she would spend the rest of the day sleeping inside. At least the road was quiet. You were glad that no one else was out and about to see you like this, dress stained and hair mussed. The road gently sloped up as you turned onto the entryway of the Lee Estate. The house looked similar to yours, made of dusty red brick with vines of ivy climbing up the walls and around the white windowsills. The front yard was darted with trees and you noted that the bushes lining the path up to the front door looked as if they had been recently trimmed. Everything looked a little tidier, come to think of it. The new owner must have been moving in soon. Ophelia was undoubtedly in the back yard, looking for birds to chase or for a comfortable place to curl up, and you started to head towards the back of the house to begin your search when the front door caught your eye. The door was open, but only slightly, as if someone had forgotten to shut it all the way. Or as if something furry and curious had snuck inside. You hesitated for just a moment. If your new neighbor was in town, you would have surely heard about it by now, right? You just needed to take a quick peek into the house. You’d only be inside for a minute at most, you reasoned as you pushed the door open and crossed the threshold. Everything looked mostly as you remembered it. The carpet that stretched across the small foyer looked new and you didn’t recognize some of the paintings on the walls, but little else had changed. You crept quietly across the floorboards, eyes sweeping around for a familiar flash of white and black fur. Chances were she was in the kitchen, trying to get into one of the lower cabinets, nosing around for any food that might have been hidden from sight. You hoped so anyways. You wanted to find your dog and leave as soon as possible. This was your first time back at the estate since the late Mr. Lee’s passing. You felt like you were intruding, walking around without him there- technically you were trespassing regardless, but in your defense, the front door had been left open. You were in the dining room, checking underneath the table when you heard it. “Oh, hello. How did you get in here?” The voice was muffled through the walls, but the house was otherwise so quiet that you had no trouble making out the words. Hearing the man’s voice and learning that you were not in fact alone sent a pang of anxiety through your chest. You made your way through the house, wandering towards where you believed the voice had come from, and you had just reached the door to the study when you heard it once more. “Someone must be looking for you, I’d imagine.” The door was partially opened but from where you stood, you couldn’t see anyone inside. Now was as good a time as any to make your presence known. Letting out a shaky breath, you pushed the door open the rest of the way and stepped into the room. To the right of the room, previously hidden by the door, was Ophelia. She happily hopped from paw to paw, her tail wagging behind her so strongly that her entire rear swayed with her. Her eyes met yours as you entered the room and she barked once in greeting, drawing the attention of the man in the room to you as well. Crouched in-front of Ophelia was one of the most handsome men you had ever seen in your life, with sharp features and a short, neatly kept beard. His clothes were clean and crisp and his navy travel coat brought out his stunningly blue eyes. You knew that staring was rude- you could hear your mother’s voice chastising you in the back of your head- but you couldn’t stop. You looked at him and he looked at you, a bemused expression crossing his face. “Is she yours?” “Pardon?” Your eyelashes fluttered as his voice drew you from your thoughts. You processed his words a moment later and answered his question before he could repeat himself. “Oh! Yes, she’s mine.” The man stood up and Ophelia padded over to you and pressed her cold nose against the back of your hand. You ruffled the fur on top of her head and grabbed her leash. When you looked back at the man, he was looking between her and you, a small smile on his face. Your face felt heated and you wrung Ophelia’s leash in your hand. “Your front door was open,” you explained, “and she’s never been one to respect people’s privacy. She’d apologize, but I’m afraid she’s not very good at that, nor do I think she’s capable of remorse, truthfully, so allow me to apologize on her behalf; Ophelia is sorry for intruding and entering your home uninvited. As am I.” “Apology accepted,” he replied easily. “Besides, I’m the one to blame if I forgot to shut the front door.” “I doubt that would have mattered. If it had been shut, I’m sure she’d be out in your yard, terrorizing your flower beds or looking for local wildlife to torment,” you explained with a small shrug. “She’s a menace.” The man laughed at that and the warm sound of it made your heart leap against your ribcage. “Well in that case, I suppose I should invest in some safety precautions and fortify my estate against… Ophelia, was it? Beautiful name.” “I’d like to take credit for it, but the late Mr. Lee is the one who named her.” You dropped his name casually and watched as the man in-front of you stood a little straighter. “You knew my uncle then, I take it?” So they were related. “I did,” you hummed. “Ophelia was actually his before he passed.” You knew that the late Mr. Lee hadn’t been close with his family, but that didn’t stop you for extending your condolences. “I’m sorry for your loss.” “Thank you,” the man said with a small dip of his head as he tucked his hands into the pockets of his coat. “To be quite honest with you, I didn’t know him all that well. He visited once or twice when I was a child, but other than that…” he trailed off and after a moment he shrugged. “But thank you. From what I remember of him, he was a good man.” “He was,” you agreed with an eager nod of your head. Silence stretched between you two but it was oddly comfortable considering you didn’t even know the name of the man before you. You allowed your eyes to sweep across the room, taking in the once empty bookshelves that were now partially filled with the late Mr. Lee’s nephew’s belongings. An open box full of books and papers rested on the desk and you could see a few more unopened boxes resting on the ground and on the small couch near the fireplace. You both spoke at the same time. “We’ll let you get back to-” “I was wondering if you’d like-” You both stopped, waiting for the other to continue. A giggle slipped out from your mouth and the man smiled at you once more, warm and genuine, before gesturing for you to speak first with a small gesture of his hand. “I can see that you still have plenty of unpacking to take care of, so Ophelia and I will be taking our leave. I’d hate to waste any more of your time.” You saw the man’s face fall for just a second, but he recovered so quickly that you couldn’t be sure if it had really been there or not. “I wouldn’t consider it wasted time in the slightest.” His words sent a thrill of delight crawling down your spine. “Allow me to walk you to the door?” You nodded and he led the way out of the study. Ophelia was all too eager to follow after him, tugging on her leash as you lingered a few steps behind. The walk was short, unfortunately, and you were embarrassed to see that you hadn’t shut the front door behind you after tiptoeing inside. “If I stumble across any more dogs in here, the blame falls on you, I’m afraid,” the man teased, reaching out and resting his hand against the side of the door. You smirked and tucked a stray lock of hair behind your ear. “That is more than fair- although I suppose I should warn you now that Ophelia is quite clever and has a knack for sneaking out of the house. We live just up the road and she’ll undoubtedly make her way here again, I’m sure, so I’d like to apologize in advance for her future annoyances.” “No apologies necessary. This was once her home, after all. She’s more than welcome to come and visit anytime she wants.” He looked directly at you as he spoke and for the first time in your life, you understood why the heroines in your books were always swooning and on the verge of fainting when speaking with a handsome man. “I’ll make sure to tell her you said that.” The man held your eyes for a moment longer before bowing slightly to you, his hand still resting on the door. “It’s been a pleasure meeting you, miss…?” he trailed off and raised an eyebrow expectantly. You gave him your name and he repeated it softly, a smile once more tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Gwilym. Gwilym Lee,” he offered in return. Ophelia tugged on her leash once more and the surprising force of it nearly had you toppling over your feet and out the door. With a small wave and a wish for Gwilym to have a good night, you and Ophelia walked down the front path and back onto the main road. You waited until the house was no longer in view before turning to your dog, who looked as unbothered as a dog could. “You better not make a habit out of this young lady. I’m sure Mr. Lee is a busy man, we don’t want to become a nuisance.” The only indication that she was listening to you was a flick of her ears towards you. “… he was awfully handsome though, wasn’t he? Mister Gwilym Lee. Oh, the ladies in town are going to lose their minds and composures when they see him.” You wondered if anyone else in town knew that he had moved in or if this was, for the moment, at least, information privy to only you. “We must be careful. No more mischief or unexpected visits to Mr. Lee- we don’t want people spreading rumors.” Ophelia said nothing in response and you wondered, not for the first time in your life, what people would say if they knew just how often you talked to her.

