#i want to get all my owed replies here written out and then ill post them all i think thatll be less stressful for me instead of posting

[mercless]

🗡 dozing off writing replies but im curious how others go about writing out stuff/the order you write particular parts, and if you have a different way of writing depending on if it's a reply, ask, or a drabble 🤔 in most cases I find I write out any spoken words first, then the tones or actions done while talking, and then depending on the writing purpose add trains of thought, other actions or specific actions that convey emotions. stuff I looove getting lost in writing include describing scenes, settings, environments, food or the time of day! for drabbles I usually start with these descriptive elements to get into the mood of it.

[benjaminmoorepaint]

in defense of marius/character analysis

Poor Marius…much maligned, misunderstood Marius. I think he's misunderstood at least in part because book!Marius and musical!Marius are so different, so maybe people get confused? Is he a goofy awkward loverboy or weirdo goth stalker?

The answer is neither, really! Compared to the Amis, Marius is a much more fleshed out and realistic character, and we see him grow and change from the ages of 17-23. But at his core, he is serious, extremely principled, and has a strong sense of honor. His principles provide most of the conflict for him throughout his story:

Independence (Debt is slavery! Refuses to borrow money until forced by his sense of duty; won’t work more than he needs to because he wants his time to be his own, not his employers. Politically, he eventually comes to understand Combeferre’s point about it too, though it contradicts the views he inherits from his father.)

Duty (The main one, and what drives most of his decisions throughout the book. He sees his main duty to be to his father and his final wishes. This is so important to him that he borrows money from Courfeyrac to fulfill what he thinks is his duty to help the Thénardiers. He only goes out at night to make his clothes look black is because he’s in mourning for his father, a culturally expected thing at the time, as is his filial duty. Despite being a republican at the end of the book, he still takes the title of Baron because his father wanted him to. Etc.)

This one is a little harder to define, but I would call it honor, combined with a kind of chivalric sense of respect. (Purity?) Despite leaving his grandfather for not respecting his father, he still respects the man, somehow. Won’t touch Valjean’s money because he’s afraid it may have been ill-gotten. This explains his weirdness around women, too; he is offended by Courfeyrac’s insinuations, outraged that an old veteran *might* have seen Cosette’s stocking, and of course horrified by Gillenormand’s suggestion to make Cosette his mistress. We are frequently reminded how chaste his love for Cosette is. He is, essentially, Tholomyès’s polar opposite.

Loyalty— to his friends, to Cosette, and to his father.

He is also—and this is important—EXTREMELY impulsive.

Marius is not the kind of guy who thinks decisions through. His choices are almost always based on emotion. It is not logical to leave home at seventeen to live in poverty. It is not logical to wax poetic about Napoleon in a room full of radical republicans. It is not logical to resolve to die after learning your girlfriend is moving to England. He is the DEFINITION of doing things “as a matter of principle.”

And this is not an inherently bad trait. His impulsiveness saves the barricade. It’s worth noting that Enjolras, the personification of logic, did not (and would not) think to do this because his mind doesn’t work that way. It’s a terribly risky move and he would not want to risk his men if the soldiers called his bluff. But it works. Marius saves the barricade.

This is probably another reason Enjolras names him a chief of the barricade, because he recognizes Marius has something to offer that he doesn’t.

(Side note: I’m not sure where the idea that Enjolras is irritated by him comes from. He clearly likes Marius.)

“But what about Valjean? The way Marius treats him is undeniably fucked up.”

It sure is, if you know all the facts like we, the readers, do. But in typical Valjean fashion, when Valjean tells Marius the truth, he does not, in fact, tell him the whole truth. He says nothing of his life as Madeleine, of Fantine and his promise, of the Thénardiers, of Javert; in short, he tells him pretty much nothing other than the fact that he is an ex-convict.

But here’s the kicker: Valjean doesn’t know what Marius already knows about him. He has no idea that Marius saw the whole Gorbeau robbery happen while helping Javert, and for whatever reason, he forgets or doesn’t mention that Marius saw him “execute” Javert at the barricade. So from Marius’s point of view, Valjean is a. possibly still involved in crime, as evidenced by his presence there, and b. a murderer who killed Javert for revenge. Thinking this, Marius already knows that Valjean is leaving things out in what he tells him. He worries that what else he didn’t say could be even worse.

Which isn’t to say Marius is completely faultless in this—he’s learning, but his idea of honor can’t comprehend that a convict like Jean Valjean could have raised Cosette.

(Marius) had not yet come to distinguish between that which is written by man and that which is written by God, between law and right. (...) He found it quite simple that certain breaches of the written law should be followed by eternal suffering, and he accepted, as the process of civilization, social damnation. He still stood at this point, though safe to advance infallibly later on, since his nature was good, and, at bottom, wholly formed of latent progress.

But Valjean doesn’t really give him a chance. And when he does discover the truth he immediately begs for forgiveness, though of course it’s too late.

“But you!” cried Marius with a wrath in which there was veneration, “why did you not tell it to me? It is your own fault, too. You save people’s lives, and you conceal it from them! You do more, under the pretext of unmasking yourself, you calumniate yourself. It is frightful.”

“I told the truth,” replied Jean Valjean.

“No,” retorted Marius, “the truth is the whole truth; and that you did not tell. You were Monsieur Madeleine, why not have said so? You saved Javert, why not have said so? I owed my life to you, why not have said so?”

And I’m always sad that that’s something Valjean never gets to learn—by hurting himself, he hurts the people who love him! But that’s a subject for another post (or fix-it fic.)

Is Marius perfect? No, even by the end of the novel he’s not—but that’s the point. He and Cosette are the future. Their character arcs aren’t finished yet.

[gellavonhamster]

cold weapons

Suicide Squad (2016) || Captain Boomerang/Katana || post-canon

ao3 link eng || this was first written and published on ao3 in Russian in 2017 but I didn't attempt to translate it into English back then.  

“So, what do you think of them?” Colonel Flag asks.

Tatsu puts the folder containing the rap sheet of Waylon Jones, better known as Killer Croc, on top of three other folders.

“They’re complicated,” she replies after giving it some thought.

The materials in these folders could have formed her first impression about the members of Task Force X – or, as Lawton has aptly put it, the Suicide Squad. Could have, but did not, because they were given their first task earlier than expected. Which is why she doesn’t say “villains” or “scoundrels” or “worst team imaginable” – her first impression of them was formed in combat, and then in an empty bar in Midway City where they all drank together thinking it may be the last drink in their lives. She remembers all of this and says ‘complicated’.  

“Very tactful of you,” the colonel chuckles. Then again, what kind of colonel is he now – an unwashed shirt, black circles under the eyes. Just another guy struggling with a deluge of work, a hard-hearted boss, and a troubled relationship with his girlfriend. “But yeah, they definitely aren’t simple,” continues Rick Flag, one of her few friends in the country that will never become her home, and Tatsu cannot suppress a tired smile.  

“You like them.”

“They’re… tolerable,” Rick admits, and takes another sip of coffee. Lately he seems to be living only on coffee and whiskey and the verb “must” and (so Tatsu supposes, although they don’t talk about that) the hope that June Moone, who still hasn’t fully recovered from all the horrors she’s been through, will be all right – and will stop isolating herself and avoiding him. These means for not letting yourself just fall down and never get up are far from being reliable, but Tatsu herself lives mostly on revenge and duty and, for that matter, whiskey as well, to a certain degree, so it’s not for her to judge. “Most of them, at least. All of them minus the Australian.”

“At least he’s a good fighter,” Tatsu points out. This is the only good thing she can say about Captain Boomerang with full confidence.  

“He’s not cut out for teamwork.”

“When we were fighting the Enchantress, it didn’t look to me like that.”

She does not put much meaning into these words. It’s just that at some point Captain Boomerang saved her, and she saved him – and good thing they’re even, because the last thing she needs is to owe a favour to someone so incompatible with the very concept of duty. She could have said much about the man who tried to escape at the very beginning of the mission and got a teammate killed (and for some reason stood up for El Diablo when Harley Quinn lashed out at him at the bar, and for some reason came back before the battle after trying to desert), but the only thing she’s sure of is that he’s a fine weapon; she can confirm that, being a weapon herself. At the end of the day, that is all that’s required from him.      

At the end of the day, that is all that’s required from her, too.

 ***

 It is possible that what she said about Digger Harkness sticks in Rick’s memory, because when the need to comb the area arises during the next mission, he sends the two of them to search through the same building.

“If he gets up to something, do whatever you want to him. No one’s gonna weep for him,” he flings off. This is in the heat of the moment, of course – Boomerang almost got into a fight with Killer Croc on the helicopter over some nonsense. Or rather, it was Croc that almost got into a fight with Boomerang after the latter provoked him. Complicated.  

“You heard that, darl?” Boomerang addresses her with a smile so wide as if he hasn’t heard the last remark. “I’m all yours.”

Tatsu looks the other way and pointedly takes her sword out of its sheath – not completely, just a little. No further comments follow, and they part company – Deadshot with Croc, Flag with his team of spec ops, Tatsu with Boomerang – and go on a recce.  

In the basement, they discover something that looks like a laboratory – if a place so far from being sanitary may even be called one. All their hopes to move without making a sound crumble as soon as they enter the room: the floor is covered with broken glass. Those who ran the place must have escaped in haste and couldn’t take the entire stock of the serum with them, so they opted to destroy most of it. Tatsu’s attention is immediately drawn to the object on the table in the middle of the room – a metal container with tubes going from it to several smaller vessels. She heads straight for the table, shards crunching underfoot. Boomerang follows her, apparently kicking the largest shards on purpose so that they fly in all directions.      

“Looks like a hooch still,” he comments, having come closer, and gives a whistle. “Whoa, fuck, is that blood?”

Compared to the first task of their squad, this one looks almost effortless. Two gangs, the members of one of which possess the formula of the serum that grants superpowers to those who take it. A gun battle, collateral damage, the entire district on lockdown. If a few people weren’t noticed literally floating through the sky, the police would have been handling this. But this is an emergency, which is why they’re here, and the flying gangsters aren’t flying anymore, for Lawton is an exceptionally good shot.    

As it turns out, the serum that sparked the conflict is based on metahuman blood – hardly donated voluntarily.

“I’ll contact Colonel Flag,” says Tatsu, eyes locked on the bloodied tubes, and then someone grabs her by the neck.

For the first time in her life, she really has to fight blindly – because her enemy is invisible.  

Later, when the dead bodies gradually become visible on the floor like an eerie animated movie, it turns out there were four of them. Before that, Tatsu manages to lose her sword, recapture it, almost choke when an invisible hand squeezes her neck, slash one of the attackers in half, and plunge the blade into another’s stomach. Boomerang takes care of the other two, knocking over the container in the process.    

Tatsu is listening to the silence that came after the fight, wondering if any other invisible foes are lurking around the corner, when she feels that something is wrong. Something is wrong with her – she just can't figure out what. Sometimes it happens that one feels unwell but cannot determine what exactly the problem is – she is experiencing something similar now. Until she realizes: the mask. Until she looks up and makes eye contact with Captain Boomerang, who is staring at her and grinning.  

“You lost anything, doll?” Harkness inquires innocently, with an emphasis on the last word, and his smile grows even wider and cockier.  

Shit. Shit, shit, shit. The invisible man she fought hand to hand tore off her mask, and she didn’t even notice. But her partner, blast him, did – and picked it up.  

“Give it back,” Tatsu demands, hand outstretched. She feels naked. In combat, during the mission, she is Katana, a single whole with her sword. A cold weapon. No one needs to see her face. Truly, if she was wearing only the mask and nothing else, she would have felt less exposed – all right, this is an overstatement, and she doesn’t even want to imagine such a situation. Meanwhile, Boomerang is in no hurry to return the mask.      

“What did ya call me when that fucker was about to stab me?” he asks. Tatsu clenches the sword hilt. There is no telling how many enemies drunk on the magic serum are hiding in this house, and he’s dawdling. “You said…”

Damn it, what did she say? She saw one of the invisibles creeping up on him while he was fighting another – a bloodstain was floating through the air. She shouted…

“I said ‘George’”. Isn’t your name George Harkness?”

“You bet it is. It’s just weird. Most people don’t call me George, y’know.”  

“How do they call you then?”

“Digger. Boomerang. Boomer. That Prick. All sorts of things, but never George. But you,” he winks, “can call me whatever ya want. I liked the way you say my name.”

“Give. Me. The mask.”

“And the magic word?”

“I will chop your hand off,” as a proof of her intentions, she puts the blade against his extended hand that is holding her mask. In fact, she would face no consequences for doing so. No one’s gonna weep for him.      

Harkness makes a helpless gesture and hands her the mask.

“Can’t say no to you, luv.”

The mask helps her conceal her identity, but what is more important is that it helps her conceal needless emotions. Tatsu really hopes that her facial expression isn’t giving away that she’s ill at ease now. This is a weakness; weaknesses are not to be demonstrated. She feels deeply relieved when she puts the mask back on.  

“Let’s get out of here,” she commands, turns around, and heads for the exit. Harkness trails behind.

“It ain’t fair, by the way. You know my real name, but I don’t know yours,” he muses. “Care to introduce yourself, eh?”  

He asks the same question at least three times more before they return to Belle Reve, and each time she ignores him.

 ***

 A week later, he still doesn’t know her name – but he learns something else.

They do away with the last members of the recent gang on the outskirts of the city. Both wretches have overused the unfortunate serum, in keeping with the best traditions of the clichéd movies about superheroes and supervillains that Hollywood keeps producing for some reason, even though it is more and more often possible to see nearly the same thing on the news. As a result, one of them got puffed up almost to the size of the creature that Superman died fighting, and the other couldn’t control the flames bursting from his mouth. He burned half of the shopping centre with customers, retail workers, and guards. With teenagers in the bowling alley on the second floor and children in the playroom on the first.    

Santana… wouldn’t have approved.

Both problems eliminated, they leave: the firefighters and the cops will take it from here. Flag’s spec ops stay behind, because officially it is their victory; the general public shouldn’t know about the existence of Task Force X. Through backyards, they retreat in the direction of the abandoned construction site on the other side of the street; a car has been sent to pick them up there.  

There is a workers’ trailer still standing by the construction pit. The door is not locked, and Rick, Deadshot, Croc, and Boomerang go inside. Jones’s arm is broken: his inhuman strength notwithstanding, he still was no match for his enemy – not the fire-breather, but the other one. Tatsu leaves them to figure out how to make a temporary sling, and wanders away. Not far from the trailer, a piece of tarpaulin stretched over the fence has come off, and she can see the building across the street. Tatsu sits down on the ground, puts her arms around her knees, and stares at the dandelions growing by the fence.  

In her head, flames are raging.

She doesn’t look up, neither when she hears the footsteps approaching, nor when Harkness – and it is him, no one else in the Squad reeks of the mixture of booze and cologne like that – sits down next to her and cracks open a can of beer.  

“You want some?” he nudges her. What extraordinary generosity. It is, however, perfectly possible that if she says yes, he’ll reply along the lines of “Well, then go and buy yourself some.”  

“No,” Tatsu replies without looking and, after a short pause, adds, “Thank you.”

“Are you sure?”

With a sigh, she accepts the can from his hands, and takes a sip.

“This is disgusting,” she whispers, and takes another.  

Harkness just snorts and opens another one. For a little while, they sit side by side in silence, drinking each from their own can, and study the wall opposite through the mesh of the fence – like out of a prison window. Old advertisements that are half torn off, graffiti, a writing proclaiming that life fucks us all – plenty of things to stare at to avoid looking the person next to you in the eye.  

“So what the hell happened to ya?” Boomerang asks, and suddenly she could do with some serum for invisibility or, better yet, disappearing completely. Naturally, it is a fleeting impulse; she has no right to disappear. She has obligations – towards Flag, towards Waller. Towards herself.    

“Nothing.”

“Nothing? You zoned out, Flag shouted himself hoarse before you heard him. Like you were someplace else. Didn’t ya?”  

Why do you need to know? Tatsu thinks. If she almost rushed headlong into the fire, it’s her own business. If it only seemed to her that someone was there, it’s her own business. If she’s going to see things that aren’t there for the rest of her life, it’s her own business. He shouldn't have spoken. There is something comforting about being silent together.    

“Nah, you don’t have to say if you don’t wanna,” Boomerang assents, and takes another pull on his can. “I just thought that you, well. Might wanna talk to someone.”  

And they fall silent again. Yet now Tatsu feels awkward, which makes her angry at herself. She’s not obliged to pour out her heart to anyone who shows something that looks like care.    

This silence doesn’t make it any easier.

“I have… bad memories,” she finally says. Now it won’t be as awkward: she answered his question. It won’t be, right? “About a fire”.

Harkness nods, looking at her attentively.

“Someone you knew died, aye?”

“My children,” she hears herself say, and wishes to disappear again.

“Fuck,” Boomerang says, embarrassed, and – unbelievable – looks like he actually feels bad about starting this conversation. “I’m sorry, I… well, uh, I had no idea.”  

“It’s okay,” Tatsu says mechanically. Nothing is okay: she can still see Yuki’s tear-stained face, still hear Reiko’s voice, she is still watching the flames run up the curtains that she and Maseo picked together, she is still breathing in the smoke and still cannot believe she deserves a gulp of fresh air. She should have saved them. All of them.  

Boomerang looks at her incredulously but doesn’t say anything, and bit by bit, the silence that she doesn’t want to run from returns – the kind of silence in which one is not alone.    