»»————-　 🌺 　————-««

“If I didn’t know any better, I would think you do this on purpose.” Gwilym’s chosen greeting caught you off guard and you laughed, short and sudden and very unladylike. It was a beautiful day outside, sunny and warm with a faint, refreshing breeze. Ophelia happily bounded across the front yard, her tongue lolling out of her mouth as she pranced through the grass. You came to a stop just a few feet away from Gwilym, who was attempting to prune some of the bushes lining the front of his new home with a pair of rusty trimmers. “And what exactly are you accusing me of?” you asked, raising your chin and crossing your arms over your chest. “Unleashing your attack dog on the poor neighborhood,” he said as he gestured with the trimmers to where Ophelia was sniffing at something on the ground. His tone and face were both serious, but even from where you stood you could see a gleam of humor in his eyes. “She really is a menace. She was chasing some poor squirrel around the lawn before you showed up.” “I tried to warn you when we first met. It’s not my fault you didn’t take me seriously.” Gwilym had been in town for a little over a month now and in that time, Ophelia had escaped to his property seven different times. Eight, if you included her most recent venture. The weather had been exceptionally lovely for the past couple of weeks and it wasn’t your fault that your parents kept leaving the doors open and unsupervised. You did nothing to remind them to keep them shut, either, but that was neither here nor there. To say you enjoyed Gwilym’s company would be putting it lightly. You were infatuated with the man- as was every eligible lady in town, it seemed, although you could hardly blame them. Gwilym Lee was handsome, financially secure, and single. Those were the popular talking points about him, anyways, and whenever the subject of the town’s newest bachelor came up in your social circles, which it did, and quite frequently too, you took a secret sort of pride in the fact that no one else seemed to know him as well as you did. Yes, Gwilym was handsome, but he was much more than that. He was clever and quick-witted, shamelessly able to exchange teasing remarks with you at ease. He was relaxed and not at all stuck up like some of the men you knew. Gwilym Lee was a perfect gentleman, always polite and kind, even when it was just the two of you and there was no one around to impress. And it always was just the two of you. Your friends would die if they knew just how often you were together, alone at his estate, far away from prying eyes. “Doing a bit of yard work today?” you asked, toeing a clipped branch that laid on the ground between you. Gwilym’s focus was on the shrubbery and so you allowed yourself to gaze at him with open fondness. He was wearing a loose white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows and the sight of his forearms made you feel like there was a hummingbird trapped in your ribcage. “Attempting to, anyways.” Snip, snip. “My uncle’s tools are weathered and getting them to cooperate is proving to be quite the task.” Gwilym wiped his forehead with the back of his hand and turned to face you more directly. “I don’t usually see you ladies at this time of day. No big plans today then?” “Not today. Mother’s at home, dusting the whole house and scrubbing all the floors, and I should be helping her, but she’s been driving me mental as of late.” You paused for a moment as Ophelia ran over, a large and knobby stick in her mouth. She dropped it by your feet, in the space between you and Gwilym, and looked excitedly at you both. “She’s fretting about my cousins,” you elaborated as you reached down to grab the stick. “One of them has been engaged for over a year now and still hasn’t made any wedding preparations. The other hasn’t even begun to search for a husband yet and my mother acts like that’s a personal offense against her. She’s ‘deeply concerned’ that my cousin is getting to be 'too old’ and that she’ll never marry.” You threw the stick across the yard, perhaps with a bit more force than necessary. If Gwilym noticed, he didn’t comment on it. “I should mention that my cousin is a year younger than I am.” Gwilym winced in sympathy as he turned back to the hedges. “At least you’re not the subject of her criticism.” Snip. “… unless she’s choosing to go about it in a very indirect way?” “I honestly think she’s just resigned herself to the idea that I’m going to become a spinster.” You were only half-joking but the sound of Gwilym’s sharp laugh made you smile. Ophelia came bounding back and you threw the stick once more as he continued to snicker. “You don’t believe that, do you?” Gwilym arched an eyebrow and there was something warm and almost tender in his eyes that made your breath hitch in your throat. He would do that, on occasion- he’d look at you with a sort of softness that made you hope and yearn. “That I’ll become a spinster? Maybe.” You shrugged and averted your eyes to where Ophelia was biting on her stick, sharp teeth stripping off the bark. “It wouldn’t be so bad, I suppose. I’d have Ophelia with me and I could take up gardening or some other hobby to occupy my time.” Your hands nervously twisted and tugged at the skirts of your dress. You had never discussed this with anyone before. You knew that if you told your friends, if you confessed your fear of the future to them, that they would laugh it off and refuse to take you seriously. They’d call you silly and ridiculous and would move on without a second thought. They wouldn’t listen. Gwilym listened. He always did. “Is that what you want?” You met Gwilym’s eyes once more. It was just the two of you, always just the two of you. If you wanted to, and god above, you certainly wanted, you could reach out for his hand. There was no one around to see and gasp at your lack of etiquette. You could be bold and unladylike and nobody would know. “.. No. I don’t think it is.” Gwilym’s eyes continued to stare into yours and you felt faint. You took control of the situation in the only way you knew how. “Although maybe it would be for the best. If I took up gardening, I could help you and teach you how to care for your hedges. Just look at them, you’ve mangled the poor things.” The mounting tension diffused as Gwilym tore his eyes away from you to look over the hedges, hand raised to scratch as his jaw. “I’ll admit that this isn’t my finest work, but in my defense, you’ve seen the state of my tools.” He waved the rusty trimmers in his hand to make his point. “Sure Mr. Lee, blame the trimmers.” “Gwilym,” he corrected you gently. “Gwilym.” Referring to him by his first name went against everything your mother had taught you about manners and 'being proper’. You delighted in the small thrill. “I’m sure my father will let you borrow his tools if you ask nicely.” “Hmm, that’s not a bad idea, but I think that’s a task for another day- I fear I may kill the hedges entirely if I keep at it,” Gwilym said as he plucked his finger against one of the many jaggedly cut branches. “It’s about time for lunch, anyways. Would you two care to join me?” “That would be lovely, thank you.” You called Ophelia over with a sharp whistle. “… but only if you promise that your cooking is better than your gardening.” Gwilym playfully snipped the trimmers in your direction and you giggled as you darted past him and through the front door, Ophelia hot on your trail.

»»————-　 🌺 　————-««

Spring stretched on into summer and the days grew hotter and hotter. Stray pieces of hair were plastered to your sweaty forehead as you made your way through the center of town. You were glad you left Ophelia at home, although you were a bit jealous of her. She was undoubtedly stretched out in the shade somewhere while you were trudging around the market, eager to finish your shopping so you could head home and cool off. The bridge of your nose and your cheeks felt unpleasantly warm and you wished you had thought to bring a parasol or even one of those dreaded sunhats your mother insisted on buying you. You stopped by the edge of the tailors shop and took a moment to fan your face with your hand, your eyes drifting shut. It felt nice, but waving your hand required more effort than you’d like and you pouted as your arm started to feel uncomfortably warm from the exertion. “Are you alright?” You didn’t have to open your eyes- you would recognize that voice anywhere. You tilted your head to the side and groaned as you continued to fan your face, hand going limp rather pathetically. “No. It’s hot. I doubt that I will survive the day. You’ll tell my parents that I love them dearly, won’t you Mr. Lee?” Gwilym let out a choked out laugh and you peeked open an eye to look at him. He stood just a few feet in-front of you, a paper wrapped parcel tucked under his arm. He looked at you with squinted eyes, his hand raised against his brow to block the sun from shining directly into them. What caught your attention, however, was the dark jacket resting on his frame. “Are there any other final requests that need to be fulfilled? Any last words?” “How are you wearing that?” “… are you sure those are the ones you want to go with?” Gwilym smiled and you rolled your eyes, unable to prevent yourself from smiling as well. “I’m serious! That can’t be comfortable by any means,” you said as you gestured to his outfit. Your skin felt hot and prickly just looking at him. Gwilym, for his part, simply shrugged, looking entirely unbothered by the heat. “It’s a bit warm, but it’s manageable,” he said, hand falling to rest by his side. “I only came out to pick up a few things anyways and I just finished up.” You still had a few more things to pick up. Your mother wanted bread from the bakers to go with supper and you had planned on stopping by the bookshop to see if they had anything new from that poet you liked, and yet- “What a coincidence! I was just heading back home as well.” “I suppose that means we should walk back together, doesn’t it?” Gwilym said with an audible sigh, and yet he extended his arm to you. You narrowed your eyes at him as you stepped forward and linked your arm with his, hand resting gently on his bicep, careful not to drop the bag in your other hand. The two of you started walking and you were acutely aware of how you looked, the two of you standing so close together. “Come now, is my company really that bad?” “It’s dreadful.” You could tell that Gwilym was trying his hardest to keep a straight face, but the corner of his mouth twitched up into a semi-smirk, just a little bit. You hummed in thought and tapped your fingers idly against his arm. This was, you realized, the first time you had touched one another. “Well you’re no delight either, Mr. Lee,” you beamed, both unable and unwilling to hide your amusement. “Ah, so now the truth comes out!” Gwilym sounded so scandalized that you almost believed that he was, but you looked up at him to see him smiling just as much as you were. “And as long as we’re being truthful, I must admit that I enjoy Ophelia’s company more than yours.” “You wound me Mr. Lee!,” you gasped. You were only able to hold the shocked expression on your face for just a moment before you dissolved into giggles, Gwilym following you soon after. You felt the eyes of the few other townsfolk who dared to brave the heat follow you as you two made your way across town and towards the road that led home. “They must think we’re mad,” Gwilym mused once the town proper was no longer in sight. You gave him a doubtful look. “Did you not notice they were looking at us?” he asked you. “I did, but I don’t think it’s because they think we’re mad. People here like to gossip and this,” you squeezed his arm, just a little, for emphasis, “is something worth gossiping about.” Gwilym looked down at your linked arms, eyes landing on where your hand rested against him, and raised an eyebrow. “I don’t think two friends walking together is all that exciting,” he said slowly and carefully. “Is there really nothing else for them to talk about?” “Don’t be so daft, Gwilym. They must think we’re very friendly to be walking like this.” A look of realization dawned on his face and you patted Gwilym’s arm comfortingly. “I wouldn’t worry about it too much. Everyone talks about you all the time anyways, this hardly changes anything. I’m sure your reputation is still intact.” You hadn’t realized what you said until he questioned it. “People talk about me?” Gwilym looked positively bewildered and it was, quite frankly, adorable. You nibbled on your lower lip. “Well, the people I spend my time with talk about you, anyways. You’re a common subject during our lunches. The ladies in town find you exceptionally handsome and charming,” you said with a waggle of your eyebrows. Gwilym scoffed but you could tell from the pink tinge to his cheeks that he was embarrassed. Or perhaps a little sunburned? “If it makes you feel any better,” you continued before he had the chance to say anything in reply, “I make sure to tell them how awful you are at every given opportunity. I try to paint you as a real heathen but I don’t think it’s been working.” “Does that mean you talk about me often then?” You could tell by his tone that Gwilym was teasing you but a jolt of embarrassment went through you regardless. You floundered, mouth held slightly agape as your brain rushed to come up with something to say that wasn’t incriminating. Did it matter if he knew that you sometimes spoke of him to your friends? You had, on several occasions, told him of your distaste for gossip- but that was different, wasn’t it? The stories you shared with your friends were short, simple, and usually uninteresting. So why were you so embarrassed? You were quiet for a moment too long. “Ah, so you do,” he said with a hum. “I tell them nothing but bad things,” you said, voice quiet, words falling from your mouth clumsily. This wasn’t the first time you had been flustered around Gwilym, and it surely wouldn’t be the last, you expected, but it felt more significant this time. “I wouldn’t expect anything else from you.” Gwilym lowered his voice to match yours and you didn’t have to look at him to know that his eyes were on you once again. You refused to meet his gaze and looked straight ahead as the two of your walked, your house coming into view just a little ways down the road. You squeezed your hand against his arm one more time before pulling your arm back and away from his. You missed the contact immediately and tangled your hand in the skirts of your dress in order to stop yourself from reaching out for him once more. “Thank you for walking me home. I’d invite you in for supper, but I’m sure inviting a guest over without prior notice would send my mother over the edge.” You finally looked back over at Gwilym. He was smiling, but it looked a little more reserved than you were used to seeing. He seemed lost in thought as he looked between you and your house. “Well we certainly don’t want that.” He brought his hand up to his face and lightly scratched at his jaw. “Another time then, perhaps.” The two of you reached the fence that surrounded your yard. You could hear Ophelia bark from deep within the house and a moment later, you could just make out your mother’s voice, telling her to settle down. You walked through the front gate but lingered on the other side as the sun continued to beat down overhead. A bead of sweat trickled down your hairline. “I’m just about finished going through the last of my uncle’s things,” Gwilym said after a long and pensive moment, fingers tapping along the nearest fence post. “I’ll be keeping most of it, but there’s a decent number of things that I have no use for. I was planning on bringing it all to the market, but I wanted to ask you beforehand if you’d like to come over and see if there’s anything you wanted to keep? I should be done sometime this week- although you could always help me with that too, if you’d like?” Your meetings with Gwilym always stemmed from chance, whether that came from Ophelia getting out and running to his estate or running into each other in town, as you had earlier that afternoon. Never before had you made actual plans. You blinked away your surprise and hope once again reared its ugly head in the back of your mind. “I- Yes, I would like that very much.” “Excellent,” Gwilym said a little breathily, a wide smile appearing on his face. “You’re more than welcome to bring Ophelia along, of course. Or you could leave her behind if you’d prefer.” A wave of giddiness crashed over you. “And here I was led to believe that you enjoyed her company more than mine, but now the truth comes out,” you parroted his words from earlier. “And so it does.” There was that familiar look in his eyes again, the one that made your knees weak and your heart soft. You were grateful that the fence was between you- if it hadn’t been there to help support you, you were sure your legs would buckle out from underneath you. You could hear your mother yell at Ophelia once more. “I suppose I should let you save your mother from Ophelia’s reign of terror,” Gwilym said thoughtfully, his eyes still locked on yours. “That’s probably for the best,” you agreed with a small sigh. “I’ll see you later on this week then?” The two of you said your final goodbyes and you remained at the front gate, watching Gwilym walk back to the main road. You swore under your breath, a pleasant ache in your heart. If there had been any doubt in your mind before, it was gone now. You had completely and utterly fallen for him. Only one question remained: what were you going to do about it?