Then there are footsteps again, and Flag approaches them.

“There you are,” he says with relief as soon as he sees her. Rick does not let himself overstep the limits of formality – they’re on a mission, after all – but he has obviously been worried. At the sight of Harkness, he frowns warily. “You! Quit getting on her nerves.”

“Who’s gettin’ on her nerves, Colonel? I was just tryin’ to help,” Harkness protests. It appears Rick’s words have wounded him a little.  

“He was,” Tatsu says. “It’s all under control, Colonel Flag.”  

Flag shifts his gaze to her and then to Boomerang again, and nods.

“Okay. In any case… follow me. We’re leaving.”

Tatsu gives her unfinished beer to Boomerang.

“Don’t talk about this to anyone,” she tells him. This might be an order or a request; she doesn’t really know.

He nods, and she thinks absentmindedly: who would have thought this man knows how to make a solemn face.

“Thank you,” she says again, hoping that he understands that this is not just about the beer or his promise to keep his mouth shut.

***

 After a few days, Tatsu comes to visit him. In prison.

Actually, she comes to visit all of them, of course. Not more than fifteen minutes alone with each of them – Waller wouldn’t allow more. This request seems to have surprised her, but Tatsu is certain that Waller is already picturing the new threads she can use to manipulate her special operations puppets. So it is possible that one day this decision will blow up in Tatsu’s face – or in the faces of all of them. But she cannot shake off the feeling that she must do this – so that someone except Rick, who is already dealing with a lot these days, would notice in time if the inmates are treated with undeserved cruelty. So that she knows what’s on their minds, because it is safer to fight side by side with the people whose line of thought she can understand at least roughly. So that there is some kind of variety in their lives between the missions.  

This is why she visits all three of them. Killer Croc, who looks like he’s not surprised to see her in the slightest and doesn’t really seems to care that she came, but doesn’t have any issue with that either. Deadshot, who looks like he is surprised, but doesn’t seem to mind answering her questions when she notices a stack of letters in the corner and asks him how his daughter is doing. And Captain Boomerang, who, when she enters his cell, looks like he can’t figure out if he’s dreaming.

“Katana?” he frowns perplexedly. He’s stripped to his waist, so she can see a couple of fresh scars he brought back from the last mission, and he’s got a black eye – when Tatsu saw him last, he had not. Must have quarrelled with the guards again. “What are you doing here?”  

“I came to see you.”

For a moment he seems not to understand what she just said. Then he breaks into a smile – or rather a grin, wide and pleased. Very pleased.  

“Aha! Knew it would end up like this,” he pronounces in triumph.

“Like this?”

“You,” he looks like he’s just proven a theorem of immense complexity, “missed me.”  

“I haven’t missed you, Captain.”

A very, very pleased grin.

“And still you’re here.”

“I visited Deadshot and Killer Croc earlier,” Tatsu says, and sees his facial expression change instantly. Not for long: the grin is quick to return, and she wouldn’t be able to tell right away that he’s disappointed.    

“Did ya now? And how are our fellas doing? Better than me, I reckon?”

“So it would seem. Did you fight the guards?”

“Why do you care, gorgeous?”

Indeed, why does she? Most likely, he picked a fight himself – and got his just deserts.  

“Make up your mind,” Tatsu says, “if you think that I missed you or that I don’t care.”

Harkness chuckles and really seems to ponder over this for a while.

“Beats me,” he concludes at last. “Care to throw some light on it?”  

No, Tatsu thinks, I don’t get it myself and I’m not sure I want to.

Instead of answering, she comes closer to him – so close that she can smell his sweat – and studies his face. She has to look up to be able to do that, which must look comical. Then again, he’s hardly stupid enough to laugh at her height or anything else about her, especially when she’s armed and he is not.  

“You lost a tooth. What happened?”

“Didn’t get along with one of the Wall’s watchdogs.”

“You could have tried not to look for trouble for a change,” all of a sudden, Tatsu realizes that she’s mad. Really mad at him. They might get dragged to another mission this instant; whether they like it or not, they have to be in good enough shape to protect the society that the most of them have to atone before at least partially. They shouldn’t spend their energy and health on nonsense. Black eyes and knocked-out teeth are nothing, but it mustn’t come to any of them being out of action when all of them are needed. All their powers, all their skills. All the anger they should rather aim at something other than the people who can just press a certain button at any point – and dispose of the wilful weapon.

Boomerang bares his teeth – not like Croc, of course, but still threateningly. He looks dangerous now – big, sturdy, more than a head taller than her. But he still isn’t more dangerous than her – and both of them are aware of that.  

“And they could have tried,” he speaks through his teeth, “not to talk shit about my mother for a change. They wanna talk shit about me, they can knock themselves out. I’ve heard enough ‘bout myself, I don’t give a flying fuck about what else they gonna say. But they’d better leave my mother out of it.”

So that’s what it is. They have found a quick and easy way to infuriate the man who has “MUM” tattooed on his chest. In uneven letters, like a child's handwriting. Tatsu noticed that tattoo as soon as she came in but didn’t look too closely at it. Now she feels like she has the right to look, to let her gaze slip lower, at the ridiculous writing that heaves with each furious breath of his, and then to avert her eyes at once.    

“They have power, and you have nothing,” she says. “Do you enjoy being their plaything?”

“Oh, so I’m a plaything, darl? And do I have much choice who to be now? In these four walls, and,” Boomerang points at his neck, at the place where a bomb is implanted under his skin, “with this crap in my neck?”  

Tatsu looks up again, right him in the eye.

“You already know who you are,” she tells him. “You’re a weapon. Broken weapons get discarded. And you’re letting them break you.”  

He stays silent, just looks at her in an odd manner, as if she’s speaking another language but he has a vague understanding of what she’s saying and doesn’t like what he just heard – because it is the truth.

Tatsu still doesn’t understand why she cares, and with each passing minute she has less and less desire to learn why.  

“Also,” she continues, “if you call me ‘darl’ or ‘gorgeous’ one more time, you’re going to regret opening your mouth.”

“Yeah? And how should I call ya?”

“Katana.”

“What, and that’s all? Nah, we might be weapons,” and she probably ought to remind him that there is no ‘we’, but in this particular case he’s right. Perhaps that is why Tatsu feels drawn to all of them: they’re cut from the same cloth, “but we’re alive as well. So far. Seriously, what’s yer real name? You know mine.”  

“I should not disclose that.”  

“Oh, come on. Listen,” he breaks into a pleased grin again. Another theorem proven. “How about a deal? You tell me yer name, and I will try to keep my temper if anyone else decides to stir me up. What do ya think?”    

“As if you’re going to keep your word.”

Boomerang makes a show of putting his hand over his heart.

“For you, ma’am… anything.”

For you. All at once, she recalls Rick’s words: do whatever you want to him. How many minutes of the visit she has already spent on this predictably fruitless conversation?    

“My name is Tatsu Yamashiro,” she says, tired, and then he smiles – not the way he did before, but in a calmer and more sincere manner. Gratefully.

“George Harkness,” he offers her his hand with an earnest air. “Nice to meet ya.”  

Tatsu hesitantly offers him hers. Her hand looks very small and fragile against his huge paw, and he must be thinking the same because the handshake comes out very careful. He could easily break her wrist. She could easily kill him with one hand afterwards. But he holds her hand gently in his warm, pleasantly calloused palm, and Tatsu hastens to take her hand away, because this is a mistake of an even worse kind than the time he saw her without the mask.  

“So you promise not to fights the guards.”

“I promise to try,” Harkness assures, but he’s keeping one hand behind his back.

“Don’t cross your fingers,” Tatsu says sternly. Real mature.

With a sigh, Boomerang repeats his promise, this time holding his hands within her view.

“But I ain’t promisin’ not to call you gorgeous,” he declares in the end.

“You know my name now.”

“But you’re still gorgeous.”

“Time’s up!” shouts the guard outside the door, and Tatsu cannot help feeling relieved that she has to go. She doesn’t regret visiting him, but all of this is too strange and awkward, and both of them might be weapons, but her position is different from his, and it is better not to forget that.    

“Can I do anything for you?” she asks him on parting.  

“Well,” Boomerang smirks. “I don’t even know where to begin.”

“With something I would actually agree to do?”

“Come again. Will ya?” This time he isn’t flirting; this time she can feel his insecurity, even shyness. As if he doesn’t like to admit to himself that what she answers is really important to him.  

“I’ll try,” she says cautiously. She’s not going to make any promises: she asked Waller about one time only. She doubts if she’ll be allowed to visit them again – to visit him again.  

“Try,” Harkness repeats, as if weighing the word on his tongue. “This means no.”

“This means I’ll try,” Tatsu says firmly.

And she comes again in a week. And the week after next. And a week after that.  

 ***

 “Why didn’t you walk away in Midway City?” Tatsu asks him once. “When Rick broke the control panel. You left then; why did you return?”  

A lot of water has flowed under the bridge since the time Captain Boomerang dared to smart off Amanda Waller. Several successful missions, slightly more respectful attitude on his part – and his cell already bears a passing resemblance to a place for living, even if for living quite miserably. Now there is even a table, and a chair that she gets to sit on as guest privilege. Harkness is sitting on the floor opposite her. The question seems to catch him unawares, but only for a moment.    

“Huh? Why did I return? Gotta live up to my name, that’s why. Have you ever thrown a boomerang, luv?”

I’m going to throw you somewhere one day, Tatsu thinks, yet without much irritation.

“And jokes aside?”

Boomerang attempts to feign an offended sigh.

“How do ya think? Plenty of options, all right. You gonna try to guess which one?”

Tatsu frowns.

“Is this a psychoanalysis session? Were you bitten by Harley Quinn?”

“Nah, Blondie didn’t bite me, I would’ve remembered. So don’t be jealous,” his voice gets playful again, and Tatsu stifles the urge to roll her eyes. “Lookie here… suppose I suddenly realized that I can’t leave you guys! ‘Cause you’re my mates. One for all, and so on. Don’t believe me?”

“You said something about plenty of options. What are the rest of them?”

He scratches his chin thoughtfully.

“We-e-ell… the second, ‘course, is that I wanted to save the world. Not that the world smiles upon me every bloody day, but I still wanna live! And for everyone an’ their mother to know that the bastards like us can also be heroes. Don’t you like being one of the good guys, eh, Tatsu?”

“I’m not ‘one of the good guys’”, Tatsu protests. “And it’s not me that we’re talking about. Any other options?”

“There was no point in leaving. That was still gonna be the end of the world, aye? So I’d rather meet it in battle and in good company than on the run. All the same it’ll be the end. There you go.”  

He stops talking, and in the silence that falls Tatsu can hear the footsteps of the guards in the corridor. Once again she wonders what the duty attendants that monitor everything through the surveillance cameras think of their conversations. They must make for the strangest and most pointless reality show ever.  

“The third one,” she says.

Boomerang looks a bit disappointed.

“Why?”

“Not the first one, because none of us meant anything to you then. You had just met us. And it didn’t seem like you were upset about letting Slipknot down,” Tatsu explains. She doesn’t intend to offend him – she’s just saying the truth. Once, he claimed it himself that they understand each other – here’s some understanding, he’s welcome. “Not the second one either, because you’re not stupid – no, stop smiling. You never believed that if people like us stop the Enchantress, someone would learn about that. Only the third option remains.”  

Harkness nods slowly.

“Yeah,” he agrees, and his eyes turn pensive, abstracted, as if he is there again, in the night city frozen in anticipation of the apocalypse. As if he sees himself – and makes a choice once again. “And that’s what happened in the end, didn’t it?”

“So the third option, then?”

“So it is.”

But something in his face makes Tatsu think that he was hoping for a different answer.

***

 Time flies; weeks and months go by. Tatsu spends them fighting, spilling someone else’s blood, occasionally drinking with Flag at a bar or in his apartment – a bachelor’s home again; reading books – most of the plots seem too naïve and unimaginative compared to what goes on in her life, and that is even for the best, and visiting the members of the Suicide Squad in Belle Reve. Some people go clubbing Friday evenings, and she goes to prison Friday afternoons.  

“Don’t get attached to them,” Rick scolds her.

“That is rich coming from you,” Tatsu replies, and he has enough self-awareness not to argue. Lest he gets offended, she chooses not to tell him that sometimes she and Lawton talk a little about him good-naturedly behind his back.

During one of her visits, Harkness raises a topic she has totally forgotten about.

“Hey, come to think of it, we never had that drink,” he points out. Tatsu doesn’t understand what he’s talking about, and it must be written all over her face, because he continues. “Remember I asked you out for a drink? In Midway City, before we fought the witch.”  

Tatsu has to make an effort to remember: indeed, he said something of the sort, but it never occurred to her to take those words seriously.

“We had a drink,” she counters. “When… when you shared your beer with me.”  

He shakes his head, dissatisfied.

“At the construction site? That’s bollocks. I’m talking a proper bar… nah, a restaurant! With crystal glasses an’ candles an’ shit… Like normal people.”  

“Candles,” Tatsu mumbles. She tries to imagine the two of them at the table at a restaurant; the picture turns out pretty absurd. On the other hand, a lot of what has happened in her life during the past few years can be deemed absurd.

“Yeah. Candles,” echoes Harkness, and continues with a crooked smile, “well, that’s me jokin’ around. In the near future,” he gestures in the direction of the small barred window of his cell, “I won’t be able to take you even to a fucking McDonald’s.”  

They don’t talk about the hypothetical dinners at a restaurant anymore, but the absurd picture stays with Tatsu, who still feels somehow indebted to Boomerang – for no reason, as she keeps telling herself – for that conversation at the construction site. She doesn’t like to feel the weight of unpaid debts on her shoulders – yes, that’s what it is about.

One day, she finds a way to pay that debt back.

 ***

 She waits for him in the car outside the prison gate. She hears him first; she cannot make out what exactly he is yelling at the guards, but that surely isn’t ‘good evening’. Then the door of the jeep is open, and someone must have kicked him in the rear because he literally falls into the car. Tatsu shrinks back on instinct.  

Then Harkness looks up – and notices her.

“Katana?.. Hey, what the hell’s going on? They didn’t let me take the boomerangs, didn’t let me take anything…”

“Close the door,” Tatsu tells him, and when he, still confused, obeys, tells the driver, “Let’s go.”

The car pulls away.

“I still don’t get what’s happening,” Harkness reminds her. “Sure, I’m happy to see ya, but… you weren’t ordered to take me to the woods and finish me off under the radar, huh?”  

“If Waller wanted to get rid of you, she would have had you killed in your own cell, and that’s all.”

“Wow, thanks for honesty. So where are we going?”

“To a restaurant,” Tatsu says, and turns away. Yet again it crosses her mind that it is a terrible idea.

“A restaurant?” Harkness drawls quizzically.

“As far as I recall, you said that the beer at the construction site is ‘bollocks’.”  

She should turn back to him, of course. The problem is that Tatsu is ninety-nine per cent sure that if she meets his eye now, she will blush. And she is by no means going to give him any sign that might be interpreted as taking an interest… of a certain kind. She has already blundered more than a few times.  

Therefore she stubbornly keeps looking out of the window. Then again, she doesn’t even need to look to picture how his facial expression is changing now; she’s seen this rakish grin enough times.  

“Holy cow. Tatsu, are you serious? We’re really just going to a restaurant? We’re getting outta this shithole where they only give us porridge with rat crap to gorge ourselves on lobsters and drink wine? Oh, fuck me sideways,” in the end, she turns to him and sees him throw back his head and burst into laughter, narrowing his eyes happily. “I’ll be damned! Am I dreaming? I must be dreaming. Pinch me.”    

“I can assure you you’re not,” Tatsu says, and realizes that she is also starting to smile despite herself. She has visited him and the others in Belle Reve often enough to know that porridge with rat crap, unfortunately, is far from being just a figure of speech. After such a diet, a meal at a restaurant must seem like the pinnacle of happiness.    

Boomerang shakes his head, apparently still unable to believe her.

“Holy fucking shit. How did you do that? How do you even do all that? I’ve told ya you’re unreal, have I?”

“Yes, you have,” Tatsu confirms patiently. And more than once – too often for her to attach great importance to it, too fervently for it not to please her at all. “Let’s put it that way: this is Waller paying me for a… favour.”  

“A favour, then. I take it a lot of some poor suckers died?”

“No,” she shakes her head. And it is true – but there still was a lot of blood. Both the man Waller indicated and his bodyguards turned out to be worthy adversaries. The whole thing went not as smoothly as she wanted it to – not that she wanted to; not that she would kill another person she knows nothing about if she could help it. Nothing to assure her: this one deserves it. Everything turned out rather… nasty. She had to burn the bodies. Then she got home in a haze, tended to a couple of fresh wounds – or rather, just scratches. And then she went to the bathroom and spent a long time soaping herself, as if the invisible filth that bothered her the most could be washed off with shower gel.    

Afterwards, she rummaged through her modest wardrobe and dug out the only dress she has about in America. Nothing special: wine red, below the knee length, sleeveless but with a pretty high neckline – very demure. The first and so far the last dress she bought after… after. If she and Rick didn’t have to accompany Amanda Waller to some event once, she wouldn’t have bought this one either. She put it on, combed her hair, still wet after the shower, with her fingers, looked at herself in the mirror – and flew into a rage, pulled off the dress, and could barely stop herself from tearing it to shreds. Restaurant or not, what does it matter? The last thing she needs is for him to think she dressed up for him.      

So the situation might be a little less absurd than it could have been. Both of them look like they’re going on another mission with the others, only she isn’t wearing her mask – he has already seen her face anyway – and he isn’t wearing his ever-present coat. It is no wonder he wasn’t allowed to take it – Waller wasn’t going to let him out of Belle Reve armed, and to let him wear his coat would probably be as unwise as to hand him all his boomerangs. Tatsu has no doubt that everyone and their dog have already searched through the personal belongings of the Squad, but she wouldn’t be surprised to learn that somewhere in his inside pockets Harkness has as many boomerangs as he is listed as having officially. She witnessed this man produce from his bosom at least four different lighters, a massive stack of dollars, a pocket knife, small binoculars, flat-nose pliers, and a toy unicorn. She has to admit: sometimes she doesn’t understand how he even does all that either.    

It appears that the thoughts of Captain Boomerang also turn to the contents of his pockets.

“Hey, how the hell are we affording this, though? Make no mistake, I’d stand treat, but my stash is in the coat, and these assholes didn’t let me take it, y’know.”    

“Don’t worry about that. Waller is paying for everything,” she explains, unable to suppress a grin, because this part, possibly the most unbelievable part of the entire affair, gives her a sort of silly, spiteful joy. Task Force X is a comparatively recent project, but they’ve already cleaned up so much mess for Amanda Waller that Heracles and his labours don’t even come close. A dinner at a restaurant is the least thing she could offer them. So when Boomerang explodes with laughter and gives her a conspiratorial wink, she looks him right in the eye and smiles. Another mistake. Then again, this is not the first time they share a secret.

He puts his hand on her knee, and she shakes it off immediately; this is way too far.

“I see you took your sword with ya,” Harkness observes, not giving any sign that something didn’t go the way he wanted.

“I am to keep an eye on you.”

“Yeah. How about…” he leans in closer, and the smell of cologne blasts up Tatsu’s nose. She can only hope it is due to external use only, “we chop off his head,” he nods at the driver, “and drive the fuck away from this? Huh?”    

The driver, who can definitely hear everything, doesn’t turn, but Tatsu notices him tense up.

“You’re kidding,” she says dryly. He may be, or he may be not – with Digger Harkness, one cannot always tell.

“Why kidding, doll? Zip, and done. There’s no way you enjoy working for Waller.”  

“I do not. But if you pull some stunt,” Tatsu feels for the sword hilt, and Boomerang sees that – very well, it is good for him to see that, “I will chop your head off. I really hope it won’t come to that.”  

“And what’s it to you? Scared of me? But I’m unarmed,” he claps himself on the chest demonstratively, implying that he has no weapons on him. “Why do you care if it does?”  

“I just wouldn’t like to do that,” she says firmly, and it’s true. It works well; he doesn’t even mention running away for the remainder of the day.

 This might be the strangest evening in her life.

Waller’s man drives them to a French restaurant whose name she cannot read but is almost sure that the phrase was chosen solely because it sounds impressive. They are let in through the back door, so no one among the other guests, who are sporting evening dresses and suits, pays any attention to her crop top and sword or to his… appearance in general. Their table is one of those located in alcoves, away from prying eyes, but Tatsu feels they are being watched. Which means Waller doesn’t trust her too much – well, she can understand that. She is part of a special team composed of deranged madmen, and she must admit she likes these deranged madmen more than she likes certain normal people known to her. Of course, she is Flag’s right-hand woman, but it is most likely that Waller doesn’t trust Flag either. It is doubtful whether there are any people in this world that she trusts at all.          

Waller is rich. Their little feast will not shatter her wealth, all the more so since the restaurant she sent them to is not the most luxurious. But they still have a field day ordering loads of food and a bottle of the most expensive wine on the menu.    

“To honour among thieves?” she suggests, when they raise their glasses for the first time.

“Didn’t ya say yer not a thief?”

“That is true,” she admits, and adds inwardly, I’m a killer.  

In the end, they drink to the Suicide Squad. Then to Lawton and Jones, currently languishing in their cells. Then to Zoe Lawton, who is acting in a school play next week. To a lot of things. He asks her about her life here, in America. At some point she finds herself trying to explain to him what taiyaki is, and him telling her about banana sandwiches, and she can’t remember why they started talking about this at all. The bottle becomes empty, and another appears as if by itself.      

They don’t talk about the past. They don’t talk about the future, because there might be no future at all – they can’t know for sure, what with their way of life. That evening, Tatsu laughs and thinks: good thing I’m drunk – it almost gets easier for a while.  

When it’s time to leave, Harkness gets pig-headed.

“Whoa, no, no, no. Already? It’s too early, are you kiddin’ me?” he booms out when they exit the restaurant. He protests, but she drags him by the hand and he stumbles along after all, treading heavily like a dancing bear. “Let’s go someplace else, luv. Look at the pretty stars.”  

“We are already late. And you… you have to go back to jail,” Tatsu tells him. The stars are pretty indeed, but she regrets looking up at them, because her head begins to spin. Thankfully, she isn’t wearing high heels. Thankfully, she doesn’t have any high-heeled shoes at all, or she could have been possessed to wear them. “Sorry,” she adds when they get into the car and set off. “There is no other way.”  

“Back to jail,” Boomerang repeats with disgust. Sprawling on the seat, he unzips his hoodie, and Tatsu is swept over by the smell of cologne again. Weirdly, it doesn’t annoy her as much as at the beginning of the evening. “I’m a fucking Cinderella. I’m not back by midnight, they turn me into a pumpkin.”  

“Cinderella,” Tatsu echoes, and giggles: everything is way funnier now. The driver makes a sudden turn, and she is literally thrown at Boomerang. Her cheek presses to his chest – and stays there. Tatsu feels drunk and sated and drunk again, and sleepy too, and he makes for a decent pillow, and she can’t make herself move away.  

“Oh, you think it’s funny,” Harkness mutters with mock offence in his voice. It seems he’s about to fall asleep too. “Well, go on, laugh.”

They drive back in silence, and through the drowse Tatsu feels the warm arm around her waist and thinks: good thing I’m drunk, I can pretend I’m asleep.  

The road to Belle Reve is long, but it still feels like they reach it too quickly.

“Inmate,” calls one of the guards, “get out.”  

Harkness, his eyes still closed, moans with discontent.

“Captain Boomerang,” Tatsu says softly, freeing herself from his embrace. “It’s time.”

There is nothing to be done. He’s already about to step out of the jeep, when he suddenly moves closer to her again.

“Hey, darlin’,” he says, looking her right in the eye. “Aren’t ya forgetting something?”

It takes her some time to realize what he means: he must be expecting her to kiss him. All at once she remembers everything that has happened this evening, and awful shame washes over her: it is no wonder he’s expecting that to happen.  

“Inmate, get out!”

She shrinks back.

“Good night, Captain,” she tells him as dryly as she can. He looks wounded but says nothing, and almost obediently lets the guards escort him back to his cell. Tatsu closes her eyes and rubs her temples wearily. Tomorrow she is going to regret drinking so much. She already does – and that’s not the only thing she regrets.

She has to stop seeing him.

 ***

 At first, she even succeeds. Next Friday Tatsu, as always, goes to Belle Reve to see the Squad – all of them save for Harkness. She feels sick at heart because if she did promise him anything, it was to visit him, and now she’s going back on her word because of her own stupid weakness. But there is no other way.  

“He asked about you,” Waylon tells her a week later, when she brings him the latest issue of Playboy. Tatsu almost doesn’t feel weird anymore when buying it, and doesn’t try to imagine anymore what the news stand clerks think when she pays them for it. Such periodicals cause her a feeling of light disgust, but Croc, who gets let out of jail only to be thrown into another trouble spot, deserves at least some small joys.  

“Who?”

Waylon, no doubt observant like all the quiet ones tend to be, bares his impressive teeth.  

“You know who.”

It seems a logical solution to give up on these visits at all – but in that case she would betray all of them. Perhaps this little tradition is much more important to her than it is to the prisoners, but Tatsu is almost sure that it means something to them as well. She has no right to deprive the rest of them of this bit of understanding, companionship, normalcy because she wasn’t smart enough to stop the game she and Boomerang started before it became too late.

At home – not that the apartment she’s renting here deserves to be called ‘home’ – she, unable to fall asleep, unsheathes the sword and runs the tips of her fingers along the cool blade. A tender, habitual movement – like touching the cheek of a loved one.

“I’ve lost my way, Maseo,” whispers Tatsu. The place where the souls of the people struck down by this blade are trapped is still a mystery to her, but she knows that Maseo will come as soon as she calls him – as a voice from afar, as nebulous shapes in the swirls of smoke, as the peace and safety granted by the presence of someone dear. “I’m afraid of my own heart.”    

I know your heart, Tatsu. You have nothing to be afraid of.

“It makes me act rashly. Makes me succumb to false feelings.”  

I know your heart, Tatsu, and it incapable of falsehood.  

Only the ones that are already far away can speak so vaguely and with such unrelenting honesty at the same time.  

“I will always love you,” she whispers ardently. Not because she doesn’t want him to think it is not so; not because she herself feels like it is not so anymore either. She knows for sure that she is always going to love him, for she loved him as a lover, as a husband, as the father of her children, as the only thing she had left after all her life fell apart, burned in that damned fire. He will stay in her heart until her last breath – even if she has to close her heart to the rest of the world. Once she used to think that after all she’s been through, it isn’t going to be an issue.

And I will always love you, her husband replies, and Tatsu blinks back tears with a deep sigh.

“I just wish you were alive,” she tells him for what must be the hundredth, or maybe a thousandth time.

If he was with her – not as smoke or a voice, but as flesh and blood – he probably would have kissed her gently on the nape of her neck, as he often used to do.  

I just wish, says her husband – no, the soul of her husband, which is already rushing away, deep into the world she shouldn’t hurry to go to if she doesn’t want this sword to fall into wrong hands, that you were happy.

***

 Literally the next day there is a message from Metropolis that some giant snake-like beast is terrorizing the city and devouring people. The monster was last seen crawling into the building of the opera – which is where their squad heads to after reaching the city.  

“Look at that freak,” Harkness comments in a low voice. The creature is curled up slumbering on stage, and they are watching it from the catwalks above. “Not a family of yours by any chance, eh, ‘gator?’    

Waylon steps towards him, and the planks creak under his feet, threatening to break.

“Say that again,” he growls.

Tatsu bares her sword and wedges herself between them. Waylon backs off reluctantly.

“Knock it off,” she tells Boomerang. It feels like everything has come full circle – the day Harkness picked up her mask, he also had a run-in with Jones. The day they were sent to fight the Enchantress, she also put the blade of her sword under his chin. Why did she even think something would change?

“Oh, so you’re talking to me after all?”

“Enough,” Tatsu hisses. She really wants to try to explain everything to him. Maybe if she tries to put her feelings into words, many things will become clear to her, too. But if he thinks they are going to discuss this now, he is mistaken.

On the neighbouring catwalk, Rick is looking at them in a rage, gesturing both of them to shut up. Harkness steps closer; now the blade of the Soultaker is within a hair’s breadth away from his neck. A single careless movement, and blood will be spilled. A wild idea crosses her mind: it looks as if he’s into this. Tatsu licks her lips.

“Y’know,” Boomerang begins, lowering his head a little so that it is easier for him to look her in the eye, “I think you’re scared of me. Or of yourself, hell if I know. Am I right?”  

A loud rustle comes from beneath, and the next instant the monster bites through the middle of the catwalk they’re standing on, and both of them are falling down. Tatsu manages to grab some rope, but when she tries to climb it, her hands slip, and she comes tumbling down.

The fall is far from being soft, even though she falls on the tatters of the curtain, which the snake must have torn earlier. She is lucky not to hurt her head, but her left leg and hip are aching. Only the awareness that there is no time to lie around makes her summon up all her strength and get up. Her sword is nowhere to be seen, and Tatsu is overwhelmed by fury: now she is useless.

The snake roars and shakes its head, trying to shake off Croc, who is trying to bite through its scales. Rick is shooting at the monster from above, and Deadshot, who is already on stage somehow, is doing the same from below, dodging the blows of its tail. Tatsu sweeps her eyes weakly over the stage and suddenly notices a hole broken in it. At the very edge of the hole, the hilt of her sword is sticking out of the floor. Moving as quickly as it is possible to do that with a limp, Tatsu hurries there.

The moment she pulls the sword out of the stage, Harkness’s head pokes out of the hole. Not waiting for him to ask for help, Tatsu helps him get out.

“Are you…” both of them begin in unison and drop it immediately, because the snake has managed to shake off the bothersome little crocodile – who is hopefully just somewhere on the floor and not in its belly – and is moving towards them, slower than before but still pretty speedily. They scatter, and Tatsu charges at the monster with her sword drawn. Harkness throws a boomerang at the creature, aiming at its eye, but it dodges at the last second.        

Eventually, with joint forces they manage to kill the beast. To be on the safe side, Lawton fires a round into its open jaws. The long body shudders one last time and falls still. For some time, the five of them stand there looking at it.

“Where could this thing even come from?” Rick mutters.

“Remember what the Wicked Witch of the West said when she tried to get us to join her? The world is changing, the time of magic has come, blah, blah, blah,” Lawton reminds him. Rick nods absentmindedly; these are not happy memories.

Jones kicks the dead snake.

“Maybe it meant no harm,” he points out in his deep voice.

“Croc,” Rick says wearily, “it ate people.”

“So did I.”

“But at least you didn’t chew the curtain at the opera like a disgraced diva?” Lawton asks, struggling not to grin.

“Nuh-uh.”

“Well, then it’s okay.”

Rick titters nervously, and the next instant all of them are shaking with laughter.

 Tatsu is drinking water straight from the tap in the restroom, when Harkness comes in.

“This is a ladies’ room,” she says reflexively.

“Hey, I just wanna wash my face, is all.”

Without waiting for her to answer, he comes closer and starts washing at the neighbouring sink. Tatsu casts a sidelong look at him and notices that the water is turning red.  

“Show me your face,” she orders.

“It’s not a bad face, what’s yer problem?”

“I’m serious.”

He rolls his eyes, but stands still while she examines his face, only wincing when she dabs at the cut on his forehead with a paper towel.

“Just a scratch,” he assures at once.

“Just a scratch,” Tatsu agrees. She scrunches up the towel and throws it into the sink. She would like to keep her hand on his face, pretending that she’s still wiping off the blood, but she’s done pretending.

“How about you?” Boomerang asks quietly.

“Fine. A couple of bruises. You were lucky today,” she says just as quietly, and takes off her mask. Tomorrow they might not be as lucky. “I’m happy for you.”

“And I’m happy you got out alive… darl.”

For a moment she wants him to ruin everything. To reply with a jibe, to crack another dirty joke, to try to grab and kiss her only to get smacked. Not to stand motionless in front of her like he’s afraid to scare her off. It occurred to her once that from the outside their relationship might look like an attempt to tame a wild animal. Perhaps this is a mutual process.

Do whatever you want to him.

She stands up on tiptoes and kisses him.

For an instant, Harkness freezes – possibly trying to figure out again if he’s dreaming – and then pulls her closer and kisses back. Drinks her hungrily, like this is both the first time and the last. Bearing in mind what their lives are like, it really might be the last.

Tatsu doesn’t immediately realize why she suddenly doesn’t need to stand on tiptoes anymore.

“Put me down–” she starts, but gives up and wraps her legs around his waist. Boomerang grunts with satisfaction and switches from her lips to her neck. His beard, fortunately, is softer than could have been expected.  

“Stop drinking so much,” Tatsu breathes out, now that no one is trying to shut her mouth. “You taste like…” all English words slip her mind, “like… a beer cask.”  

It tickles her when he laughs into her neck.

Someone simply must enter now – Rick, Floyd, Amanda Waller, the president of the United  States, but no, no one is trying to stop him from squeezing her hips, to stop her from running her fingers through his hair. Weapon to weapon, blade to blade. Red-hot metal to red-hot metal. Melting until something new is forged – without fear, without regret, without the past, without the future.

Clearly, Maseo wants too much: she remembers what happiness is, and she is sure she’ll never ever be happy again.

But she can take a shot at being alive.

[simpsiren]

sticky notes: the story

mark lee x reader

introduction 

main masterlist

description. you use sticky notes to get into contact with your soulmate.

genre. soulmate au, high school au, strangers to lovers au

warnings. nonee

a/n. so some people requested for a full story of this so here it is! i really liked making this because the concept is just so cute cudndn oh and i did include the same idea as what i did in my previous post but i had to change it a little so that it would fit the plot. this is a really really long ff since its a slow burn typa thing so please try to stick with me on this one HAHA anyways enjoyy! :D

“you actually believe that?”

you lift your head up from your notes to look at soyoung. she nods her head and hum eagerly. you rub your temples from seeing her respond. “i do believe soulmates exist. but sticky notes to talk to them? what’s social media for then? and how is it even scientifically possible?” you question soyoung, bringing your eyes down as you continue to do your homework.

“that’s the beauty of soulmates, ray!” soyoung whines. you shake your head. “you’re dumb to believe it without confirming the information with other relevant sources.” you mutter out bluntly. you hear soyoung letting out a ‘tsk’. “here you go again being a history student. i swear im glad i never took it.” you scoff and slam your pen on the table gently.