»»————-　 🌺 　————-««

Supper was quiet yet comfortable. The dining room was full of the sounds of silverware scraping against porcelain as you ate with your parents. Even Ophelia was on her best behavior as she laid by your feet under the table, eyes wide and hopeful as she peeked at you from under the tablecloth, patiently waiting for you to accidentally drop something onto the floor. “I heard from Mrs. Adelaine that you and Mr. Lee were getting cozy the other day,” your mother said casually about halfway through the meal. You nearly choked on your drink. “Oh?” You set your glass on the table and reached for a napkin, dabbing at your mouth. “Mr. Lee- he’s the one who moved in just down the road, isn’t he?” your father asked. If he was surprised by the news, he didn’t let it show, which made you wonder just how much he knew. Like you, your father wasn’t one for gossip. “Yes dear.” Your father hummed and took another bite of his food, chewing thoughtfully for a moment. “He’s a good man. Has a decent head on his shoulders." “Wait, you know him?” you asked, tone a bit more defensive than you had intended as you set your silverware on the table. You were no longer interested in eating and instead turned your full attention to your father. Your father, for his part, simply nodded. “I’ve spoken with Mr. Lee a few times. I introduced myself and welcomed him to the neighborhood during his first week here- come now, don’t look so surprised, it’s important to greet your neighbors- and I’ve ran into him in town on more than one occasion.” Your father paused for a moment to purposefully drop a bite of boiled potato onto the ground. You could feel Ophelia leave your feet to snatch it up. You didn’t even try to stop her. “He seems highly intelligent and he was very complimentary of you whenever you came up during our conversations.” Gwilym had talked about you. And with your father no less. “I think he’s a lovely gentleman,” your mother chimed in, “and would make an excellent suitor, if those are indeed his intentions. Wouldn’t you agree, dear?” “Yes, absolutely.” You had feelings for Gwilym, strong and intense feelings that left you a little breathless if you thought about them for too long. You could admit that. However, you did not want to be having this conversation with your parents, especially your mother of all people. They meant well, and you knew that they just wanted you to be happy and provided for, and married above all else, but the thought of discussing all of that with Gwilym in mind was too much for you to handle at the present moment. Your means of escape presented itself to you with a cold nose against your leg. “May I be excused for just a moment?” The words came tumbling out of your mouth as you toyed with your napkin, twisting the fabric between your fingers. “Father keeps giving Ophelia some of his food and I want to-” You didn’t get to finish as your mother started to scold your father, who looked only slightly guilty as he started to defend his actions. You tore off a small piece of bread and made sure to catch Ophelia’s attention with it before you stood up and made your way to the kitchen, actions going unnoticed by your parents as they discussed what was and wasn’t the proper way to care for a dog. Ophelia dutifully followed after you, licking her mouth as she eyed the treat you dangled in-front of her. The kitchen was stuffy, air still warm from your mother’s cooking, and you took a moment to collect your thoughts as you gave Ophelia the bread, which she gobbled up in just a few bites. If you returned to the dining room, you expected that your mother would keep pressing the matter of you and Gwilym and courting and engagements and everything else that made your heart race but your head hurt. You couldn’t just leave the house, not without a proper reason, one that wouldn’t raise any suspicion- Your eyes fell upon the door that led from the kitchen to the back yard. “This stays between us, young lady, you mustn’t tell a single soul,” you whispered to Ophelia as you made your way towards the back door. She followed after you and her ears perked up in excitement once your hand fell to the door knob. “Good girl.” You opened the door just a crack but it was all that Ophelia needed. She shoved her nose through the door and pushed it open with the rest of her head, darting across the backyard and leaping over the surrounding fence before the door even had a chance to close itself behind her. You could practically hear your heart hammering away in your ears as you silently counted to three before raising your voice. “Ophelia got out again! Someone left the door unlocked!” From the other room, you could hear a chair scrape against the floor and a moment later, your mother stood in the doorway of the kitchen. “Again?” she repeated and you gestured to the otherwise empty kitchen with a sweep of your hand. Your mother sighed and shook her head as she looked upwards, casting a silent prayer to the heavens. “Well, you better find her, and quickly too- it looks like it’s going to rain tonight and I don’t want either of you dragging mud into the house. Again.” “I won’t be gone long,” you promised as you rushed past your mother and made your way out of the house, not even bothering to grab an umbrella or a jacket.

»»————-　 🌺 　————-««

... But perhaps you should have, you realized as you continued your way down the road. It had been bright and sunny earlier but now everything looked muted under the dark and heavy clouds that started to roll across the sky. You walked a little faster, hoping to get to Gwilym’s house before the rain started. Getting caught outside in a rainstorm was not how you wanted to spend your night. Then again, perhaps the rain was a better choice than heading back home. You nibbled on your lower lip, hiking your dress up a little higher as you continued your brisk pace down the road as the wind started to kick up. You knew your mother well and knew that she wouldn’t easily drop the subject of a potential engagement to one Mr. Lee. But why did it bother you so much? You had thought about it before, the possibility of someday being Mrs. Lee, had daydreamed about the feeling of your hand in Gwilym’s, and yet when your mother brought up romantic intentions, those private thoughts of yours turned sour. Was it another internal act of rebellion against your mother? Or was it fear? Someone else voicing your thoughts made it all seem possible and real and with reality came the chance of rejection and heartbreak. Regardless of how strong and true your feelings might have been, if you kept them to yourself, there wasn’t a chance for you to get hurt. You were safe. Dear god, maybe you really were destined to become a spinster. A bark pulled you from your thoughts. You looked up to see Gwilym walking on the road towards you, Ophelia by his side, eagerly tugging on her leash in her excitement to get to you. He didn’t look at all surprised to see you, although the same could not be said for yourself- never before had Gwilym returned Ophelia to you, choosing instead to wait for you to come and retrieve her. “Gwilym,” you greeted as the two of you came to a stop, standing just a few feet from one another. Ophelia happily leapt towards you, her paws smearing dirt onto your dress. You ran your hands through her fur and tried to calm her down as best as you could while you kept your attention on the man before you. “Is everything alright? "Everything is, ah, quite alright, yes,” Gwilym said, voice hesitant and unsure. A ball of anxiety started to form in your chest, heavy and uncomfortable, and Gwilym held the end of Ophelia’s leash a little tighter in his hand, knuckles going white. “I had actually just left to come and see you when I ran into Ophelia on the road.” “See me?” you repeated, your voice sounding distant to your own ears. Ophelia started to whine as the wind picked up once more and the air was full of the sound of rustling leaves. “I had something I wanted to ask you and although I consider myself a patient man, I didn’t want to wait until we ran into each other by chance-” A peal of approaching thunder interrupted Gwilym. Ophelia continued to whine, pressing her face against your dress. The sky was much darker now and if you had to guess, you only had moments left before the downpour started, which was unfortunate considering the two of you were in the middle of the road, somewhere halfway between your respective homes. Gwilym reached his hand out to you just as the rain started to fall, a few drops splattering onto your face. You held his eyes as you placed your hand in his, quietly reveling in the feel of his warm palm against yours, and without hesitation or deliberation, the two of you started to make your way down the road, back towards Gwilym’s estate. The rain came down harder and faster until it felt like buckets were being continuously overturned on your heads. The three of you ran as fast as you could down the road, careful not to slip and fall, although it hardly mattered as mud splattered against your clothes with every step you took. By the time you reached Gwilym’s home, you were completely drenched and your dress was stained beyond repair. Ophelia barked anxiously as you all but stumbled through the doorway, a breathless giggle falling from your lips. Lightning cracked overhead and illuminated the otherwise dark house just as Gwilym shut the door behind you and all was still for a moment before a boom of thunder shook the walls. You pushed your hair out of your face as best as you could as you leaned against the foyer wall, hand still wrapped around Gwilym’s. Ophelia took the opportunity to shake her body, sending droplets of water and mud splattering all over both the room and the two of you. You flinched and raised your hand to protect your face from the onslaught as you scolded her, although it was hard to sound stern when you were still giggling to yourself. Ophelia finished drying herself off and pressed herself against your legs just as another bolt of lightning struck outside. “Stay here while I fetch us some towels,” Gwilym said, squeezing your hand before letting it go. “I’ll only be gone a moment.” Gwilym walked away and you turned your attention to Ophelia, who was reduced to a frightened pup as the storm raged on. You crouched down and held her in your arms as best as you could, eyes lingering on the windows. It had grown considerably darker outside and the storm showed no signs of stopping any time soon. Earlier that morning you had been complaining about the heat to your mother, but now you fought off a shiver, wet hair and clothes only furthering the chill you felt. Ophelia nudged your chin with the top of her head. “Here we are,” Gwilym said upon his return, which was, true to his word, just a moment later, a lit candle in one hand, folded towels in the other. You gratefully took one and draped it over your shoulders before reaching for another, wanting to completely dry off Ophelia before she made a further mess of the place. “There’s a fireplace in the study. Might be best to wait out the storm in there and try and warm up a little.” You thanked him softly as you stood back up and the three of you made your way through the house. The candle provided minimal lighting but it wasn’t an issue- you had spent so much time within these walls that you were sure you’d be able to successfully navigate your way through the house blindfolded. Rain pelted against the windows of the study, the sound of it covering your footsteps as you walked into the room. Gwilym made his way over to the fireplace to get the fire started as you lingered by the door, frowning at the thought of how much mud and water you were trailing throughout his home. You could practically hear your mother’s voice scolding you for making such a mess. Ophelia padded over to join Gwilym in-front of the fireplace. You dabbed your towel against your face and neck, knowing that trying to dry off your soaking wet clothes at this point would be a losing battle. Once you were as dry as you were going to get, you folded the towel and placed it on the cushion of the couch before carefully sitting on top of it. A shiver crawled down your spine and you wrapped your arms around yourself in a futile attempt to keep warm. “There we go,” Gwilym sighed as the fire sparked to life. He stood up straight and set the matches back on the mantle while Ophelia curled up as close to the fire as she could comfortably get. Gwilym turned to you and even though his back was to the fire, you could see him look at you with concern. “Are you alright darling?” Darling. Hearing him utter that word sent a bloom of warmth flooding through your entire body and had your breath catching in your throat. “Still just trying to warm up, that’s all,” you said softly. A determined look crossed his face and with a quiet “excuse me for one more moment”, Gwilym left the room. You stared into the fire and rubbed at your nose, now left alone with Ophelia, who was quietly enjoying the warmth of the fire, and your thoughts. Gwilym wanted to speak with you about something, wanted to ask you something so urgently that he had been ready to come visit you at your home. You thanked the heavens that you let Ophelia out when you did, otherwise Gwilym would have arrived at your home while your parents were discussing the two of you. That would have been disastrous and embarrassing and potentially friendship ending, depending on how insistent your mother was. You could see it now, your mother forcing Gwilym to propose to you right on the spot, eager to marry you off. You laughed quietly to yourself at the thought but another crash of thunder drowned it out. Another quiet minute passed before Gwilym returned. You didn’t see or hear him walk back in, but then there was a comforting weight as he draped something over your shoulders. It was one of his travel coats, the navy blue one you loved so much, the one he had been wearing when you first met, and you pulled it more firmly around yourself as Gwilym joined you on the couch, sitting close but still a respectable distance away from you. He had removed his coat and changed into a dry shirt, a white and billowy one that showed just a peek of his collarbones as he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. You tore your eyes away from him before he could notice your staring. “I’d offer you something to change into but I’m afraid most of my clothes are currently hanging up outside to dry.” The rain continued to come pouring down. “Although I suppose they’re far from dry at this point. I knew I should have brought them in earlier.” “It’s alright, this will do just fine, thank you.” You ran your fingers over the lapel. Your conversation came to a lull and for the first time since you had known each other, the silence between you felt strained. Gwilym’s shoulders looked tense as he stared at the fire and his face was creased with a thoughtful look. You opened your mouth to ask him if something was wrong, but he spoke before you could. “If the storm continues throughout the night, you’re more than welcome to spend the evening here. I wouldn’t feel comfortable letting you walk home in this foul weather and I don’t want you getting sick,” Gwilym said, running his thumb over his bottom lip. Spending the night unsupervised at a single man’s home was sacrilegious. Your mother, as well as half the town, would have a heart attack if they knew what he was proposing. A smile crept onto your face. “That would be lovely, thank you. Again. For everything,” you said earnestly. You would be spending the night at Gwilym’s estate. Even if the weather cleared up, it would be too late for you to walk home, even if Gwilym accompanied you. Your books hadn’t prepared you for a situation like this. The absurdity of the situation sunk in and you laughed, both from nerves and exhilaration. Gwilym turned his attention from the fire to you. “Dare I ask?” Gwilym said, sounding impossibly entertained. And perhaps, you thought, a little endeared. “It’s nothing, just…” you trailed off, hand resting against your face up as you thought of how best to articulate your thoughts. “The two of us, here alone. Me spending the night. If anyone were to find out, people would truly start to assume that we were courting- not that they don’t already think that, I’m sure. My mother is under the belief that you have those intentions in mind.” The whole situation was amusing. Your laughter died down, however, as you noticed that Gwilym wasn’t joining in as he often did. Instead, Gwilym stared at you intently as he straightened his posture, his eyes boring into yours. “… and if I did?” Gwilym spoke softly, voice almost drowned out by the rain, but you heard him clearly and you froze, his words catching you entirely off guard, your breath hitching in your throat. “P-Pardon?” “What if I did have those intentions in mind? Intentions of courting you. In proper fashion, I mean, with flowers and dinners and late night strolls and trips into town that aren’t full of thinly veiled excuses to spend more time with you.” As he talked, Gwilym turned to face you more directly, shifting subtly closer. Shadows from the fire danced across his face as he looked at you, eyes nervous yet hopeful. “Proper fashion?” you all but squeaked. “Gwilym, are you implying that you’ve been trying to court me these past few weeks, improperly or otherwise?” All those stolen looks, all those moments shared between just the two of you, every smile and laugh- you hadn’t been imagining anything. Excitement buzzed in your chest. “Months would, perhaps, be more accurate, but no, I wouldn’t label it as courting. I’ve been trying to impress and woo you, certainly, but… I hope it’s been working.” Gwilym extended his hand to you, the tips of his fingers nearly brushing your thigh, and it was like the world fell silent. With bated breath, he looked at you, continued to look at you, really, his eyes never having left your face since the moment he uttered his confession, and for the first time, you could place with certainty the emotion you saw on his face. Delicately, as if moving too suddenly would shatter the moment, you placed your hand in his. “I let Ophelia sneak out tonight. I usually just let my parents forget to unlock the door, but this evening I-I held it open myself.” Your admission spilled out from you of its own volition. Gwilym ducked his head momentarily and when he looked up again, it was with shining eyes and a beaming grin. “All this time, poor Ophelia has taken the blame when it’s really you that’s been the menace here. Whatever shall I do with you?” Gwilym’s fingers curled around yours as you shifted closer until his knee was touching yours. It felt like the storm outside was trapped within you, small jolts of electric something shooting out from every point of contact between you and Gwilym. “Whatever you’d like, Mr. Gwilym Lee. I’m all yours.” Your words came out breathily and you saw his eyes darken as they flickered down to your mouth. “So it’s a yes?” “Yes.” You squeezed his hand, feeling positively faint with joy. “I mean, yes, that would be suitable, I think.” “You’ve made me a very happy man,” Gwilym spoke slowly. He brought your hand up and gently, lovingly pressed a kiss against your knuckles and you gasped, face flushing with warmth. “I’ll have to ask your father for permission in the morning. When I said proper, I meant it.” You didn’t want to talk about your parents just now, but you understood his concern. “I guarantee he’ll give it to you. He told me during supper tonight that the two of you have talked before. About me.” Gwilym looked somewhat surprise at that, but his expression was free of guilt. “Not exclusively, of course, but he did let me know that my name has come up a few times during your conversations.” “How could it not?” Gwilym said as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. His thumb brushed against your knuckles and it felt like a whirlwind of butterflies had taken residence in your stomach. “You’ve enraptured me, darling. There’s not a single thought I’ve had over these past few months that hasn’t strayed to you. You’ve absolutely ruined me.” Gwilym brought a hand up to cup your face and it felt cool against your heated cheek. Your eyelashes fluttered at the contact as the two of you drifted closer. Gwilym’s eyes traveled down to your lips once more as you placed your hand over his, holding his hand more firmly against you, fighting the urge to turn your head and nuzzle against his palm. “You won’t be able to ask my father for permission until tomorrow, which means we won’t be properly courting until then,” you pointed out slowly. Gwilym said nothing, patiently waiting for you to elaborate. “As long as we’re here, currently doing things improperly…” You leaned in closer to Gwilym, your heart beating wildly in your chest. With a quiet exhalation of your name, Gwilym leaned the rest of the way in and kissed you. None of your daydreams or fantasies compared to the way his lips felt against yours. Gwilym kissed you tenderly and with purpose, as if there was nothing else he’d rather be doing. His mouth moved against yours languidly and your toes curled in your stockings as you kissed him back, eyes squeezing shut. It was, as far as first kisses went, absolutely perfect. The kiss came to an end, ending far sooner than you would have liked, and your eyes fluttered open to look at Gwilym. He looked at you as if you hung the stars in the sky and you shuddered as his thumb swept across your cheekbone. “You can’t imagine how long I’ve been wanting to do that for,” he hummed, his mouth brushing against yours with every word. You smiled and leaned forward to kiss him once more, delicate and chaste. “Actually, I think I can.”