“excuse me, woman! at least i dont have to memorise the whole textbook and only having 5 pages of content coming out in the exam.” you stick your tongue out playfully to tease soyoung. “i cant get over the fact that valcanos didn’t come out eventhough i memorised so much for it.”

the both of you laugh, knowing that the two of you can never stop debating on whether history or geography is the better subject.

“ray complete your homework at home. we cant stay in the classroom for long you know?” soyoung stands up to get to her seat, which is 2 rows down yours since you were sitting right at the back. you liked sitting at the back. it allowed you to always be able to use your phone in case you get bored in class. you still cant believe that your teachers think you’re a good and obedient student. you figured they only assumed that due to your high grades.

you sigh “that’s true.” you turn around to grab your back that was hanging in your chair and start packing your materials. once you were done, you grab the class key and walk over to soyoung’s seat, waiting for her to finish packing. you notice soyoung has finish packing and went to switch off the lights. you allow soyoung to step out first before you close the door behind you and lock the classroom door.

you and soyoung walked down the hallway silently, you were looking out the window to watch the sunset while soyoung had her eyes on her feet. only your footsteps could be heard as almost everyone has left the school grounds except for some teachers who were working late. the school normally closes at 7pm and you’re walking out at 6:50. to break the silence, soyoung opens her mouth to start a conversation.

“okay if you dont believe me why dont you try it yourself? like write a simple introduction to your soulmate.” you raise an eyebrow as you shove your hands into the front pockets of your mom jeans. “why dont you do it?” you fought back as you huff. soyoung bites the inside of her cheek as a moment of silence passes for her to think of an answer.

“because i believe it. and you do not. so you should try it.” you smacked soyoung’s arm, making her flinch back and shouting a loud ‘ouch’. you roll your eyes, knowing you didn’t hit her hard and she was just overreacting. “brilliant excuse,so. but if its going to make you stop talking about it, i might as well.” soyoung face lit up as she jumps happily and starts skipping ahead of you. you laugh and pull the handle at back of her bag to keep her explosion of excitement to the minimum.

“you owe me brown sugar milk tea. large.” you taunted. soyoung waves her hand lazily. “i’ll buy you one after school tomorrow. but you better update me during math.”

you wanted to say how you could just text soyoung to update her, but you remembered the fact that soyoung’s mother took away her phone since she didn’t do well for this year’s midterms. although to you, soyoung’s grades were decent. unfortunately for her, soyoung has to live up to her asian mom’s high expectations. the thought of this made you want to frown, but you showed a bright smile regardless as the two of you finally made it to the school gate, waving to each other and bidding farewell before walking down opposite paths.

once you arrived at home, you took out your phone from your back pocket. you saw a notification from your mother saying that your parents would be home late. you shrug your shoulders as you walk to your room. “as always.” you breathed out.

you did your normal routine of showering and eating leftover dinner that you needed to heat up at the couch while you completed one episode of the anime series you were so hooked on. you continue watching but with the amount of homework you have, you might finish them all by midnight if you dont slack.

you turned off the tv and washed your plate before heading into your room. as you close the door behind you, your eyes immediately went to your desk, which was pretty messed up since you had a test to study for yesterday that you completely weren’t prepared for and had to squeeze in as much information as you can. hence, the scattering of notes and textbooks.

you stroll over to your desk and sat down. you take out your homework from your back which was beside the desk. looking at the stack of homework, you groan in despair as shove it to the back of the desk till it hit the wall. “ah fuck it! im just going to ask kun for help.” you admitted your defeat depsite thinking you would be able to gain some energy from your dinner. you also thought about how you’ve done your homework in the morning plenty of time so i shouldnt be a problem unless kun doesn’t offer his help.

you jump to your bed and lay down, bringing your phone out and immediately start scrolling through instagram. as you swiped your finger up to look at the posts of the people you follow, you stop at one. a picture of a couple who met through the sticky note theory. or so they claim. your thumbs hover over the screen as your eyes look up to the ceiling, starting to remember what soyoung asked to do to get your bubble tea.

yoy tap your index finger on the side of your phone as you constantly started to think whether you should do it or not. you’ve heard the rumours. but are they even true? the more you thought about it, the more intriguing the idea got. but at the same time, you also thought of how stupid it sounded and was probably made to fool people.

after contemplating and having in a debate in your head that felt like forever, you finally place your phone down beside you and take a deep breath. “ill do it.” you groan to yourself, letting curiosity take over your other feelings.

you gather up your strength to stand up from your bed and walk over to your desk. you push all the papers and textbooks aside, grabbing a yellow sticky notepad from your stationery organiser. you had other colours too like pink and purple, but you figured that you should go with the classic.

pulling out a random pen that was laying in between the pages of one of your textbooks, you tilt your head to the side as you start thinking of what to write, unconsciously biting the end of your pen in the process.

you bite the side of your cheek and shrug, deciding to go with the plan of writing whatever that comes to your mind.

um hi? i dont even know if you’re going to see this. its funny, really. i heard a rumour that you can communicate with your soulmate through sticky notes. it’s probably just fake news and im writing to a nobody. that would honestly be embarrassing but it’ll be like love letters.. to myself(?) or my soulmate. write back? haha

you read over what you wrote an endless amount of times, thinking if you should make changes. you groan and immediately stick the sticky note onto your wall, giving up on giving second thoughts about what you call this ridiculousness.

you went about your night, forgetting you have left the sticky note on the wall. as you were on you bed scrolling through tumblr at 2 in the morning, you hear something. it sounded like a piece of paper had fallen from your desk.

unable to see in complete darkness, you turn on the flashlight from your phone and walk around your room, trying to find whatever it is that fell. it didn’t take you long to find a small yellow sticky note that you accidentally stepped on.

you pick it up, remembering that you wrote on the sticky note and thought that it was yours. however, once you were able to get a closer look, you noticed that the words on the sticky note have changed. so has the handwriting.

holy shit. i dont know what is this. but apparently a sticky note appeared on my wall saying i have a soulmate. my friends told me i should write back because of some rumour. so here i am trying. hi im mark. i dont know your name, but hope you’ll tell me once you recieve this. you’re in luck because apparently the rumour is true. im just as crepped out as you are.

you froze in your spot. your fingers shaking as you read the note again. you scratch your head. being too tired and unable to think straight at 2 in the morning, you place the sticky note on your desk and went back to bed to play with your phone. you soon forget about the fact that your soulmate has replied to your message that you have written on your sticky note.

as you got ready for the next period which was math, soyoung immediately runs over to you, dragging the chair from the desk beside you and taking a seat. you flinch a little when you suddenly see her close to you. 

“so did you try it?!” soyoung asks, her voice filled with enthusiasm . you brushed a few pieces of hair behind your ear, nodding your head as you take out your textbook from under the desk. “did you get a reply then?” 

your mind started to take you back to the mysterious encounter that you had last night. “mhm.” you reply simply. “though the only thing i remember because it seems to be the only relevant information is that the person’s name is mark.” soyoung gasped loudly, making you crease your forehead as you watch her overreacting again. 

“your soulmate’s name is mark then.” soyoung concludes, folding her arms confidently as if she made a great discovery. you laugh, rolling your eyes sarcastically. “isnt it obvious?” soyoung frowns fakely. 

your mouth gapes open as you hit soyoung’s arm lightly. “buy me my milk tea!” you demanded with a wide smile. soyoung places her notebook on your table and nods constantly. “i will you addict.” she groans. you happily say thank you as your teacher comes into the classroom and class began. 

“what are you going to do about it now though?” as you recieved the question from soyoung, you kept silent for a moment, giving time to think of an answer.

 “ill write something back? i dont know.. ill have to read the letter again when i get back home.” you whispe to soyoung. she nods in reply as the two of you payed your attention to the front again. it surprised you that soyoung was paying attention but you only assumed that she wanted to do better in class and shrug your shouders, writing down the notes youve missed while talking to soyoung.

as for you, your concentration in class dipped slightly because now, the thing that is occupying your head the most is the thought that the sticky notes theory might actually be real and you cant say its not possible anymore, making you even more shocked than you did last night.

lucky for you, today is the only day of the week where your class ends the earliest, along with two other lower ranked classes. you and soyoung quickly pack up to go to the mall to get your reward. after soyoung buys you your drink, you and soyoung went your separate ways.

after about 30 minutes of taking the bus and walking, you finally arrived at home. you place your drink on the living room table and proceed to place your bag in the room and head for the showers.

once you were done showering, you walk out of the bathroom to head to your room while drying your hair with a small towel. opening the door, you enter and went straight to your clothing rack. just when you were about to grab a shirt from the hanger, you heard the same noise last night. another piece of paper has fallen on the floor.

you turn your head and look down. this time, you found another sticky note right in front of your feet. the colour of the sticky note changed from yellow to a light blue. you tilt your head as you pick up the stick note from the floor, finding it odd as you wonder how the colour of the sticky note changed.

you take a deep breath before reading it, noticing that the handwriting was similar to the one you read last night. a little messier, but still readable.

hi again.. im not sure if you’ll recieve this since its the afternoon and i know people are busy with work or school. i skipped school today so haha. um i just wanted to write to you, despite me not knowing a single thing about you. its odd really. its like i feel the need to write something to an unknown identity that people assume to be my soulmate. i still dont know your name, so i hope youll reply soon. take your time and take care :)

- mark

“skip school? what is he, a bad boy?” you scoff to yourself. you try to take in whatever’s on the note, but another thought comes to mind. you walk over to your desk and saw that the yellow sticky note with mark’s reply was still there. you find everything about this weird and just odd in general. a lot of questions sprouted, but you didn’t want to think of it since you were afraid you would complicate your thoughts and just throw yourself into a stress hole.

you continue to dry your hair with one hand while the other held onto the light blue sticky note. you bit your lip and gulp. after letting out a long sigh, you place the sticky note next to the other one and changed into your clothes, as well as bringing your drink from the living room table to your room, placing it on the desk as you sat down.

you take out your pencilcase from your bag and brought out your fresh new black pen that you just bought at the school’s stationery store. the previous pen you had was full of ink till soyoung was dumb enough to drop it, spoiling the pen and was unable to be used again.

peeling off another yellow stick note from the stack at the edge of your desk, you were about to put your pen on paper when you realise you dont even know what to write. what do you say to this person you barely know about? you continuously tap the edge of the pen against your desk as you take a sip of your drink. you look over to the two sticky notes with the messages that the person has left. its funny how you have to think so hard just to write a short message.

hey again. i actually ended school early today. my name’s raven. but my friends call me ray. i honestly don’t know what to say to you. im still dumbfounded over the fact that you’re my soulmate and we’re here communicating over sticky notes. the world really does work in a strange way. if you dont mind, i guess i want to know how old you are and you’re education status?

you held out the sticky note in front of you and sigh in satisfaction. why? it’s because of your neat handwriting. it was always a trait of yours that you deeply appreciate. you place the sticky note on the wall and advert your attention to the other sticky notes, placing them on the wall beside the new one you have just written.

“will this drive me insane? i might end up with a whole wall of this.” you say to yourself, rubbing your face with your palm before going to your bed and laying down, wanting to have your evening nap.

“this is awesome!”

“no its scary.”

mark and his group of friends stared at the sticky note that has a message written with beautiful handwriting. mark flinched when he felt an arm on his shoulder, turning around to notice it was chenle’s. “when did you write your previous sticky note?” renjun suddenly asked. mark tilts his head as he tried to find an answer.

“less than an hour before you guys came i guess?” mark shrugs, standing up from his desk and taking a seat at the edge of the bed beside jaemin and haechan. “this raven girl is your soulmate then.” chenle walks towards mark and stands in front of him. mark nods slowly. the room grew silent again with everyone having the similar thoughts.

“you know what would be funny?” haechan smacks mark’s thigh, the sound making everyone turn their attention to mark and haechan. “what?” mark asked with a sigh, running a hand through his hair.

“why dont we prank her and say you’re a sugar daddy and live in a mansion?!” everyone gave yuta weird looks, making haechan laugh hysterically. “are you crazy? do you think i want to chase my soulmate away?” mark scolded haechan, smacking him hard on the chest, resulting in haechan’s back falling onto the bed.

“you’re always asking for a beating i swear.” renjun comments, walking towards haechan and balling his hand into a fist and acting as if he was about to attack. jaemin laughs to try and calm them down. “kids let’s not fight.” jaemin announced, looking over to jeno only to find him standing there watching quietly.

“go ahead, mark. you should write something. we cant keep her waiting.” jeno finally spoke up, grabbing the sticky notepad and a random pen from mark’s table and passing it over to him.

mark stared at the blank paper while the others were talking about what to have for dinner. it didn’t take him long to decide what to write. when mark starts writing and began to be in full concentration, everyone crowds around him to see what he’s writing.

sup raven! i wont call you ray since we aren’t friends yet. im still shocked. like the possibility of things like this being possible is just another possibility that can possibly happen. but anyways, to answer you question, im a high schooler from dream high. im in my third year. its kind of awkward for me while im writing this since my friends are reading every word im taking down. i guess i should ask you the same question back then. hope to hear from you soon.

“will you guys stop being nosy?” mark groans, standing up and pasting the sticky note on his wall, along with the other sticky notes he received from you. “you didn’t have to say that we’re here.” haechan retorts. mark rolls his eyes. “jesus..” mark mutters under his breathe. “anyways, yall are paying for dinner since you guys bribed me to write back.” mark sticks his tongue out playfully and runs out to the living room. everyone follows suit.. except for jeno.

jeno slowly walks towards the wall and leans forward to get a closer look of the sticky notes, specifically the two others beside the new one that mark just wrote. “raven? why does that sound so familiar? the handwriting...” jeno brings his finger up and lightly hovers them over the uniquely written words. it looked like calligraphy, and retro looking. jeno felt as though he had seen it before somewhere, or knew someone who wrote like that.

jeno snapped out of his deep thoughts when jaemin called out to him, making him walk towards the door and glancing at the sticky notes once more before joining the others in the living room.

you were currently video calling your friends when you heard the crackling of a piece of paper. of course you knew what that meant. you peered down the the floor from your bed and reached your hand out to pick up the sticky note. “ray?” doyoung called out to you when he noticed your face wasnt on screen. you lay back down on the floor and brought your phone up to show your face.

“what was that sound earlier?” lucas asked, currently sounding hyper. “the mysterious mark sent me another sticky note.” you reply sarcastically, waving the sticky note to the camera to let everyone look at it. everyone nodded their heads at the some time, some letting out a long ‘ah’ as well. “read it out loud!” yuta shouted.

“the fuck no!” you shouted back. you stared at the sticky note, but didn’t bother to read it. you thought of doing that once you’re done video calling them.

“how was today for you guys?” you asked, wanting to know how they’re doing.

“its tiring! we had dance practice, then we have to do recordings for our new albums. we barely get any sleep.” ten whines, his tone filled with stress. you laugh loudly. it made everyone frown and pout. you sigh. “pursuing your NCT world domination is never easy.” you commented, highlighting the word ‘world domination’ with a change of tone.

everyone lets out a long sigh and started to complain one by one, making the whole video call chaotic for almost 10 minutes. you could only smile and shake your head.

after about an hour or so of talking about basically everything and catching up with each other, everyone decided that they should end the call here since it was beginning to get dark and they needed to start practice soon. you bid your goodbye to them once more and ended the call.

you now adverted your attention to the sticky note. reading the letter, you raise both eyebrows. “dream high? that’s not far from here..” you mumbled to yourself. you started to think about everything you know about dream high. you know it’s was about an hour’s journey from where you live. it wasnt really well known either. the overall vibe of the school was mediocre.

however, you felt like you were missing something. something about that school is somehow related to you. you just couldn’t think of an answer despite squeezing all thoughts that you have in your brain. you groan and stood up from your bed and to your desk, proceeding to wanting to write a reply to mark.

hey. sorry if you get this quite late. i was busy video calling my friends. to answer your question, im a third year as well from jookin high. i would ask for your number so we dont have to do this all the time but my friend would scold me saying “but you’re removing the fun out of it.” but anyways, mark aka my soulmate, tell me about yourself, to start off.

you stick the note onto the wall, looking at the row of messages you’ve had recieved so far. you found it weird how the first time you’ve sent the note and got a reply back, it was on the same sticky note, just different handwriting. but you had to write on a new sticky note to send a new message only to get the same sticky note with a different message in return.

you only see his answers lined up on your wall. you started to wonder how this mark guy looked like. is he good looking? what are his hobbies? his attitude towards school? you really wished you could just text him through instagram and not have to go through all this trouble. but that option would earn you a large smack on the back by soyoung and your really didn’t want that.

“do we really need to be here now? like now?!”soyoung whined, while pushing the cart and following behind you while you tossed some packets of frozen bacon. you stopped walking and turn around, nodding your head intensely. soyoung groans and took out her phone, proceeding to use it while still pushing the cart.

you walk around the supermarket, trying to find the ingredients listed on your notes in your phone. it was the weekends and you’re parents were going to be away for a business trip for a week so you thought of inviting soyoung over and making home cooked meals as a bonding session for you two.

after about 30 minutes of gathering the ingredients and having soyoung constantly screaming and fangirling over tiktok edits of jaehyun from NCT. one note: she has yet to know that you know them and that they’re your friends. you figured that it would be best to not let anyone know so as to avoid any situation that would put your friends in a tight spot, since well they’re idols, you were looking for one last item that you had trouble finding.