[essythewolf]

Consequences

Fictober19 Day 28 - “Enough! I heard enough.”

Fanfiction - Enderal: Forgotten Stories

Prophetess | Tealor Aranthael

Warnings: Mentions of violence/gore

******************************

There was something about the way he looked at her that set her teeth on edge.

Disappointment was an ugly feeling. Especially on the receiving end of it. It always made her feel worse, like her stomach fell out of her and she would bow her head in shame.

But not this time. Not since the siege. Not since Taranor Coarek. But she said nothing, just seethed in her seat as he spoke.

Before, she did look at him in awe. The great Grandmaster of the Holy Order. Even in Ostian the protector’s and military arm of the Lightborn were whispered with reverence, even hope. Of course, out of earshot of the Creator’s Temple priests and enforcers.

Over time though, she saw him for what he was and the mask he wore. It was cracking, falling away in pieces before humanity’s impending doom. And what was beneath was ugly to her. Like Daddy when he wasn’t in a mood. Promises of good things and rare affection that somehow, she craved. And she hated herself for it and did so even more when that mask fell away to a monster that would beat her senseless at the littlest offense.

The seething felt like boiling water in her gut. Her hands grasped her trousers in tight fists beneath the table and she stared at the random assortment of artifacts, junks, and books on the long table.

With recent events, she barely noted her resignation and exhaustion twisting into rage. Rage that she kept bottle far, far away in the darkest corners of her mind. Something that, when she hunted alone outside of Ark was even more prevalent in mutilated corpses of animals and already rotting flesh of the Lost Ones.

She told herself it was a “safe” outlet.

But she’d heard the frightened whispers in the streets after the siege. That a monster lurked within the walls. That something else had killed the Nehrimese. That the great “Holy Order” wouldn’t go as far as these Pathless to tear their enemies to literal shreds, staining the streets in viscera.

‘What if it comes for us next?’

She was helping them. Even if they didn’t make that connection that it was the Prophetess.

Not yet.

But the Grandmaster did.

She chanced a glance at Aranthael. He had turned to the Truchessa; discussing technicalities that didn’t require her focus to overhear. But as he finished, he dismissed the rest except—

“Prophetess. There is something you and I need to discuss.”

She stiffened and stood. Carefully. Slowly. He waited until the last of them left, Jespar and Calia were noticeably absent and the lack of their usual presence made her feel even more alone.

“During the siege…”

She kept her face neutral. She could manage that much, even if her hands scrunched the hem of her shirt.

“Does anyone else know of your…ability?” He phrased it carefully, hands behind his back and mimicking her expression.

“Firespark did.”

His eyes narrowed slightly.

“I mentioned it offhand to Sha’Rim.”

He regarded her, eyes even more narrowed and lips turned down in a frown. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she wondered if Lishari would have considered Lycanthropy as something “kick ass”.

“Anyone else?”

She said nothing and simply stared back.

“It is safe to assume the mercenary and Keeper Sakaresh know as well?”

Now it was her turn to narrow her eyes. It did not go unnoticed as Aranthael nodded his head.

“As I expected. And your reason for not informing me of this particular ability?”

“I didn’t think it was any of your business,” she snapped. No point in hiding behind a mask. She crossed her arms over her chest, as if it would create another barrier against him, and glared.

“It is when citizens are panicking for a potential threat in the city.”

“Would you have preferred to die in your precious streets? I don’t regret what I did.”

“Your ferocity was a useful tool but it comes with consequences. Consequences that only add to the fragile balance we are trying to keep.”

“And yet you refused to step in for Sargent Harlajan when clearly the great Grandmaster could have pulled them back.”

His posture stiffened noticeably, “We have been over this.”

“Right. It is such a great honor, to die a gruesome death when they clearly begged for your help!”

“As it was for the Nehrimese soldiers that died at your hand.”

He was goading her. An itch spread up her arms. She clamped her hands around her arms and held herself tighter. She needed to get out of here. Even the high walls and clutter were becoming suffocating. And she couldn’t stand to look at his face. She wanted to tear it off.

“Forget it. I’m leaving.”

“We are not done.”

She ignored him and turned to leave. She was halfway across the room when he spoke again.

“If you are going to be a threat, then I will have no choice but to detain you.”

That made her stop. She tilted her head back at him.

“You won’t.”

“I will do what I must. If you are going to be a hindrance, then I will treat you as such until you are needed. We cannot afford any more risks.” As if to make his point, his hand rested on the hilt of his sword.

“You might as well kill me just as you did Bartarr.” She was giving herself away but she didn’t care.

He said nothing. But she saw the flicker of surprise, then anger cross his face before it hardened once more.

“Hollow words, and that will not be necessary. You are too deep in this with the rest of us.”

“But keeping me on a leash like a literal mongrel, will be necessary?” She snarled. Nails dug into her tunic and she focused on the aching pain that came with it.

“That will be your choice.”

Because I’m still useful, you won’t throw me away just yet. And the truth was just as painful. He was right.

She wanted to kill him. It was plain as day on her face, eyes narrowed, lips curled showing teeth.

Let it go.

I won’t.

But she did. Like air deflating from a balloon, she dropped her arms and turned away from him. Aranthael said nothing else as she left but she could feel his eyes bore into her back. Scalding her like a brand to cattle.

[emperorsfoot]

Second chapter of a multi-chapter work for the Entrapdak ship. 

Hordak flees with Catra. The Horde splinters into factions. Scorpia and Imp make a curious discovery in Entrapta’s old lab...

Catra grabbed his arm and pulled.

But Hordak didn’t move at first, just looked at her. Equal parts startled and confused. This was not how things were supposed to go.

“We have to go now!” Catra shouted.

Hordak looked back at the destroyed portal machine, at She-Ra in all her glory standing in its remains, at the rebellion soldiers that accompanied the attack. He notes that Entrapta was not among them. But that detail seemed immaterial next to the realization that he had lost. His defeat all but complete. Catra was right. If he wished to retaliate against his enemies and- -and exact revenge on the one that betrayed him, he would need to make a strategic retreat. Flee now, and return to fight another day.

Chin tilting down, Hordak looked at the gem on the collar of his exo-suit. Lilac with a pinkish under-hue, more of a muted fuchsia. Not a Horde color, but an Entrapta color. He would see Entrapta again. He promised himself.

He would run now, so that he could regroup and confront her for her betrayal.

Hordak would have satisfaction!

Nodding, Hordak turned to the cat-girl and it was he who lead their retreat from the collapsing laboratory.

…

No one knew what happened to Hordak or Catra. It was Hordak’s private laboratory that was destroyed. Not all of the Fright Zone, not all of Horde Command, not even the entire building. Just Hordak’s private lab, the adjacent living quarters, his throne room… basically the whole Sanctum. But Hordak’s Sanctum was not all of Horde Command. The Princess Alliance dealt them a devastating blow. But the Horde was not destroyed. The Horde remained.

It was only their leader and a handful of high ranking commanders and Force Captains that were lost.

Lord Hordak, Commander of the Mighty Horde Supremacy. Force Captain Catra. Force Captain Scorpia. And a handful of lieutenants and soldiers Catra had brought with her from the Crimson Wastes.

No one could find them anywhere in the Fright Zone and they were presumed dead. Lonnie, Regelio, and Kyle searched the ruin of the lab for hours. No bodies were ever found. It was entirely possible that their bodies might have been vaporized or disintegrated when the portal was destroyed. None of them knew what happened in that lab after the Princesses got in. All they knew was that Hordak was gone, and the Horde was without central leadership.

“We need to assess the damages from this attack.” Lonnie tried to rally those left that gathered near where the Sanctum used to be. “Take inventory of weapons, rations, other supplies. Then we can-“

“We need to retaliate!” Octavia cut her off before Lonnie could finish her thoughts. “The Princesses might think they’ve beaten us with this. That they’ve won. We need to show them how wrong they are! We need to hit them now! While they’re celebrating and their guard is down.”

“Hit them with what?” Grizzlor snorted derisively. “They’re gonna think they’ve won because they have won. Look at this place. Our leader is gone. Our base is half-destroyed. Most of our troops fled after the explosion. They beat us. The Rebellion won. We should flee like the deserters before they come back to sweep up the mess.”

“Then leave.” Lonnie barked at him. “You obviously won’t be an asset with a defeatist attitude like that.”

“It’s not over until it’s over.” Octavia agreed. “And I say it’s not over!”

“Attacking so soon after a blow like this isn’t wise!” Grizzlor snarled back, the hackles of his snout curling back. “Hordak would never make such an obvious mistake.”

“Hordak isn’t here!” Lonnie reminded him. For all they knew, he was vaporized when the lab was destroyed. Hordak was gone.

“We have no leader!” Grizzlor reminded him. Who did they expect to organize, conduct, and carry out any new retaliations against the Alliance? If the Force Captains were on the ground with the troops, who would be at Command organizing the movements. The logistics didn’t work.

“Then it’s time for a new leader!” Octavia roared over his naysaying. “I nominate me!”

“You?” Lonnie snorted with her own heavy dollop of derision. A snort accompanied by a laugh.

“Why not me?” She shot back. “I’m a Force Captain. Since Catra and Scorpia are absent, and Shadow Weaver was stripped of her position long before now, power naturally falls to me.”

That was –technically- true. The chain of Command went Hordak, then Shadow Weaver before she was deposed, after Hordak and Shadow Weaver, control of the Horde would pass to the highest ranked Force Captain available and able. With Scorpia and Catra missing in action, and Grizzlor ready to desert, that meant Octavia was now acting leader of the Horde.

There was just one problem with that.

“I’m not taking orders from you.” Lonnie announced, firm in her resolve.

“I’m the rightful heir to Horde Command!” The other woman snarled back.

“Yeah…” Lonnie agreed, crossing her arms over her chest. “But I have it on good authority that you’re a Dumb Face. So, I won’t be voting for you.”

“You don’t vote for Commanders!”

Grizzlor drew in a breath. “Actually, given the current circumstances, a vote might be the best course-“

“Shut-up!” Both women barked at him. They had no patience for the opinions of a deserter. He should just leave if that was what he wanted so badly.

Through all of this exchange, both Kyle and Regelio stood to the side, unsure of what they should be doing. Or if they should even be there in the first place. They certainly weren’t Force Captains, and –unlike Lonnie- they were not outspoken or assertive enough to dictate their opinions to their superior officers. But, at the mention of a vote, Kyle did raise his hand.

“Actually, if we are voting.” He began hesitantly, almost afraid that whatever he was going to say was going to hit him beat up. “I vote in favor of Lonnie’s idea to access damage and regroup.”

“Kyle!” Lonnie shouted, almost as if she were upset with him. Then, “Thank you.”

“Nobody asked you, grunt!” Octavia practically spat at him.

Kyle flinched at the harshness in her tone. She was a Force Captain and he had basically just said that her plan was dumb and that he thought a common soldier’s ideas were better than hers. Under any other circumstances, voicing such an opinion would definitely, definitely get him punished.

Regelio placed himself between his small, skinny, fragile human comrade and glared a challenge at Octavia. If she wanted to hurt the weaker little soldier, she’d have to go through him first. Regelio exhaled, a jets of warm air escaping through his reptilian snout. “I’m with Lonnie.”

Octavia’s eyes narrowed at him, assessing. She looked back at Grizzlor. Then, finally, her gaze returned to Lonnie, sizing her up too. Then she smiled. As if a peace bargain had just been struck, though no words were exchanged between the two women.

“You have your loyal soldiers, Lommie-“

“Lonnie.” She corrected the other woman.

“-and I have mine. No vote necessary. Let the troops that remain follow whomever they choose. The ones actually worth anything will choose me. We’re gonna hit the Princesses hard, when they least expect it and be recorded in Horde history as the greatest victory of our age. You and your grunts can stay here, playing in the dust and counting your beans.”

She turned and walked away, heading for the hanger to see what tanks and skiffs had not been taken by deserters.

Lonnie glanced at Grizzlor.

He held her eyes for a second too long for the look to be insignificant. Maybe he was seeing something in her worth taking note of. Whatever it was, he did not share his thoughts. Grizzlor turned, as Octavia had done, and left the Fright Zone. As he said he would.

Lonnie kept her eyes focused on the direction they left in long after they disappeared from view. When she was satisfied neither of them were coming back to attack her, she sighed. Letting out a breath she didn’t know she’d been holding in. And turned to her companions.

“Lets see what we actually have to work with.”

“What- what just happened?” Kyle asked, nervous. He clung to Regelio, both hands clutching his reptilian’s forearm as if his life might depend on it.

Lonnie looked back in the direction Grizzlor and Octavia had disappeared again.

“I think…” she began, unsure herself “…I think the Horde just fractured into factions.”

Regelio and Kyle exchanged an identical glance of concern. Organizations that broke into pieces ultimately were dissolved or destroyed. Either way, they did not survive. It was how the Horde had the Princess Alliance on the edge of defeat before She-Ra appeared. But, that didn’t mean the Horde was destined for destruction. Perhaps they could find a ‘She-Ra’ of their own.

Both men looked back at Lonnie, that look of concern morphing into an odd kind of hesitant, almost cautious, optimism. “We are at your command… Commander Lonnie.”

…

Imp usually stayed so close to Hordak.

But in all the confusion and rush to escape the destruction of the Sanctum, they were separated.

Flying through the corridors, his tiny wings beating with a haste driven by the combined needs to both find his master, and escape the enemies. His tiny golden eyes darting in every direction. Glancing down every intersection and corridor for the hem of his master’s robe, or the tail of the cat-girl whom was with him.

Imp was so focused on minding Hordak that he failed to see the person right in front of him until his tiny little child-like body collided with it.

A red armored chest. Broad and curvy. A wash of red, and sporting the emblem of the Horde.

Shaking his tiny round head to clear it, Imp looked up into the face of one of Hordak’s Force Captains. The inexplicably cheerful big woman. Scorpia.

“Whoa there, little fella!” She wrapped her pincers gently around him, as if trying to catch Imp form a fall –Imp was not about to fall. He was a better flyer than that. “Are you lost?”

No. He was not lost. He knew exactly where in Horde Command he was.

But he was separated from his master. A being who’s side he’d never left since before Hordak was banished by Horde Prime. So… yes. Maybe Imp was lost. Just not in the common sense of the word.

The building shook as something from the Sanctum blew.

“I’ll help ya, little guy.” Scorpia promised. “But first I think we should take cover.”

Still holding him, Scorpia darted into the room she must have just vacated when Imp flew into her.

Entrapta’s lab.

Originally the holding cell she was kept in when Catra and Scorpia first caught her in the Fright Zone, then later repurposed as her private lab when she started working collaboratively for the Horde. Displayed on the screen of the main console was what looked like the last frame of a simulation of test results. An image of the planet Etheria on fire. Below the image were charts and diagrams laying out the empirical data numerically in case the animation wasn’t compelling enough. Data that said that a portal opened from the Etheria side could destroy the world.

Well, that certainly explained a few things.

Wriggling out of Scorpia’s hold, Imp turned his attention to the rest of the laboratory.

Scorpia let him go, instead bending down to pick up a discarded stun baton from the floor. She looked at it forlornly. As if the baton had personally used and betrayed her. ‘We do make a good team.’ ‘Do it! Or you wanna be next?’

Whatever was falling apart, breaking, or exploding in the Sanctum finally made it to the closed circuit generator that powered Hordak’s lab. The generator blew. Sending shockwaves of the blast radiating throughout the rest of the building.

Scorpia once again threw her arms around the tiny Imp, as if he were something fragile that needed to be protected. But the leap and the blast threw her off balance and both Force Captain and Imp went falling into the glass exterior of what appeared to be a tank.

The force of Scorpia’s hard shell armor racking the glass. The shaking from the explosions in the Sanctum exacerbating the damage, turning the crack into a hole. Fluid began to leak from the tank.

“Oh, jeez! Oh, no!” Scorpia let go of Imp and climbed back to her feet. “Entrapta’s gonna be so mad!”

No sooner had she exclaimed this then she went suddenly silent. Entrapta had bigger problems than Scorpia’s clumsiness damaging something in her lab.

The Force Captain looked down at her pincers. Entrapta was on her way to Beast Island. Banished to a wild and harsh landscape where she would most likely die. And Scorpia was –in part- the one who sent her there. No more than ten minutes after she just finished thanking the other woman for hanging out with her, and venting about how none of her other friends seemed to have time for her. After boding over their shared confusion and lack of understanding of Catra. Scorpia had betrayed her.

Not directly. It was not Scorpia who shocked Entrapta in the back with the stun baton. That was Catra’s action. But Scorpia didn’t lift a claw to stop it. After it was done, Scorpia gave up her challenge of the action quickly. Just following orders instead. Scorpia might not have been the one to wield the baton, but she had still betrayed Entrapta.

Breaking something in the now empty and abandoned lab was the least of any of their worries.

Imp struggled to pry himself out of Scorpia’s arms –again- and fluttered down to the floor to sniff at the fluid that trickled from the expanding cracks of the tank.

Embryotic fluid. The same kind his master used in his own failed cloning attempts. Before he had given up on making a new body for himself. It even smelled like Hordak. Like his master blended with the scent of another being. The mingled scents of master and his Princess lab partner. Of Hordak and Entrapta.