“soyoung help me! stop watching tiktoks!” you groan, snatching soyoung’s phone away and shoving it in her back pocket. soyoung rolls her eyes lazily and the two of you proceeded to scan the different isles and shelves, looking over every item.

while you were too concentrated looking at the bottom shelves, you felt that you have bumped into someone. you squat down, letting out a soft ‘ouch’ before standing up and looking to see who you bumped into.

“wait. jaemin?” you furrow your eyebrows as you tilt your head, pointing your finger at the guy in front of you. “raven!” you noticed that it was jaemin after all, and both your faces lit up and the same time, grinning widely at each other.

“uhhh..” soyoung says out loud, you and jaemin turn your heads to face soyoung who was behind you. “oh! this is jaemin. we used to be neighbourhood friends before he moved out 4 years ago.” you introduced jaemin to soyoung. jaemin nodded and gave her a bright smile. soyoung only shrugged her shoulders and took out her phone. you turn your attention back to jaemin.

“why are you even here? dont you live quite far?” you ask, your fingers interlocked behind your back. jaemin nods, running a hand through his hair.

“well yes. but we came here to find something that only this supermarket sells.” jaemin replied back, his warm smile never leaving his lips. you smile, reached your hand out to ruffle his hair, laughing softly afterwards. “we? who’re you with?” you stared at jaemin with eyes of suspicion. jaemin started pinching your cheeks, making you whine and begging him to let go.

“with my friend, ray chill. im still single.” jaemin pulled away and folded his arms, pouting. “im sure you’ll find one soon.” you reached out to ruffle his hair and give off a wide smile.

while you and jaemin were catching up and being in your own world, soyoung got too bored of watching the two of you and decided to walk around the supermarket, leaving the cart behind you.

just as she was looking at the drinks isle to get her favourite sweet drink, she sees someone picking up a bunch of bottles one by one and placing them back on the shelve. out of kindness, she decided to help, picking up a bottle and placing it on fhe shelve before looking up to face the guy, who had a straight face while looking at her.

“i was just trying to help. im soyoung.” soyoung smiled, reaching her hand out and waiting for thr guy to greet back. he looked at her but doesn’t respond, proceeding to pick up the last bottle that was seen on the floor. “im jeno.” jeno stands up and nods his head to greet soyoung. soyoung nods back, walking down the isle to grab her drink from the shelve. “have a nice day.” soyoung says before leaving the isle and disappearing out of jeno’s sight. he only shrugged in response and went to do his own thing.

“you met who?!” haechan asks as he takes a sip of his ice cold water. everyone had their heads turned to jaemin, who raised an eyebrow at everyone’s weird expression. “i met my old friend raven. what’s so shocking?” jaemin asks back casually, picking up a few pieces of fries and dipping it into the sauce before shoving it in his mouth.

“dude that’s the name of mark’s soulmate!” haechan screams, making everyone flinch due to the loud noise. “i highly doubt it. there’s plenty of girls in the world with the name raven.” jaemin protests with his mouth full and chugging down gulps of coca cola.

“i mean that’s true. jeno you were with jaemin, right? dont you suspect anything?” renjun starts to question jeno, who was silently playing with his phone. looking up at the others, he gulps.

“i didn’t know he met his friend. i was picking out drinks. i just met a girl named soyoung.” jeno shrugs, taking a bite of his burger. mark scratches the back of his head, now starting to think of the fact that jaemin might have met his soulmate. though he also thought about how that could not be totally possible.

“nah i dont think its her. like really ‘raven’ could be anyone.” mark says, siding with jaemin. haechan tilts his head in awe. “jaemin do you know what school she’s going to?” jaemin only shakes his head.

“i lost all contact with her when i left her neighbourhood. plus we were young. i barely knew her honestly.” the living room falls silent, everyone trying to think of a conclusion to this.

chenle groans, standing up from his seat and slamming his hands on the table, gathering everyone’s attention as their heads shot up. “instead of pondering as if yall are solving some crime, why dont mark just ask her through the sticky note god dammit?” chenle pinches the bridge of his nose.

everyone’s mouths gape open as the room was suddenly filled with ‘ah’s all over. chenle shakes his head. everyone was now looking intensively at mark. mark furrows his eyebrows. “okay guys hold up ill grab the stick note.” mark stands up and takes one bite of his burger before going into his room for awhile and coming out with a sticky note and a pen.

jaemin noticed jeno being silent the whole way. and althought thats normal since its jeno’s nature and personality to not be so outspoken like the others, jaemin could sense that jeno was off and seem to be in deep thoughts.

and jaemin was right. jeno couldnt stop thinking about jaemin’s encounter with ‘raven’. the name sounded so familiar. he tried to recall every girl he has came into contact with during his life. why did he feel like the name was tied to the handwriting he saw on the sticky notes?

“jeno.” jaemin nudged him in the shoulder. jeno mumbled a soft ‘oh’ before turning his attention to mark just like the others. “she didn’t send me a reply after my last one though.” mark says, looking up.

“its fine. she probably didn’t see it. just write already.” chenle says in anticipation. mark shakes his head. “calm the heck down its not like we can get an answer immediately.” mark rolls his eyes and began to write.

hey raven. um i know this may sound weird. but have you gone to a supermarket and met a guy names jaemin? im not a stalker i swear. its just that he’s my friend and apparently you know him. though i dont think that such a coincidence and come by just like that. hope you hear from you soon.

jeno stared at the sticky note that mark proceeded to place at a random wall of the living room while everyone continued to eat and chat. his thoughts finally linked and a imaginary lightbulb appeared on above his head when he finally realises why he was so drawn to mark’s soulmate.

you were focused on wanting to solve a math question when the sticky note above your desk’s wall had fallen in front of you, revealing a new message. you place your pen down and let out a sigh, remembering that you hsve forgotten to write a reply and that mark probably sent you another one.

you tied your hair in a messy low bun before picking up the sticky note to get a closer view. you blink your eyes rapidly as your eyes furrow in awe. what the note said really shocked you and made you freeze in your spot. jaemin is friends with your soulmate? there’s no way.

you sat there for awhile as you constantly read over the words, still in shock with your moutb hanging open. you just couldn’t believe it. was it really what it seemed to be? another thought came to your mind as well. the thought of just who is this friend of jaemin’s? could it be mark? was your soulmate literally in the same place as you yet you never knew?

you grab a fresh new piece of sticky note and proceeded to write a reply after staring at it for so long and thought that it was finally time that you do something.

okay what you wrote really was weird. jaemin’s my old neighbourhood friend. its such a coincidence how you know him. i guess the connections are there. so haha yeah. damn. im very mind blown right now.

you take a look at your handwriting again, smiling to yourself. “i really do love my handwriting.” you mumble under your breath. you stuck the sticky note on the wall and resumed doing your homework, hoping that mark would reply soon.

while the boys were immersed in the horror movie they were watching on friday night, everyone turned their heads to each other when they heard the noise of a piece of paper falling onto the floor. in unison, everyone turned their head to where the noise came from and seeing the sticky note that fell.

jisung grabs the controller and pauses the movie. “we’re watching a scary movie and creepy stuff like that happens?!” jisung asks, stuttering out of complete fear.

mark decided to be the brave one after seeing everyone’s terrified face and stands up to pick up the sticky note, going back to take his seat on the couch soon after. “d-does that always happen?” mark shrugs. “well duh. that’s how i know she sent a reply. it wouldn’t be this scary if we weren’t watching a horror movie.”

everyone’s heads once again gather around mark as he read the note out loud. everyone gapes their mouth open, some covered their mouths while jeno could only stare at it in disbelief. “i guess we’ve confirmed its her.” mark breathes out, placing the sticky note on the table.

jeno reaches out to grab the sticky note to have a look. the unique handwriting that he suspected would belong to you really was yours. out of anger, he tears the sticky notes into two. everyone had their eyes widened at jeno’s sudden shocking action. mark snatches the now torn note back, looking down at them before facing jeno.

“what the heck was that for?!”

“dont talk to her anymore. she’s trouble.”

everyone lets out a sigh in unison except for mark, looking at everyone’s weird reaction. “what do you mean trouble? and why does it look like you all know something except me?” mark furrows his eyes as everyone exchanged glances continuously for a moment.

“she’s just not someone you should be with. that’s all.” jeno stands up and walks to his room, slamming the door shut and produring a piercing noise. the room was silent for awhile until mark speaks up.

“what am i missing here you guys?”

no one replies.

“we’ve been friends for a year and you guys are all keeping secrets for me?” mark scoffs in disbelief, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“we arent in the position to tell you. its jeno.” jaemin murmurs under his breath, looking down on the ground just like the others.

marks keeps silent and stands up from the couch, the palm the torn note was in is balled into a fist as he goes into his room as well.

haechan sighs. “jeno has to tell the truth. he’s been holding onto that grudge almost forever now.”

everyone nods their heads in agreement. “if not, he’s going to live in despair now that he knows she’s his best friend’s soulmate..” jisung adds on. 

everyone could only silently hope that things could go well. 

after that day you’ve sent a reply, you havent heard from mark since. you dont know why. due to your lack of information on him, it felt as if he disappeared into thin air. although only a week has past by, you felt concerned and somewhat worried for him. did something happen to him? what made him cut off his connection with you? its not like you did anything wrong. 

out of pure desperation, you decided to skip school today. youve never skipped school before, and you felt so rebellious and bad. why did you do this? so you could go to dream high and meet mark in person. youve had enough of the sticky notes. you just wanted to see how he was like in real life, not having to think about it through notes. 

with a little help from jaemin by texting him on instagram, you knew that mark’s class should be ending by 4pm, and you were there at 3:50 in the canteen where jaemin told you to wait. funny how the security guard lets a student from another school come in with a pass or anything.

you slowly start seeing groups of students going down the flight of stairs that lead to the canteen which had a path leading to the front gates. some eyes glanced at you as they notice someone who doesnt belong at their school, you couldnt care less though. your thoughts were only filled with mark. how he looked like, how he would carry himself. your anticipation was the only thing you felt.

you wore your headphones yet you could suddenly hear a lot of squealing and shouting. you look up, turning you attention to the stairs. a large group of girls crowding around another group of people, who you assumed to be guys. you scoffed, thinking about how there’s always that one group of good looking guys all girls seem to go crazy for. you watch as the group of guys push through the large crowd.

once you got a closer look, you tilt your head to the side. you slowly bring your headphone down from your ears and let them rest on your neck, getting intrigued by how the girls were getting so crazy, even more crazy than the ones from your school.

“its mark! he’s so cute!” 

you widen your eyes as you heard the word ‘mark’. you stood up from your seat, peering your head up to find which one is the girl referring to. you only see two guys walking. one smiling sheepishly while the other kept a straight and cold face. just which one is mark?

suddenly, you felt an arm grabbing yours and pulling you back. you jump out of fear and turn around noticing it was jaemin. you calmed your breathing as you look at jaemin. 

“meet mark under the block nearby. its too hectic here for you to talk to him.”

jaemin dragged you out of the school grounds and to a secluded block where only a few students where walking past and left you there. you were lost in confusion but decided to trust whatever jaemin was doing, sitting down at a random bench.

“jaemin told us to meet him here where is-” 

“raven.”

“what?”

you immediately stood in front of the two guys you saw at the canteen as you notice a familiar face. you werent able to get a clear look at them before, but now you realise that you knew one of them. “jeno..” you look at a different direction a you tried avoiding his gaze, though you knew you couldnt, forcing yourself to meet his eyes.

mark looks at the both of you, utterly confused as his attention shifts from you to jeno constantly. “this raven?” mark points at you, tilting his head. you nod slowly as your turn your head to face mark. you observed his body up and down. he was good looking, just like jeno.. yet his aura told you that he was way more outgoing and open than jeno. 

“you look...”

everyone was silent.

you gulp in nervousness. “im busy. bye mark.” before jeno could go, mark pulled on his arm to bring him back to stand beside him, earning a glare from jeno. the one you could never forget. “stay. i know something happened. you were always quiet whenever we talked about this girl. and i also know you all kept something from me.”

you slowly turned to jeno. you could he was annoyed whenever he looked at you. you felt it through his eyes, and it was terrifying. jeno took a deep breath in, folding his arms and placing his weight on one leg. 

“if you remember clearly, chenle told you that before we became friends with you, we had a fight and didnt talk to each other for a long time. we didnt tell you this, but it was her who caused it. she brought chaos into our group. everyone forgotten about it clearly, but i cant. after what she did.. i cant forgive her.”

you opened your mouth, wanting to reply but your words were somehow stuck in your throat. you didnt exactly know what to say or do in this awkward situation.

“it.. it was a long time ago jeno, please. my feelings for you were real, even if we werent meant to be. i dont know how many times you need me to say sorry.” you pleaded, biting your lip as you waited for jeno’s reaction.

jeno sighs and runs a hand through his hair as he lets out a huff of rustration. “then why did you leave? you left me stranded, and because of you, i almost left my friends becaused i lived in agony since i missed you so much. i almost pushed everyone away.” you shivered as jeno’s voice started to raise. 

 you also glanced at mark, who still kept his confused expression on his face. through his gaze never left you as you felt his eyes scanning you body up and down. 

“you two used date?” mark asks. you nod in reply.

“we were kids. we didnt know about all this soulmate stuff. but now..” 

“you know what? be together. im not going to leave my friends just because of my pent up grudge and feelings. i cant control fate either.” 

years had now past since you met mark. it really was fate. the two of you became close in no time and now.. you were fianally married. you couldnt be more happy to be with mark. who you were destined to be really was made for you, and you only. and to think this all escalated due to a note you sent out in pure curiosity.

you still remember what happened with jeno after that day, despite the lack of interaction between you two, jeno was open enough to accept you as his friend again. you are now living a happy life with mark, and always being able to hang out with his group of friends. today was no different. 

“haechan get the chilli sauce!” you hear mark shout as you smile widely, feeling his arm snaking around your waist to pull you close. having a barbeque was a great idea to celebrate jisung’s birthday. 

you soon see haechan with the bottle of chilli sause, placing it on the table where everyone gathered around the table which had jisung’s birthday cake. “before we do anything with the cake, let me announce my wish.” jisung announces proudly. you raise an eyebrow. “you cant say you birthday wish out loud!” you scolded jisung, but everyone laughs.

“his wish is something we all know.” jeno says, winking playfully at you. you tilt your head in confusion when you suddenly feel mark’s arm leaving you waist. you look over to mark who was shoving his hand into his pocket as if to find something.

you were completely clueless when mark nods towards jisung, to show some kind of signal. “i wish for mark and raven to get married!” jisung shouts. 

you gaped your mouth open in shock when mark pulls out a small box, opening it in front of you to show a ring. you cover your mouth in disbelief. “did you guys really-”

“please marry me, raven. my sticky note soulmate.” you hear everyone clapping s a tear of happiness drips from your cheek. you quickly wipe it away as you heard the nickname that mark gave you. “we wouldnt normally do this but it was jeno that suggested this.”

you look over to jeno who had a soft smile on his face as he nod his head. looking back at mark, you grin widely as more tears started flowing out. “of course ill marry you, you dork.”

[willddheartt]

30 Days | Wilbur Soot

30 days to fall in love with someone? Sounds easy right?

It would be if that person wasn’t so unbelievably annoying in almost every sense. 

You’re not sure how you found yourself in this situation, but you were positive there was no backing out now…

Series Warnings: Mostly fluff and angst, and a very poorly constructed enemies to lovers plot. 

Word Count: 1892

Masterlist Series Masterlist 30 Days The beginning

You sighed, staring at the black screen of your PC waiting for it to light up. After last night, you didn’t even want to log on, but you knew if you avoided it now, it would just cause more hassle in the long run.

The monitors light up with your bright coloured backgrounds and the PC itself emitted many colours of the rainbow.  Opening Discord, you started a message with Wilbur.

Did you hear? You type, clicking through a few channels as you awaited his response. 

Yeah, how’d this come about? his message read 

Your head shook as you typed and you ran a hand through your hair, pushing it back and out of your face, I don’t know. Hop in a VC and we can discuss better? 

You pulled on your headset, waiting for the call to come through, what you weren’t expecting was for Wilbur to video call you. You had just got out of bed before logging on and didn’t even have any makeup on and you were still in your cropped top and sleep bottoms. Quickly pulling the fuzzy blanket you kept on the back of your chair around your shoulders you answered the call. 

“Hey,” You answered with a sigh, setting your head in your hand.  “Hi,” He said, monotone.  “What’s he got on you?” You asked  “My home address and credit card information, stuff like that. And you?”  You sighed, knowing if you told the truth he might think even lower of you than he already did. “Same thing and like some stupid stuff I did in high school,”  Wilburs expression changed from annoyed to something you couldn’t read, “What did you do?”  “Relax,” You sighed, “It’s nothing like terrible, terrible.” “Do you not want to tell me?” He sat back in his chair  “I’d rather not,” You mumbled, “I don’t need you thinking lower of me than you already do.”  “Fine,” Wilbur sighed, “Do you want to talk about how we’re going to do this or not?” You nodded 

“What do you think the best approach would be?” You asked, sitting up and pulling your leg up.  “Well obviously, I think we should outline what the rules are.”  “Okay,” You nodded pulling up a note, “So we’re supposed to be dating right?” You asked, Wilbur, nodded. “So we should act like a couple,” You said as you typed out  “What about how we act on and off camera?” Wil asked  “What about it?” You asked, “On camera, we act so madly in love the fans won’t even question it, off-camera we can not speak or whatever we do now.”  Wil shook his head, “I think to get the best performance we’d have to truly play into this and act on and off camera.”  You threw your head back, “Really?” You asked  “Do you truly hate me that much, Y/N?” 