Imp looked up at the being floating in the tank. His tiny mouth and golden eyes going wide.

Scorpia similarly looked at the thing in the tank. Her own jaw going slack at what she saw.

A being floated there. Not a ball of cells. Or a partially formed embryo. But a fully developed organism. Two arms. Two legs. Five fingers. Five toes. Taloned fingers and toes. Pointed ears. Vertical nasal cavity. A long mohawk of blue hair trailing down their back in a delicate tail. They looked like a child-version of Hordak!

They were small. Clearly not yet having developed into an adult body. Not even a teenage body, really. They were a pre-adolescent. If Scorpia hadn’t found them floating in a cloning tank, she would have placed their age at ten years. Still very much a child, but old enough to talk back and ask why. The frozen and glitching readout on the tank’s console, however, dated the being at less than a week old.

Clearly, Entrapta was running some kind of accelerated aging program within the cloning tank. That aging program was stopped now. The process broken when the glass membrane of the tank broke. So were the life support systems. Red lights and alarms flashed around it to indicate that their oxygen levels were already falling. Their heart rate was increasing. Blood pressure was up.

“Hang on there, kiddo!” She shouted at the cracked glass. “I’ll get you out!”

Raising one heavy pincer, Scorpia brought her claw down on the already cracked spot of the tank. The crack widened and more fluid sprayed out. Air bubbling into the tank in its place. But the child-Hordak clone still bobbed in the life-giving fluid that was now killing them. Drowning in their own embryotic fluid. Scorpia brought her claw down on the glass again, but again, it just cracked more, it did not break. Clearly, she needed something heavier or with more force than her own claw.

Glancing around the lab, Scorpia’s eyes fell on the stun baton. The same one Catra used to betray and subdue Entrapta with. The same one Catra turned on her and threatened that Scorpia would be next if she didn’t follow orders. Scorpia failed to save her friend. Betraying Entrapta by inaction. She failed her friend. She would not fail her friend’s last experiment!

Seizing the stun baton, Scorpia had enough forethought to make sure the electricity was off before she swung the heavy baton. It smashed the already cracked and weakened glass on the first swing. Fluid flooding the floor of the lab, the child-Hordak clone tumbling and falling out naked.

Scorpia caught them before they could hit the floor or get cut on any of the glass washing around her ankles.

Gosh! Close up, without the tank between them, the child really, really, really looked like Hordak. Like, exactly! Well, of course, they would. They were his clone! All they needed was to grow up a decade and cut their hair. They really were just a baby-Hordak.

Why was Entrapta making a baby-Hordak?

But Scorpia could ponder that later. Holding them now, she realized very quickly that they weren’t breathing!

Kicking the broken glass out of the way, she gently laid the clone on the floor and tried to open their mouth with her pincers. But all she succeeded in doing was nicking their upper lip, dark violet blood trickling from the small cut.

At a bit of a loss as to what to do, she looked to Imp for help. “They’re not breathing!”

Imp fluttered next to the body. Up close they smelled less like a composite of master’s and Entrapta’s scents. The two mingled together almost equally to form something new and unique. Something its own. Not Master. Not Princess. Other. New. Not master, but from master.

With his tiny hands, Imp opened the clone’s mouth for Scorpia.

She breathed into the clone’s mouth. Two deep breaths. Then began pressing on his chest. Counting as she did so. Thirty chest compressions. Before she was asking Imp to open their mouth again to give them more breath.

Scorpia didn’t know how many times she repeated this, but eventually the clone gasped. Breathing on their own for the first time in their –admittedly short thus far- life.

[canyousevmyheavydirtysoul]

Bodyguard II: Familial Ties (Part II - Chapter 5) (Brendon Urie x Reader)

The distant mountains glinted snow in the early morning light as Doctor Selvig surveyed the vast desert, cup of coffee in hand. After taking a moment to marvel over the beautiful sight, he turned back into the lab and saw Jane, busy at her workstation, soldering a piece of equipment.

A printer was churning out blown-up screen-cap photos of the Bifrost footage and Darcy collected them and proceeded to hang them on the wall. To Darcy’s right were you and Aaron, tucked away on a bench just out of earshot of the other three, and engaged in hushed conversation.

All of you had been up all night, fuelled by caffeine and adrenaline, albeit for different reasons. Jane, Selvig and Darcy were full of excitement, working tirelessly to try and come up with a scientific explanation for the anomaly you’d all encountered the night before. Technically speaking, Aaron should’ve been joining in on their excitement, since it was his consultation, but he was far too caught up in your side of the event to even give Jane’s star charts a second glance.

“He recognised you,” Aaron spoke softly.

“Yeah,” you breathed out, nodding once and wiping your palms on your jeans, “And he was about to call me by my Asgardian name.”

“That’s a good thing, isn’t it? That he knows who you are?”

“I don’t know,” you admitted, creasing your brow, “It could be a good thing or it could be a bad thing. I mean, he literally just crash-landed out of nowhere; we have no idea why or how, and we have no idea what it means.”

With a shaky hand, you reached forward to pick up your coffee cup, but the tremor in your hands were so bad that you were unable to keep it still for even a few seconds. Aaron hurriedly collected the cup and gently handed it to you. You thanked him and took a gulp.

“But there is one thing I know,” you continued, “and that’s that he and I can’t come into any kind of contact – or see each other – until we know what’s going on.”

“Because we don’t know whether or not he’s hostile,” Aaron finished your thought and you nodded in confirmation. He sighed and leaned back a bit. “I sincerely hope he isn’t. It’d be wonderful to be able to have a chat with him about, well, everything. And he’d be able to offer you some guidance; lord knows all of us down here haven’t been doing too well with that.”

“Yeah, I hope so too.” You looked down into your coffee, noting the small swirls of milk on the surface. “But in the meantime, you should probably do your job.”

You elbowed Aaron lightly and nodded your head at the group in front of you frantically studying the images, and the doctor turned to observe them, squinting his eyes slightly as he mulled over the pictures that Darcy had hung up.

“We might want to perform a spectral analysis,” he said eventually.

Jane quickly turned to look at him, a glimmer of elatedness in her eyes. “”We”?”

“I flew all the way out here,” Aaron shrugged as he stood up and started making his way forward, “might as well make myself useful.”

With a smile, Jane got up and inserted the piece of equipment she’d been working on into a rack-mounted server.

“You know what would be really useful?” She turned to glance over her shoulder at Selvig. “Do you still have that friend at LIGO?”

Selvig chuckled, cheeks burning up. “She was more than a friend.”

“Could you call in a favour?”

“You don’t think this was just a magnetic storm?” Aaron enquired, stepping closer to get a better look.

Jane shook her head no. “If I’m right, their observatory must have picked up gravitational waves during last night’s event.”

“Meaning?” Selvig frowned in perplexity.

Jane rushed over to a computer monitor, with the two doctors following closely.

“Meaning these anomalies might signify something bigger.”

“How ‘big’ are we talking about?” Aaron asked, readjusting his glasses.

Jane motioned to footage on the monitor – the video she’d taken the night before. As the last of the Bifrost cloud disappeared into the night sky, there appeared to be a blister in space, bulging out in convex and covered with stars.

“I think the lensing around the edges is characteristic of an Einstein-Rosen Bridge,” Jane explained what her view on the situation was.

“A what?” The utterly confused voice of Darcy sounded through the lab.

Selvig frowned at her. “I thought you were a science major.”

“Political Science,” she clarified.

Selvig shot Jane a confused look. “She was the only applicant,” she shrugged, referring to the internship program.

Aaron held out his hands and began explaining; you listened, too, since his science talk always entranced you. “An Einstein-Rosen Bridge – a ‘theoretical’ connection between two different points of space-time.”

Darcy stared blankly.

“A wormhole,” Selvig simplified it for her and she finally nodded in understanding.

Meanwhile, Jane had printed out a frame-grab from the monitor, and she now held it out for the two doctors to see.

“Erik, Aaron, look…”

Jane pointed at the print-out showing the constellations seen through the ‘bubble’ in the clouds.

“What do you see here?” she asked.

“Stars,” Selvig answered.

“Yes. But not our stars.” She made haste of spreading out a star chart, barely able to contain her excitement. “This is the star alignment for our quadrant, this time of year. So unless Ursa Minor decided to take the day off… those are someone else’s constellations.”

The doctors looked on, intrigued, as Darcy pulled another frame-grab of the Bifrost footage from the printer and hung it on the wall.

Something in the image caught her eye and she called out to the others. “Hey, check it out.”

The other three stepped forward and examined the photo, amazed. Inside the Bifrost funnel cloud was a figure – the vague but unmistakeable shape of a man.

“Is that…?” Selvig muttered, lost for words.

“I think I left something at the hospital,” Jane spoke before hurrying off.

Trading wonderstruck glances and shrugs, Darcy and Selvig rushed after her. Aaron was about to do the same, but you reached out to grab his arm before he could move.

“Aaron… I can’t go back there.”

“I know,” he breathed, looking at you worrisomely, “Are you going to be okay staying here by yourself?”

“No,” you shook your head and looked around the lab, eyes lingering on the heaps of research all over the place, “I can’t stay here, either. Not with them delving into all of this. I can’t see that ending well for me.”

“Well, then, if you’re not going to stay here…” Aaron looked out at the desert with a hopeless gaze, “where are you going to go?”

 ✧ ✧ ✧

 S.H.I.E.L.D HQ. Washington, D.C.

“Just when I thought we were done with all this shit,” Fury exhaled, wheeling his chair forward and folding his arms on his desk.

“Tell me about it,” you grumbled, playing with the hem of your t-shirt as you lounged lazily on the couch.

“And you’re positive that it’s the real deal?” your godfather questioned with a sceptic raise of his brow; he needed full reassurance that it was necessary for S.H.I.E.L.D to step in. You slowly raised your head to lock eye contact with him.

“He called me Skadi.”

The Director straightened up and opened his mouth, about to say something when the sound of Agent Coulson’s voice through the speakers stopped him from doing so.

“Sir, we have reports of a possible UFO crash-landing in the New Mexico Desert. Apparently it had a blue, luminous glow and is… really, really heavy.”

Fury looked at you and you smiled condescendingly.

“That good enough for ya?”

 ✧ ✧ ✧

 County hospital. New Mexico Desert.

The group of Aaron, Erik, Darcy and Jane entered the hospital, and Jane wasted no time in striding over to the admissions nurse to try and gain entry into Thor’s room, while the other three hovered in the waiting area.

An unusually fidgety Aaron glanced around uneasily, his mind churning with possible outcomes of this precarious situation. He fully understood your apprehensive view on the matter, but his gut was telling him that the sudden appearance of the God of Thunder meant that something much bigger was awry, and that distancing yourself from the only source of knowledge on the subject that you had (in other words, Thor) would only bring trouble.

With that being said, the doctor turned to Darcy and Selvig and announced that he would be going to the bathroom and once he rounded the corner, made a beeline for Thor’s room.

Dodging the heaps of hospital staff, Aaron barged into the god’s room just as he awoke, and took tentative steps forward.

Thor noticed the restraints on his wrists and pulled at them, trying to free himself, but to no avail.

“It’s not possible,” he muttered, mustering all of his strength and trying again. Then, out of the corner of his eye, he spotted Aaron, and he immediately perked up to attention.

“You!” Thor’s voice boomed through the tiny room; Aaron winced at the volume, “You accompanied Skadi, the daughter of Vili! Who are you? And where is she?”

Holding his hands up to show that he came in peace, Aaron took slow yet urgent steps forward until he was next to Thor’s hospital bed. “My name is Aaron.”

“Aaron,” Thor repeated, frowning at the strange name, “Son of whom?”

“Uh,” Aaron awkwardly scratched the back of his neck. “Jacob… Ross.”

“It is a pleasure to meet you, Aaron Jacobson. Now, if you will, tell me where I can find Skadi. I imagine she is the only one who can help me.”

Frowning in puzzlement at the last name Thor had chosen to adorn him with, Aaron opened his mouth to explain that that was not the way things worked down here, but soon decided against it – it was no use to confuse the Asgardian any more than he already was – and shook his head as he moved to untie the restraints.

“Believe me, the pleasure is all mine. But please, you need to listen carefully,” Aaron spoke, glancing over his shoulder every couple seconds to make sure that his new colleagues weren’t anywhere in sight, “I can’t tell you where Skadi is. I promise I will explain everything, but we need to get out of here now.”

~

Doing up the final button on the scrubs he had stolen from the hospital, Thor spoke to Aaron as the two of them walked through the parking lot.

“You mean to tell me that she wishes not to see me? I do not understand. I have done her no harm, only looked over her. As has my father, and most of Asgard. We are family.”

“Yeah,” Aaron sucked on his teeth and stuffed his hands in his suit pockets. “That’s kind of a, uh, touchy subject. I’m… sure you heard about what happened to her parents.”

“Yes,” Thor nodded before looking down at the ground, a solemn expression on his face. When he spoke again, his voice was heavy with sadness. “That was a dark day on Asgard.”

There was silence for a moment before Aaron spoke again. “Listen, for what it’s worth… I’m sure she wants to meet you. It’s just not safe for her to do so just yet.”

“She is in danger?” Thor questioned in concern.

“Not currently, no. But very few people are aware that she’s… you know, a goddess… and if it suddenly became public knowledge-“

“Everyone would fear her.”

“Exactly,” Aaron nodded fervently, thrilled that Thor was understanding, “And that’s not what she wants. She helps people down here. Saves them. Having them fear her would tear her apart.”

“So for her sake, please, if there are other people around,” Aaron continued, glancing at Thor imploringly, “Pretend that you don’t know her. She’s just (Y/N).”

“As challenging as it may be, I shall oblige. For her sake.”

Aaron heaved a sigh of relief. “Thank you.”

They continued walking as Thor observed his newfound acquaintance, mentally theorising about him.

“You seem to be rather close to her,” Thor noted, “Is she your betrothed?”

Aaron almost choked on the air in his throat. “N-no,” he spluttered, “No. She’s just… we’re good friends.”

“But you care deeply for her.”

“Well, yeah, but- oh shit!”

Aaron quickly ducked out of the way but unfortunately, Thor hadn’t been paying close enough attention to do the same. And so, bam! Jane’s SUV collided with his sturdy frame, knocking him to the ground.

With gasps, Jane and Selvig emerged from the SUV to help the god to his feet.

“I’m so sorry,” Jane apologised, “I swear I’m not doing that on purpose.”

Staying true to his word that he would pretend as if he was unaware of everything, Thor gazed up at the sky.

“Blue sky… one sun… This is Earth, isn’t it?”

“I think you may have hit him with the car one time too many,” Darcy piped up.

Jane shook her head and began leading Thor to the car. “Let’s get you some clothes.”

_______________________________

Thank you for reading x

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[embroidery-pro]

Singer 14SH654 serger test and review

After more than 165 years of experience, the Singer brand remains a reference in terms of sewing. But it faces increasing competition. Do its products still stand up to comparison? To find out, we tested the Singer 14SH654 serger for you and we give you our opinion.

Introducing the Singer 14SH654 Serger

The Singer 14SH654 serger is a featherweight. It is one of the lightest sergers, weighing less than 7 kg on the scale. But that does not mean that its functionality has been reduced, far from it. This small entry-level serger perfectly complements the work of a sewing machine thanks to its versatility, its different stitches and its ability to serger, join and cut all types of fabrics. On a budget level, the price of the Singer 14SH654 overlocker is around €250. Technical characteristics of the Singer 14SH654 Here are the main technical characteristics of the Singer 14SH654 serger: 1300 stitches per minute; 4-spool serger; 2 needles; 2 loopers; Offers different stitch types: Flatlock, Overlock, Hems; Stitches adjustable in width and length; Differential drive system; Self-ejecting presser foot sole; Color code on wire paths; Simplified threading of the left looper; Telescopic thread guide; Adjustable cutting width; Removable upper knife; Fixed lower knife; Convertible needle plate; Free arm; LED lighting ; Accessories: screwdriver, needles, pliers. Carrying handle. Its strengths A seamstress can enjoy letting her creativity run free with the Singer 14SH654 serger. This reference is able to sew all fabrics, including extra-fine and elastic, such as stretch, jersey... Many projects can thus be carried out using this reference. To ensure perfect finishes, several types of stitches can be made: flatlock to assemble two flat fabrics, overlock for stretch fabrics, hems for fabric edges, overlock... These are adjustable in width between 3 and 6.7 mm and in length between 1 and 4 mm, which guarantees strong and durable seams. The differential ensures the correct drive of the materials worked, whatever their thickness. The excess fabric is cut at the same time using two knives. The upper knife is removable while the second, lower knife is fixed. The worktop consists of a removable part. It can therefore be modified if necessary, notably providing a free arm function for greater range of motion when hemming, for example, or any other tubular part to be worked. The LED lighting of the work table allows you to overlock in ideal conditions, regardless of the surrounding light. With a maximum rate of 1300 points per minute, progress is rapid and voluminous works, requiring many hours of work, can be envisaged. Threading the Singer 14SH654 serger is easy to set up, even for those who are not used to this manipulation. In particular, Singer has provided a simplified threading for the left looper and a color code on the four threading paths. A telescopic thread guide completes the device. The sole of the presser foot is automatic ejection, allowing you to easily change material and use a presser foot adapted to your project. It is possible to purchase them individually, as an option, according to your needs. Because the Singer 14SH654 serger is an evolving machine. Singer offers spare parts that fit easily. With a selling price of around 250 €, the price-quality ratio is favorable. Its weak points The first weak point is noted upon receipt of the Singer 14SH654 overlock machine, even before it is started: there are no thread cones provided. This is quite rare, most competing brands providing the necessary, even for entry-level sergers. The seamstress must therefore provide additional spools to be able to start assembling and overlocking. Even though thread cones are cheap and easy to find, it can put off using the serger and cost a few extra dollars. Also, this means that the serger is not pre-threaded. Even if aids simplify this operation, it would have been nice to have a serger ready to use and to be able to observe the path of the threads for the first time. Also, it sometimes happens to the Singer 14SH654 to hang. Fortunately, this remains rare. The manual is French and is not always supplied with the device. It can be requested from Singer and is also available online. Which seamstress is it for? A beginner seamstress can choose the Singer 14SH654 serger for her first work. The simplified threading allows her to quickly get to grips with the machine, and, thanks to her versatility, she can progress at her own pace without being limited. This ability to sew all fabrics is also attractive for experienced seamstresses, who take on very different and often very technical projects. The price of the Singer 14SH654 serger makes it accessible to as many people as possible. Those on a budget can afford it. Its good value for money is the assurance of making a lasting and profitable investment. Our opinion on the Singer 14SH654 serger The Singer 14SH654 serger passed our test with flying colors. Despite the absence of instructions in French, threading and use are intuitive enough for the machine to be taken in hand after a few uses. Very functional, we appreciated being able to work on different materials. The price-performance ratio is largely convincing and lives up to Singer's reputation Read the full article