“Well no, it’s just I’d rather not.”  “Too bad, it’s already written.”  You sighed, “Fine.”  “Do you think we should tell our friends about the whole situation or just leave it as we’re a couple?” You asked  “Leave them out of the blackmail part, they could slip up.” You nod agreeing. 

After twenty minutes of back and forth, you devised a list of rules doe the month. 

They were as follows:

Must act like a couple on and off camera 

Must act like a couple at all times 

Every week doing things that couples would do (i.e. dates, movie nights, going out to dinner) 

Must post announcing you’re together, on Twitter Instagram or in a stream. 

Can only tell friends about you being together 

And you must see each other regularly. 

If either of you failed to do one of these things you immediately owe the other person $50

Wilbur was still on call with you after the list was created, you ended up talking about how you think the blackmailer got your information. Both of you were in the dark. 

Your roommate came in, interrupting your conversation, “Hey, Y/N, Wanna come with me to pick up food?” She asked stopping dead in her tracks when she saw Wilbur on your monitor.  You nodded, “Just give me a second here,” She waved as she exited the room.  “Sorry about that, Wil,” You said turning back to the camera. “Seems I’ve got to go, but we can talk more about this when I get back if you’d like.”  Wilbur nodded, “It was nice talking to you, love.” 

The pet name caught you off guard, you looked at Wilbur, who had the most shit-eating grin on his face you’d ever seen. “What?” He asked, tilting his head, “We have to start somewhere, thought now would be a good time.”  You sighed, “ill talk to you later Wilbur.” 

You ended the call and let your head fall into your hands. 

Man, this was going to be a long month. 

“Sorry about earlier.” Your roommate said once you walked out of your room  You shook your head, “Don’t worry about it, it was only Wilbur,”  ���Wilbur?” She asked, “Don’t you, like, hate him?” “Hate is a strong word,” You sighed. “I think I’ve had a change of heart about him.” 

-

You got home to messages from Wilbur asking if you wanted to stream with him tonight to make your announcement, you grabbed a drink and something to eat and got ready to stream. This time you were able to get ready to be on camera. You did your makeup, simple winged eyeliner nothing too extravagant, and you put on a cute top, but kept on your pyjama bottoms. 

Are you setting up stream? You messaged Wilbur 

Yeah, are you ready? He replied within seconds

Ready as I’ll ever be. 

This time you called Wilbur, he picked up within seconds.  “I know this is only fake but im nervous,” You blurted out.  Wilbur nodded, “Me too,”  “How do you think the fans will react?” You asked  “Honestly?” You nodded, “I think the overall reaction will be good.”  “What about the ones that aren’t?” You were picking at your fingers, a nervous habit, “I don’t want to get death threats and that kind of thing,” You frowned.  “I’ll take care of it,” Wil said, his words brought you a sense of peace, and you waited for him to start streaming. 

As he welcomed everyone to the stream, you weren’t on screen yet. You had a few moments to take in his appearance. He was wearing a nice white button-down, and it looked like he tried to do something with his hard but failed and just let it slump in its natural half curly-half wavy state on his forehead. You smiled at him as he kept trying to shake the hair out of his eyes but it refused to move. 

“Well, chat,” He started, “There is someone very important to me that I’d like to introduce you to.” As he spoke you could feel the knots in your stomach, nervous for him to finally show your face cam on stream. “Now, you probably already know them but,” He paused, working things out to be able to show your cam on stream, “Y/N and I would like to tell you something,” He said, and your face popped up on his stream, you waved to the chat.  “Y/N, would you like to do the honours?” He asked with a smirk “I guess so,” You put on the biggest smile you could muster before it looked fake and forced, “Chat,” You said. “Wil and I are dating!” You announced and he cheered.  The chat exploded with hearts and Pogs, of course, there were the normal hate comments, but those were almost drowned out by all the emotes. 

“Okay now, I don’t want to see anybody hating on Y/N, Okay?” Wilbur said in a stern voice, looking directly at the camera, “Mods if you can, keep it out of the chat. And chat, keep it off the social media, Okay?” He waited for responses in the chat to roll through before continuing, “If you haven't got anything nice to say, let’s not say it alright?”  You nodded along with him, secretly admiring how adamant he was about keeping the hate away, you knew Wilbur was the type of gut to do that but you didn't think he'd do it for you, especially where the two of you weren't even truly together.

“Okay, so Y/N and I here, didn’t really talk about what we were going to do on here, we just wanted to announce the news, but I guess we’ll stick around and answer a few questions for about an hour, hows that sound?”  You nodded, “That sounds good to me. Chat if you have any questions to ask us, about our relationship or just personally send them in the chat or whatever you’d like to do. 

You and Wilbur sat on stream for close to an hour talking to the chat and receiving many donations asking questions and answering the chat, they seemed to love that the two of you were ‘together’. You read a few things saying “Enemies to lovers? POG” in the chat that made you laugh to yourself, telling Wil you’d tell him later when he asked what was so funny. 

Truthfully, you didn’t hate Wilbur as much as you’ve convinced yourself you have. Sometimes the acting and just messing around on the SMP got blurry in your mind, a lot of the things you found revolting about him were things his character had done for the sake of plot development. 

Wilbur finally ended the stream, you both said bye to chat and he went off.  “That went well, don't you think?” He asked, sighing as soon as the stream was over. “I think it was good, their reaction seemed to be positive.” You sat back in your chair.  “What did you find so funny in the chat?” He asked, throwing an arm behind his head as he leaned back in his chair. You giggled as you thought about it again, “I saw some people saying ‘enemies to lovers? Pog’ in the chat and I thought it was really funny.” “I mean, they're technically not wrong.” You rolled your eyes, looking down at the time in the corner of your monitor. 

It was late. Almost three am. 

“Hey, I’ll talk to you tomorrow Wil, alright? I should go to bed soon.”  Wil nodded, “Talk to you tomorrow, Y/N, sleep well.” He smiled as he hit the end call button. 

You sat in your dimly lit room in complete silence, other than the noise of the fans in your PC. You couldn’t believe you had to do this for a month. You truly wondered how you could do this, it was only day one and you wanted to crawl out of your skin and wash off the feeling that he gave you. In your act you could see how you might be able to fall for him, but once the call ended and you were snapped back to reality, you wished to take the hottest and longest shower in the word and wash the feeling of him away, watch the dirt slide down the drain and out of your mind. 

“You can do this. It's only a month,” You whispered to yourself.

[southslates]

Sorry I accidentally posted this as a note instead! I absolutely love your work! How about Zutara + “Betty” from folklore!

“I'm only seventeen I don't know anything”

i.

Katara stands in front of him. And then she blinks; and then she keeps staring. Zuko's features look utterly, completely, unreservedly terrified. He looks like he is about to fall apart, right then, as she takes him in.

He has tracked her and Aang across the entire world, and she does not know what he is doing here, but she feels, for some reason, guilty. Her heart beats against her chest wildly.

She should go tell the others about this. She lifts her foot up, and the prince looks like she has just started stomping on all of his hopes and dreams. She knows that gaze, marred as it is, all too well.

So she steps forward, feet pounding the pavement until she is truly right in front of him. Her voice wavers.

"I'd like some tea, please."

ii.

The girl keeps coming back to the teahouse. He wants her to leave. She is just a reminder of his past and she holds so much power over him. He doesn't like that. He wants her to leave.

On her fifth day she reaches a hand out and grabs his arm. She has been wearing this strange facade, acting absolutely nonchalant, and his fingers flex as his mind readies him for a fight. But her grasp is light and she lets go when he turns around.

"You owe me an explanation," she says.

"I'm not here to hurt you," he shudders out.

"I know." Her cool eyes are blue but they bear fiery holes into him. She gestures towards the kitchen, where Iroh is watching this strange conversation. "I still want to know."

iii.

He shudders when he's near her, and she finds that strange. But some part of her feels at peace when she flops up onto the kitchen table. He had moved away when she had come close to him -

She wonders, briefly, who has ever touched him; the ugly skin across his face looks like a hand mark.

"You're not trying to capture us."

It's a statement, and he doesn't respond. Iroh exits the door and slams it shut behind him until it is the two of them, just them, facing each other amongst roaring teapots.

"No."

"Why?"

"This - this is fine."

"That's not what I - why did you want to capture us, in the first place?"

His left eye is slanted and his lips curl down. She doesn't think she has ever seen him smile. "It doesn't matter. I'm fine now. You should leave."

"I don't want to."

"Look, waterbender -"

"My name is Katara," she lilts, so curious; he glares further.

"Look, Katara. Let me go. I don't want to cause any trouble."

She slides off the table and heads to the backdoor, pausing to give him one last long look. It seems searching. "It's my turn, Prince Zuko."

iv.

"Moonpeach bun today," she requests, and he doesn't say anything to that, just stands there with his brow tilted quizzically. She looks up a moment later. "What? I'm hungry."

She has never bought food here, before; something is changing, but the metal clamp over his heart almost releases itself.

"Okay," he says.

"Okay," she replies.

v.

One day she comes in and he is not here. She knows his schedule, the patterns; she walks up to the desk and asks the old man there what has happened. He seems to note her interest with a quirk of his lips.

"Lee is sick," he tells her. "He isn't here today."

She has seen this boy in both poles, has frozen him intimately. It's strange to think that the warrior who kept fighting with his eyes bruised and body aching would succumb to the ills of the flesh. "Where is he?"

"Should I trust you, Master Katara?"

"You know -"

"I know a lot of things. And I care for my nephew," he frowns, but she feels validated. "Come back."

vi.

"How did you manage to get an infection here?" a voice sounds from above him, and he winces in pain at its high note. That does not sound like Uncle.

"W--what?"

His right eye blearily opens and he wants to jump away when he's faced with that deep, startling blue. Katara does not seem angry over him. Now that he is alert his nerves are tingling, and he looks down to see her hands on his bare chest. Color rises to his cheek, but she seems unaffected.

"You seem to enjoy hurting yourself," she says almost teasingly, but she does not even know half the truth. Zuko is not good at taking care of himself, and he had left this wound to fester. He does not always mind being Lee, but sometimes he feels that this life will never be enough.

Now, he is slightly lucid. "Why are you here?"

Her hands glow, clinically, on his chest. "I'm healing you."

"Why?"

Her features, gorgeous in the night's light, dim. "That doesn't matter."

vii.

He is different, now. He is calmer at a surface level, but she sees a fire that lives within; his blood feels like it is boiling.

She's curious about what lies further; she knows she should not be.

viii.

"That girl knows we're firebenders," he whispers, and Uncle turns.

"Of course Master Katara knows the truth. What is the problem?"

"I wasn't talking about her -" But she's here, still, and she walks right up to him at the counter. It has been different, after the day she showed up to his apartment. It has been something tentative, something like friendship.

"Hi," she says breathlessly, and he can't help himself.

"Hi."

They stare at each other before Iroh's sharp whistle draws them out of this; a brown head turns and leaves the shop in the distance.

ix.

There is some sort of festival in the streets, and she avoids dancing performers to wander into an almost empty shop. Pao is not there, so she steps into the kitchen freely; neither men inside are surprised to see her there.

"What's going on?" she asks. Zuko reaches next to him and places a steaming cup of tea in her hands. He is not wearing his apron right now; he looks different. He looks less broad and more defined, and she likes looking at him. She does.

"The Celebration of the Lotus Sky," Iroh says cheerfully. "A nice parade, no? You should be out there, Master Katara." Something lies unspoken; where is the Avatar? Aang would love this, but he is busy with Toph. She frowns thinking about it and almost drops the cup. Zuko places his hand right in front of her, and she smiles at him.

A strange sort of hope is blooming in her chest. "It sounds fun."

Zuko looks like he is struggling with something for a moment. Iroh takes that time to leave. But then he looks at her, golden eyes looking strangely innocent, and speaks. "Yeah, it does."

x.

Something comes together under that sky; lanterns float by them, and she gets him to actually speak once they find a vendor selling Fire Nation cuisine.

She pays for him, and he does not know how to feel about that. He is distracted as they walk through the streets, as she seems young and jubilant. Here, she is just Katara. Not a master, not calculated; she is just here. She is not playing games with him.

It feels nice, because everyone plays games with him.

She pulls him to a fountain after they've exhausted the path, and his cheeks are hurting with laughter for the first time since . . . since his mother had died. She had tried to make him dance and accepted his shake of a head; she had laughed over noodles with him, had made funny faces in mirrors until his smile moved. She had tried, and that makes all the difference.

The sconces are unlit, and she looks at them wistfully. He wishes he could light them, but he cannot risk that, and that leaves him disappointed in himself.

And then Katara leans herself up against his shoulder, and he feels like he could burn down this entire city with the fire that rages within him.

He does not know if there is something here. He almost wishes that there was.

xi.

Nothing good ever lasts. She feels like she had something fragile, like she is about to break it here, sitting on the floor of the Crystal Catacombs.

"That's something we have in common," he says, and she cannot resist walking over to him. She places her hand on his scar, and he does not look scared when her thumb skims his lip. He does not look resigned. He looks peaceful.

Then something breaks and she turns away, and he sees the Avatar, and his heart stops beating.

xii.

She sees him look at her, at his sister. Isn't the choice obvious? She is right here. They have created something here, carved it out in the tea house. She is right here. But Aang is also right here, and she does not know how to verbalize her feelings like that.

That is her mistake. He asks her a question with his eyes, and she freezes.

xiii.

He wants her to tell him that this will not be worth it. He wants her to lay her head on his shoulder and stop him from doing this. Because he remembers the fish in the pond, and he thinks about good and evil, and he does not know.

He needs her to have faith in him.

She hesitates, and she looks at the Avatar, and all he can feel is rage.

xiv.

"I trusted you," she screams.

xv.

"Not enough," he doesn't say.

/

“The worst thing that I ever did Was what I did to you”  - Taylor Swift, Betty

(Indulgence & an S2 AU that got away from me. I’m not a hundred percent sure what you were looking for, but I hope this works aha. Thanks for requesting @colourtheworldwithrainbows​ & I’m so glad you like my writing & I hope you enjoyed this :) Even though I definitely bungled the prompt aha.

If anyone has a Zutara request/prompt you’d like to see written, leave it in my ask box and I’ll write it!)

[ethereal-not-occult]

patience and the mulberry

"With time and patience, the mulberry leaf becomes a silk gown."

Fandom: Good Omens Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens) Characters: Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale (Good Omens) Additional Tags: Post-Canon, Established Relationship, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Fluff and Angst, Character(s) of Color, Sericulture, silkworms, past religious trauma, but nothing bad happens in this fic I promise, mixed bookverse w/ TV elements, references to Chinese culture Notes: Originally written for the @goodomensfashionzine​ !

“I'll only be a minute, dear.” Aziraphale kissed Crowley's cheek as he opened the door of the Bentley. “You don't have to see me to the door if you don't want to.”

Crowley tightened his grip on the wheel. “Sure, angel. Sounds good to me.” The sibilants slid far too quickly past his clenched jaw, and he bit his tongue to stop the instinctive hiss from escaping.

Aziraphale gave him a sympathetic look, but shut the Bentley's door behind him and soon disappeared through the doors of the church. Once he was out of sight, Crowley slumped forward slightly, sliding his sunglasses up and rubbing at his eyes. A few deep breaths later, and he felt composed enough to exit the Bentley himself in blatant disregard for the “NO PARKING” sign on the curb.¹

[¹ Given his new job position (or lack thereof), lawbreaking was no longer a necessity, but old habits die hard.]

The bright afternoon sun made him wince a bit, and two robins in a nearby bush were getting frisky in a way he would never be able to unhear, but they made it easier to forget the distant wail of air sirens. Even standing out on the road, Crowley's skin prickled faintly with the remembered sting of consecrated ground.

He pushed the feeling aside and walked resolutely forward. Aziraphale was bound to take his sweet time as he mooned over the church's dusty old tomes, but Crowley had his own investigations to conduct while he waited. No rest for the wicked and all that.

The concrete pavement under his snakeskin shoes gave way to grass, and the tingling sensation in his soles faded. Soon he found himself at his intended destination—an Edenic grove of mulberry trees, clustered together in a ring in the church's backyard. He'd spotted them on the drive over and couldn't resist the temptation of a closer look.

Crowley wandered into the garden with a scrutinizing eye. They were young, for trees, but growing well despite their callowness. A particularly stocky sapling hardly flinched when Crowley gave it a token glare, much to his disappointment. Then again, outdoor plants were rarely as well-behaved as properly cowed houseplants. It seemed this attitude persisted even in ecclesiastic gardens such as these.

He cast a surreptitious glance over his shoulder, then reached a hand up into the tree's umbrella-like branches and tugged. The season wasn't quite right for fruits, but he still withdrew clutching a handful of dark ripe mulberries. Hardly apples, but his lips twitched upwards nonetheless. He plucked a berry from the pile and raised it to his lips.

“Zaoshang hao!”

Only a hasty miracle saved Crowley from choking as he jumped and swiveled around. Hovering right outside the churchyard was a middle-aged human, well-dressed and smiling pleasantly at him. Judging by her formal clothing and the Bible she carried, she was a part of the congregation, maybe even the priest herself. Crowley swallowed and stepped backwards.

“Ni shi jiaohui de xinshou ma?” the human called again, picking her way across the dewy grass in his direction. Crowley eyed the Bible she held, willing himself not to break out into hives.

“Um. Wo bu—er, no. I'm not new. Not here for church at all, actually.” He fidgeted and clasped his hands, still full of pilfered mulberries, behind his back. “Just waiting for someone.”

The human raised an eyebrow. “You're welcome to wait inside, if you like,” she said, also switching to English. “I reckon we still have biscuits left from the children's morning service—”

“No!” Crowley said too quickly, and perhaps too sharply. He winced. “I mean. That won't be necessary. I'd much rather stay out here, if it isn't too much trouble.”

The human gave him a Look. Crowley's cheeks heated and he averted his eyes, willing his sunglasses a few shades darker.

“Beautiful, aren't they?”

Crowley's head shot back up. The human had turned her back to him and was running a hand through the glossy green leaves of the nearest mulberry tree. Crowley could practically see the branches stretch out in delight beneath her touch, like a purring cat.

“Volunteers from our congregation take care of them,” the human continued, smiling at the young tree. “The kids here like raising silkworms, you see, and we welcome them to pick leaves from the trees each week to feed them.”

Silkworms. Of course. Despite himself, a hazy memory rose to the forefront of his mind: Sichuan, China, several hundreds of years ago. A family farm, weathered and cozy and oozing enough sheer goodness to make the average demon ill with it. Crowley wouldn't normally be caught dead in such a place, but he had owed a favour to the angel. His fingers twitched at the phantom memory of butter-soft silk fibres against his skin; long, winding threads that stretched out thin and fine, tangling so easily around his uncertain fingers. With this memory came the golden, moon-round face of a child he hadn't thought about in centuries, grinning toothily as they held out a box to him, a box filled with small pale larvae that wriggled among the spade-shaped leaves. “Zhe jiao can.”

Crowley forced himself to return to the present. The human was speaking to him.

“—waiting on Mr. Fell?” she asked.

Crowley blinked. Shook himself a little. “Yeah. He's helping out with the restoration of some old manuscript or other.”

The human smiled again. It was an unnervingly piercing expression. “I'm aware. I was the one who requested his help. Such a lovely man. Are you a friend of his?”

Crowley tensed. “His husband, actually.”

He braced himself, but the human only brightened. “Goodness, then you must be Mr. Crowley! Mr. Fell talks ever so much about you. Finally gone and tied the knot then, have you?”

Before Crowley could stammer out a reply, something dinged loudly, making him jump. The human pulled a phone out from her pocket and squinted at the screen.

“Sorry, I have to run back inside. But it was lovely meeting you, Mr. Crowley.” She stuck out a hand—thankfully not the one that had been holding the Bible—and after a brief hesitation, Crowley shook it. As quickly as she had arrived, the human disappeared from the garden, leaving Crowley alone and off-kilter amid a grove of mulberry trees.

---

Aziraphale emerged from the church around an hour later to find Crowley seated on the curb next to the Bentley, basking in the last rays of the afternoon sun as he scrolled through his phone.

“My dear,” the angel sighed. His joints creaked as he eased himself down to sit next to Crowley on the roadside. “Don't tell me you've been sitting here the entire time.”

“Nope,” Crowley said, popping the ‘p’. “I toured the gardens for a bit. Swiped some fruits, too. The mulberries aren’t half-bad, for a bunch of church plants, but they’ll need a good deal more threatening before they're really up to snuff.”

Crowley stopped when he saw Aziraphale chewing his lip, brow furrowed as he studied Crowley's face. Now it was Crowley's turn to sigh.

“Really, angel. It's fine. I was hardly bored.”

The expression didn't leave Aziraphale's face. A soft brown hand reached out and brushed aside stray wisps of hair from Crowley's forehead. The demon hadn't bothered to cut it since the Apocalypse-that-wasn't, and it was growing longer and more unruly by the day.

“I'm fine.” Crowley caught Aziraphale's hand and held it, carefully. He pressed his lips against the well-manicured fingers. “It was years ago, angel, and we both came out of it all right. You don't need to worry about me.”

Aziraphale still looked vaguely distressed as Crowley drew him close. With the sun setting behind him, framing his face and curly dark hair in a golden halo, he was the most beautiful thing Crowley had ever seen.

He kissed him then, right there on the road, in full sight of the church and probably Someone Else, too, if She happened to be watching at that particular moment. Once, he would've been terrified of such a public display, but he hadn't gone through hellfire and holy water to care anymore about what others thought of them.

As he helped Aziraphale into the Bentley, he noticed abruptly that the angel was carrying what appeared to be a shoebox, of all things, along with his usual camelhair coat.

“What on Earth is that?”

“Oh!” Aziraphale carefully pushed the box over to Crowley. “Mrs. Lao gave it to me once I'd finished with those manuscripts. She said it was a gift for you, actually. Have the two of you met before?”

Crowley stared down at the box, baffled. “We talked for a bit in the gardens just now, but I can’t imagine why…”

He trailed off, and his mouth dropped open as Aziraphale eased open the lid and beheld the contents with a raised eyebrow.

“Good heavens. Are those caterpillars?”

“Silkworms,” Crowley corrected automatically, leaning in for a closer look. There were so many of them, somehow both smaller and larger than he remembered, all white and wiggly and chomping away busily at the layers of mulberry leaves filling their box. None of them paid any attention whatsoever to their occult observers hovering above them.

“Why would she give you such a thing? Not that they aren't dear little creatures,” Aziraphale added hastily, glancing into the box, “but I doubt I have the means to keep them in the bookshop.”

“No need,” Crowley said before he could stop himself. “I can raise 'em in my flat.”

Aziraphale gave him a curious look. “You know how to care for these… insects?”

“Yeah.” Crowley gently shut the lid of the inhabited shoebox and curled a hand around the Bentley's stick-shift. “I've done something like this, before. I know what I'm doing.”

“If you say so.” Suddenly Aziraphale chuckled. At Crowley's affronted look, he demurred, “I'm not making fun, my dear. It's only that you still manage to surprise me, even after all these years.”

Aziraphale leaned in and pecked Crowley's cheek, making him blush red and sputter. Much to his disgruntlement, the Bentley chirped a light-hearted rendition of Haydn's Crazy Little Thing Called Love all the way home.

---

Crowley had spent the past eleven years co-parenting the Antichrist with Aziraphale.² They had faced this challenge head-on, and in his opinion, it hadn’t gone too shabbily. Now, without the threat of the Apocalypse hanging over his head, becoming a surrogate parent was far less daunting the second time around.

[² Even if young Warlock hadn't really been the son of Satan, it was the principle of the thing.]

Still, Crowley worried. He had always been something of a worrier, and that hadn't changed even after the First Day of the Rest of Their Lives.

After dropping off Aziraphale at the bookshop, Crowley returned to his flat, where he commenced the preparations for introducing his unexpected twenty-odd guests to their new home. This was accomplished by miracling up a small glass aquarium onto his desk, lining the bottom with paper towels, and carefully (read: nervously) placing the silkworms one by one into the tank. Once this was done, Crowley scattered the half-eaten mulberry leaves from the box around the aquarium. The silkworms set upon their interrupted lunch with all the enthusiasm of Aziraphale devouring a meringue pie at the Ritz.

Crowley slumped into his chair, took off his sunglasses with a wince, and rested his chin on his desk, staring into the glass tank.

“I raised your ancestors once, you know,” Crowley informed the wriggling creatures. “Tiny farm in China several centuries back. We'd weave branches together into a tray and let you loose inside. Bit like how manmade beehives work, or something.”

Crowley paused. Watched one silkworm slowly inch its way across a stem to tackle a new section of leaf. “‘Course, humans use wire mesh nowadays, but the general premise is the same. Always thought it was bloody clever, what humans could come up with. If you gave me a bunch of moth larvae and told me to make a living out of them, I definitely wouldn't think to make clothes.” He snorted. “Whoever came up with that, I'd like a glass of whatever they were drinking.”

The silkworms munched on. They ate much faster than they crawled, that was certain. In the quiet walls of his flat, away from prying human eyes, Crowley loosened the knot of his silk tie and tugged it off, easing the tightness around his neck.

“You're the ones who made this, in a sense,” he said, waving the tie at them. He laid the tie beside one glass wall of the tank at just the right angle for the inhabitants within to see. Several silkworms looked up curiously.

Crowley tossed his suit jacket aside, then unbuttoned his shirt collar. He had always prided himself on his sharp, modern attire over the years, the better to tempt humans with—or so he claimed. Despite repeated scoldings from his superiors, his Lust quotas had never been quite up to par.

Sufficiently dishevelled, and feeling all the freer for it, Crowley sank back into his chair to watch the silkworms.

“The only thing I didn't like about the process was the boiling,” he murmured. “Logically, I can see why it was done. And you would all be in cocoons, so it's not like you'd be in any pain. Not like I was.” He exhaled, the sound becoming a low hiss. “But still. Never liked it. Always felt like an awful lot of trouble just for the sake of some silk threads.”

One particularly adventurous silkworm had nosed its way upwards and was now creeping over the edge of the tank opening. Crowley made a mental note to devise a lid of some kind and stuck his finger against the lip of the tank. The silkworm crawled onto his hand without any hesitation. Tentatively, he drew it closer. Its many feet stuck stubbornly to his skin, and it reared up as he approached, swaying slightly, its mandibles twitching.

Crowley stared at the silkworm. The silkworm stared back, and seemed disappointed when Crowley had nothing else to offer. Just to prove it wrong, Crowley materialized a single large mulberry leaf in his other hand and presented it to the insect, who fell upon it with gluttonous enthusiasm.

Staring at the miracled leaf, an idea formed in Crowley's mind. He smiled, slowly.

“I need a hobby, now that I'm jobless,” he said aloud to the silkworm, letting it creep onto his palm. He ran a careful finger over its smooth back. “I think I'll take up sericulture again, for old time's sake.” He reached back into the tank and gently encouraged the silkworm to crawl back inside.

“Humans have to boil you alive to get those nice unbroken threads off your cocoons,” Crowley mused, withdrawing his hand. “Fortunately, I don't have to do things the human way.” He lowered himself until he was eye-level with the inhabitants of the tank. The silkworm he had carried paused in its perpetual eating and turned its head, almost like it was looking at him.

“How's this?” Crowley asked. “You'll be able to grow into a fuzzy, fully grown silk-moth, and I can take your cocoon after you've finished with it and miracle the threads whole again.” He paused and mulled it over. “I guess I could take it a step further and just miracle the finished silk together, but there's still something to be said about the human way of doing things.”

The silkworm bobbed the front half of its body as though in agreement. Crowley smiled again.

“We can make silk, and no one gets hurt. I'm a few hundred years out of practice, but I'm sure I could make it work, somehow.”

The silkworm turned its attention back to its meal. Crowley didn't notice. He was too busy wondering if Aziraphale had any old texts on silk-weaving that he could borrow, just so he could refresh his memory.

The angel would appreciate having a new silk bowtie to add to his collection.

---

Thank you for reading! Replies and reblogs are always much appreciated. <3

[joonies-babyy]

Hi! This is my first ever post and my first attempt at smut( its not in this part but its in the next one) I hope that if anyone reads this they enjoy it!!!! Also please leave comments and feedback. Might it be positiveor negative I will truly appreciate.<3

𝗪𝗮𝗿𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴𝘀: 𝘀𝗹𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁 𝗱𝗼𝗺! 𝘀𝘂𝗯! 𝗮𝘀𝗽𝗲𝗰𝘁𝘀, 𝗱𝗼𝗺!𝗸𝗻𝗷, 𝘀𝘂𝗯!𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗱𝗲𝗿, 𝗷𝗼𝗼𝗻 𝗶𝘀 𝘃𝗲𝗿𝘆 𝗰𝗼𝗻𝗳𝘂𝘀𝗲𝗱 𝗳𝗼𝗿 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗳𝗶𝗿𝘀𝘁 𝗽𝗮𝗿𝘁, 𝘀𝘁𝗿𝗶𝗽 𝗰𝗹𝘂𝗯𝘀, 𝗮 𝗹𝗶𝘁𝘁𝗹𝗲 𝗯𝗶𝘁 𝗼𝗳 𝗮 𝗱𝗮𝗱𝗱𝘆 𝗸𝗶𝗻𝗸, 𝘁𝗮𝗹𝗸𝘀 𝗼𝗳 𝘃𝗼𝘆𝗲𝘂𝗿𝗶𝘀𝘁𝗶𝗰 𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗺𝗲𝘀 (𝗻𝗼𝘁 𝘁𝗵𝗶𝘀 𝗽𝗮𝗿𝘁), 𝗜 𝘁𝗵𝗶𝗻𝗸 𝘁𝗵𝗮𝘁'𝘀 𝗶𝘁 𝗯𝘂𝘁 𝗶𝗳 𝗜 𝗹𝗲𝗮𝘃𝗲 𝗮𝗻𝘆𝘁𝗵𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗼𝘂𝘁 𝗽𝗹𝗲𝗮𝘀𝗲 𝗹𝗲𝘁 𝗺𝗲 𝗸𝗻𝗼𝘄!!

Also big thanks to @kimnjss for helping me on this. I appreciate you so much. Thank you 💖💖

Word count:1.5k

--------------------------------------------------------- You and Namjoon were sitting on the couch with your limbs intertwined with each other.

''Jonnieeee, I'm bored. Let's do something yeah?''. ''What do you have in mind my love''.

''Let's go out. An impromptu date.'' You anticipated his answer knowing that if he said no your plan would go to shit. ''Sure babe, whatever you want to do im fine with. Go get dressed and we'll get going''. You begin leaving small little kisses on Joon's face and then got up to go start getting ready for your date night.

You slowly walked back down the stairs while Joon's gaze was locked on your curves being hugged by your dress. You were wearing a red,skin tight dress that sat alittle above your knees. You knew this was Joon's favorite dress on you. Hell, this was your favorite dress on you...You looked absolutely decadent. When you caught her lovers eyes focused on you, you smirked, knowing that it was always hard for him to resist you when you looked this amazing."Do you think I look pretty baby?''. ''Yn, you're the most beautiful girl I've ever meet, and this dress, lord you know I love this dress. Where are we going tonight where you need this dress, because I could gladly stay here and rip this off you.'' You smiled wrapping your hands around Joon's neck ''We're going out. When we come home we can do whatever you want, k?''. Joon grabbed your waist pulling you unbelievably closer. ''You'll be lucky if i even last that long. Just wait till I get my hands on you''. With that you pushed Joon's chest to detach yourself and started pulling him out of the front door. Namjoon didn't even care to change. The quicker you he left the quicker he could come home and have his way with you.

You never liked to drive. In the 5 years you've been with Joon you have had to drive a total of maybe 4 times. So just on instinct Joon got into the drives seat and you into the passengers, dress riding up as you sat down. Joon noticed. He always notices, but he decided to ignore it for now. He started the car up but soon realized he didn't know where he was driving to. "So... how exactly am I supposed to get to the location when I have no clue what the plan is". You smiled to yourself. For someone with a 148 iq he sure doesn't think. " Well I, of course already have this planned out. I put the location into the GPS. Tap it, follow the instructions and we'll be there in no time" You leaned over and left a quick peck to his cheek as he pulled out of the driveway knowing not a clue of what was in store for him tonight.

The GPS soon notified you that you we're only 5 minutes away from your destination. Your body shook with anxiety and excitement. Joon took one hand off the wheel and placed it on your thigh. You could feel the wet spot forming in you lace blue panties(his favorites). You're face began to warm up with embarrassment. It was a simple move he always did that always seemed to calm your nerves, but tonight it was different. You knew that after this date you and you pussy were done for. Just thinking about all the ways he could wreck you made you roll your eyes back in your head. Without even realizing you let a small moan slip past your lips. Joon started rubbing your thigh, asking if you were ok. The question suddenly snapped you out of your thoughts. "Yea i-im ok, just um... excited. I really want you to like what I have planned" you said while taking shakey breaths. "I'm sure I'll love it Yn. You know I always love our date nights" You smiled to yourself hoping he would love this one as much as he had loved all the previous ones. The GPS said the destination was on the right and Joon began to pull into the buildings parking lot. You were in for a long night.

"The castle? What is this Yn." "Don't worry you'll like it." You reached into the backseat of the to grab a duffel bag that Joon failed to notice was in the car. "You seem to have put alot of thought in to this love." And of course you did. 2 weeks of finding the location. 2 weeks of waiting for you application to go through. 2 weeks of making sure everything was set up just the way you needed it to be. "I just want tonight to be fun. I want you to relax and enjoy yourself. Just enjoy yourself and go with the flow ok?" Joon just looked at you and muttered a small "ok". With the reassurance that you needed you got out the car and urged Joon to get out too. You got to the doors of the building and felt more giddy than ever. The bouncer guarding the doors looked you up and down, asking for your name. "Yn" you quickly responded. With a small nod he opened the doors and you quickly walked in pulling Joon behind you. Joon wondered how long you had this plan under you sleeve. You quickly sat him down on one of the plush couchs close to the stage. Joon could no longer take it. The urge to ask questions overcome him. "Love, what is all of this? How long have you been planning this? More importantly what the hell is this so called castle?" You giggled to yourself as you looked up at Joon, confusion written on his face. "The castle is a strip club. Thats all you need to know for right now. Just enjoy it Joonie" You slid yourself into his lap and kissed his perfectly sculpted jaw. "OK baby, ill enjoy myself".

A man's voice came over the speaker starling you right off of Joons lap. "30 minute call for all performers. I repeat 30 minute call." You grabbed you bag and set off to the back of the room. Before you could get away Joon grabbed your wrist. "And where exactly do you think you're going" he whispered in your ear not knowing he was causing you to leak more into your panties. "They called for performers. Im performing." You replied in a nonchalant tone. "Performing! Yn what the fuck are you talking about". You snatched your wrist away from him but his hold was too strong. "Joon... can you please not draw attention to us. I have to go but ill be back before you know it. So for the love of God, can you sit the fuck down and try to atleast enjoy yourself. I did put alot of effort into this ya know". "You owe me an explanation when you get home, do you understand me?" You stood on the tip of your toes leaning up to press a kiss to his nose. "I'll give you whatever you want when we get home, but you gotta let me go." He dropped your wrist and pressed a kiss to your forehead. "If people know i have a boyfriend they won't buy me for the night!" As soon as you say Joons expression you knew it was time to scurry off before you could be stopped again.

You were sat in the back apply makeup when your phone started going off with the ring tone you set for Joon.

🥰ᴍʏ ᴊᴏᴏɴɪᴇ ʙᴀʙʏ🥰

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

Y/N... WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS ₁₀:₅₂

ANSWER ME!! ₁₀:₅₂

Y/N Y/L/N ₁₀:₅₄

You have 20 seconds to respond to me ₁₀:₅₄

I CAN SEE YOU READING MY FUCKING MESSAGES. ₁₀:₅₆

Oh, you're in for it tonight. You know not to make daddy mad. Don't you baby? Or are you just living up to your title of being my bratty little slut? ₁₀:₅₆

Your face lit up. That was your whole goal of tonight. Make him mad so he can fuck you senseless like the good slut you are. God you loved making him mad. You were daydreaming of him pounding into you when the intercom shot on again. "All performers to the stage. Auctions will begin in 5 minutes". Oh this was gonna be good.

You step on the stage with your dress still on while most of the other performers where all ready close to naked. You could care less about the rest of the eyes on you. You only needed Joons eyes on you. And oh were they on you. He eyed your body the second you stepped on stage, noting how good the lights made you look. Even from the stage you could see that his jaw was clenched. God you loved when he did that. A microphone boomed over the speakers and shook you from your thoughts. "Ladies and gentlemen, I would like to present... The ladies of the castle".

[juliandev0rak]

The Aunt 🔮

Five: The “Aunt” – how did your OC get the shop in Vesuvia? Was it given to them by their aunt or other family member?

echoes of the past event

@arcana-echoes​

Beatrice and Freya Viano

Center City, Vesuvia 

8 years before the events of The Arcana, Beatrice is 18, Freya is 22

takes place a few months after the events of my last echoes post

Words: 2152

Warnings: background character death, angst

“I want you to have the shop.” Aunt Cora says, gripping Beatrice’s hand as tightly as she can manage.

Aunt Cora has been sick for weeks with a mysterious illness. Her best guess for a cause is that a life spent pouring all of herself into her magic has left her weakened, making her more susceptible to illness. Beatrice has tried all of the magical healing she knows, but it’s no use. Cora’s condition deteriorates more every day, and it’s really only a matter of time before she’s gone.

“Aunt Cora, are you sure?” Beatrice frowns, shifting in her seat beside the bed. “Do you think I can handle the shop on my own?” 

“I know you can, Beatrice, I trained you myself.” Cora smiles gently, patting Beatrice's hand. “I already had the will written up so it’s all official, you’re now the owner.” 

“Aunt Cora..” Beatrice doesn’t know what to say, if she tries to talk she knows she’ll just burst into tears. Luckily, Cora seems to know what she means and pats her hand again in a soothing gesture.

“I believe in you Beatrice, you’re more powerful than you know. There’s a light in you, if you just keep trying to do what’s right you can’t fail.” Cora says and Beatrice nods hurriedly, trying to take the advice to heart. “I wish Freya could be here, I’d love to see her one more time.” 

Beatrice stiffens at the mention of her older sister who she hasn’t seen in six years. Her sister hadn’t left on good terms, and she hasn’t had so much as a letter from her in the time that’s passed. Cora has occasionally heard from her, but the letters never make any mention of Beatrice and as the years have gone by the bitterness has festered. 

“Would you write to her, Beatrice? I know you aren’t on the best of terms, but it would make an old woman happy to have both of her nieces here.” Cora says pleadingly. Beatrice sighs and gives her aunt a nod, she’ll do this for her. 

The letter gets written, Beatrice is careful to make it ambiguous so her sister won’t now that she’s the one who sent it. There’s no response for weeks, and as Aunt Cora’s condition deteriorates even more it seems likely that Freya will not be coming. Beatrice continues to tell her aunt that surely she’ll be there soon, but before long Cora passes away and Beatrice is left alone to plan a funeral.

The day of the funeral dawns bright and sunny, Cora’s favorite type of weather, though Beatrice thinks rain would better suit her somber mood. She’s afraid of being alone and of running the shop by herself, she’s afraid that her magic isn’t strong enough, but most of all she’s devastated. Her aunt had practically raised her for the last few years after she’d left home, and the two were close. Everything she knows about magic she’d learned from Aunt Cora, and now she’s on her own.

The funeral is a small affair, Cora had only a few close friends and no relatives other than Beatrice and Freya. Her sister, Beatrice’s mother, still lives in the city but had disowned all of them a few years prior, so it’s highly unlikely that she’ll show up. After the simple ceremony the guests trickle away and Beatrice is left alone in a graveyard.

She’s glad for some alone time to mourn, but is quickly interrupted. 

“I’m sorry I’m late.” A voice calls behind her and Beatrice whirls around to find her sister Freya standing there, looking older and more sophisticated than the last time she’d seen her.

“You-” Beatrice sputters, unable to think of what to say. She hadn’t prepared herself for this situation. she’d never expected Freya would actually show up. She struggles to think of what she could possibly say to the person who’d abandoned her at such a young age, the sister who had always been there when nobody else was until suddenly, she wasn't. 

“You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.” Freya smiles, seemingly at ease despite the anger that clouds Beatrice’s mind. 

“You shouldn’t have come.” Beatrice glares at her sister who is busy pulling her perfectly styled blonde hair out of a silk travelling scarf. She tosses her hair once and then turns to face Beatrice again, raising an eyebrow at her younger sister’s tone.

“I was invited.” Freya says, stepping closer to her sister. “I know you wrote that letter.” 

“You were invited weeks ago, and I wasn’t the one who wanted you here.” Beatrice frowns, her anger simmering. 

“I wanted to come pay my respects, Beatrice.” Freya steps even closer to look at the gravestone in front of her. “I’m sorry she’s gone.” 

“Don’t pretend you care about her at all, don’t pretend Aunt Cora was anything other than a bank for you to borrow money from.” Beatrice spits. She can feel her magic rising in her alongside her temper but she has no intention of quelling it now.

“Now Beatrice, that wasn’t very nice. Where have your perfect manners gone?” Freya says haughtily, her face pulling into a mocking smile. “What would mother say?”

“Why did you really come back?” Beatrice asks, deciding to ignore the comment about their mother.

“To get what I’m owed.” Freya grins and Beatrice knows she’s finally struck the truth.

“Owed?” 

“Yes, you see, Aunt Cora told me many years ago that the shop would be mine when she died, so I’ve come to collect.” Freya says nonchalantly, inspecting her manicured nails.

“She did not.” Beatrice nearly growls, “She left it to me. I have the deed.” 

“Why would she leave it to you? I’m the eldest, it’s mine by rights.” Freya frowns, the confident facade cracking just a smidge. 

“What do you want with the shop, Freya. You can’t even do magic.”  Beatrice says, watching as Freya’s face grows cold.

“I can’t. You’re right, but at least I’ve made something of myself. What do you have to show for yourself?” Freya asks, voice dripping with acid. 

“The shop is mine, Freya.” Beatrice takes a step closer to her sister, her fists balling up at her sides. She can’t believe the audacity of her sister to show up after six years of nothing demanding to own the one place Beatrice has ever truly called home.  

“You were never a very good magician anyways, I think I’ll hire someone new to run the shop.” Freya says pensively, almost like she’s trying to goad Beatrice into a fight. It works.

“You don’t know anything about me.” Beatrice’s voice is ice cold, steadier than she thought it would be, as she stares Freya down. “You don’t know who I am.”

“Hmm I don’t know… seems like you’re still the same pathetic little girl you were when I left.” Freya taunts, circling around Beatrice like a bird of prey.

Before she can stop herself Beatrice’s hand lashes out to slap Freya across the face with more force than she thought possible. Freya falls back a step and her eyes grow wide as she stares at Beatrice in surprise. Beatrice stares back, just as surprised at herself. 

“I suppose you think I deserved that?” Freya sighs, her hand going to cradle her red splotched cheek. 

“You did.” Beatrice nods, taking a deep breath to try to calm herself down. 

“That shop is supposed to be mine.” Freya hisses, her voice full of anger. Dispite the vitriol, something in her expression reminds Beatrice so vividly of the sister she used to know. 

“I thought you hated Vesuvia, you were in such a hurry to leave. Why would you possibly want the shop?” Beatrice says. 

“I do hate it here, but Vesuvia is supposed to be my home.” Freya turns to look at their Aunt’s grave again, “I promised I wouldn’t come back until I’ve made something of myself, and I have. The shop is mine.” 

“This isn’t your home anymore.” Beatrice mutters. “It hasn’t ever been your home.”

“That isn’t fair!” Freya turns around again to meet Beatrice’s eyes. 

“Yeah, well my life hasn’t been fair either.” She replies, sticking her hands into her cloak pockets. “You saw to that.”

“You can’t blame any of this on me, Beatrice. I had to leave.” Freya frowns, behind her eyes is the slightest hint of regret. She refuses to show that to Beatrice, as much as she wishes she could make things right with her little sister, she can’t be weak anymore

“Aunt Cora is dead. She’s gone.” Beatrice says, trying to hold the emotion from her voice. “Her final wish was to see you and you couldn’t even do that for her. Why would she leave you the shop, her home?”

“I couldn't get here earlier, believe me Beatrice I tried-” Freya says defensively, looking genuinely stricken for the first time in the conversation.

“Just save it Freya. You’re too late.” Beatrice gestures to the headstone which simply says Cora’s name on it. “You didn’t want to be a part of this family, so you don’t get to claim a right to anything.” 

Freya stares at her in surprise once again, it seems she’d greatly underestimated how much her sister had grown up in the last few years. Little Beatrice would have let Freya have whatever she wanted, little Beatrice wouldn’t have fought back. 

“I don’t have anywhere else to be right now, I figured I’d stick around for a while.” Freya tries to reason with her sister, maybe she can convince Beatrice to let her stay and she can figure out a way to transfer ownership. She thinks about the mess she’d left behind in the last city she’d lived in, she doesn’t have anywhere else to go.

“What happened to all of that success you bragged about?” Beatrice snaps. Freya is at a loss for words, stuck staring at the patchy grass. If there’s one thing Beatrice can’t stand it’s arrogance, and her sister seems to have plenty of it.

“Why don’t you do what you’re best at and just leave.” Beatrice says after a moment of tense silence. 

“Fine.” Freya mutters, her face pulling into a grimace she tries to pull off as a smile. She’s lost every last shred of her dignity at this point, she won’t beg. “You’re right, I hate it here anyways.” She gathers her discarded scarf and bag and turns to leave.

“Aren’t you even going to apologize to me?” Beatrice calls after her, trying to blink back the sudden feeling of tears. “For leaving me here alone?” Freya turns to look at her over her shoulder and rolls her eyes.

“No, Beatrice. I’m not.” Freya scoffs, and then she’s off, walking quickly towards the cemetery gates. She’s soon out of sight and Beatrice collapses on the grass, finally allowing herself to cry. 

She can hardly believe Freya had returned, and she truly couldn’t have imagined it going worse. She still can’t fathom her sister’s reason for returning, surely she didn’t want to run a magic shop. It’s like she came back specifically to rub salt into Beatrice’s wounds. She was just beginning to come to terms with being alone when Freya had shown up. If her sister had apologized, if she’d tried to make things right, if she’d shown any emotion other than pride and derision, maybe Beatrice would have asked her to stay.

She doesn’t know who the glamorous blonde dressed in designer clothes and a fake smile was, but it certainly wasn’t her sister. Or maybe, she fears, it was. Had her sister always been this selfish, this mean? Maybe she had.

Beatrice sits in the cemetery for what feels like hours, mourning her aunt, and mourning the sister she once knew. The sun begins to go down and the cold sets in. Beatrice sits shivering against the headstone, trying to collect herself enough to leave. Finally she manages to stand up and begin the journey back to the shop.

Her hands wave over the worn door as she unlocks the wards and she steps into the empty shop. This is hers now, and she’ll have to do it alone. She runs her hands over the smooth shop counters and takes in the smell of herbs, the smell of her aunt. When she’d arrived at the shop two years ago desperate to escape from the life that had been planned for her, desperate to find an outlet for her magic, desperate to learn, she had no idea how much she’d come to love this cluttered space. 

This haven is for her. All of the books, the potion supplies, the tiny upstairs apartment, she can make them her own. She might have lost her family, but she still has a home. As long as she can keep the memory of her aunt alive, she’ll never be alone here. 

[livesincerely]

it’s so easy (too easy) to love you, ch. 1

Also on Ao3

00000

Davey’s just gotten out of class—literally just walked out the door—when his phone starts ringing.

“Davey,” Tony says the moment he answers, not even giving Davey time to say hello, “can you swing by the apartment real quick?”

Davey sighs. “Are you locked out of the house again?”

There’s a guilty silence. Then, “Or maybe I just wanna see you, huh? You don’t know.”

“Tony.”

“Charlie’s the one that lost the spare,” Tony capitulates immediately, there’s an indignant “Hey!” somewhere in the background, “and I left my keys in my locker ‘cause I thought Charlie had his—”

There’s a scuffle of noise, then Charlie’s voice breaks in, “—don’t listen to him Davey, I asked him before we even got on the subway if he had his keys and he said he did but he didn’t even check—”

“—well, I thought you had yours, didn’t I?—”

“—and he was twenty minutes late picking me up from band practice because he was too busy making out with Spot Conlon to come help me carry my stuff—”

“—that was supposed to be a secret you little shit!”

“—you started it!”

Davey pulls the phone away from his ear as the other side of the line descends into a mess of indistinct yelling. He thinks about trying to get their attention, but he decides to just start heading towards the apartment, muting his side of the call while he waits them out—they’ll remember him eventually.

In the meantime, Davey sends a quick text:

Tony and Charlie locked themselves out of the house again

He’s not expecting a response, but Jack must be in-between projects because he gets one almost immediately.

jc again?

And you’re going to have to get a new spare made

fuck okay i’ll take care of it. are you heading over?

I’m walking there now

ur the light of my life dave

Davey can’t help but smile at this, a soft feeling fluttering in his chest. Before he can write back, Jack sends another text:

how did ur midterm go?

I feel good about it! Def did better than I thought it would!

duh youve been living in the library all week ofc ur gonna do great. ill swing by the grocery omw home and pick up some ice cream to celebrate. do we need anything else while im there?

Get a bell pepper and some tomato paste, I’m going to make spaghetti for dinner. And we need more laundry detergent.

fuck yes im starving! can we do garlic bread too?

Come home on time and we’ll see.

u drive a hard bargain. kerian owes me a favor so he can stay late tonight lol

“Davey?” The sound of Charlie’s voice, tinny and muffled, prompts Davey to lift his phone back to his ear; it seems like he might’ve been calling Davey’s name for a while. “Are you still there?”

“I’m still here,” Davey confirms.

“So are ya comin’ or what?” Tony cuts in, ever impatient. “I’m roasting out here!”

“Well, I was thinking about leaving you to ruminate on your poor life choices,” Davey responds dryly, “but I guess I can come let you in, since you asked so nicely.”

“Thanks, Davey,” Charlie says.

“I’ll be there soon,” Davey confirms.

“Hurry, will ya? Much longer and I’m gonna get heatstroke and die,” Tony declares.

Davey rolls his eyes. “Goodbye, Tony.”

00000

When he arrives at Jack’s building some twenty minutes later, Davey finds Tony and Charlie right where he expects them: crowded together in the little bit of shade the roof’s overhang offers, wearing identical grumpy expressions that brighten immediately when they spot him approaching.

"Finally!" Tony exclaims, shooting to his feet. "What took you so long?"

“Stop losing your keys and you won’t have to wait for me,” Davey counters, slotting his key into the deadbolt and hefting open the heavy exterior door. He props it open with his hip and lets Tony and Charlie scurry past him into the AC. “You couldn’t get anyone to buzz you in?”

“Old Man Davis hasn’t gotten his hearing aid replaced yet,” Charlie explains as they climb the stairs up to the second floor, “and Mrs. Ikeda isn’t home.”

“She joined a new book club,” Tony adds. “She won’t be back till late.”

“Oh, I’ll have to ask her about it when I see her next,” Davey muses.

He gets the apartment door unlocked and the boys pile inside, tossing their backpacks down with dramatic groans of relief.  Charlie makes a beeline for his bedroom; Davey expects Tony to do the same but he takes a seat at the kitchen table instead, booting up his laptop with a couple of keystrokes.

“I’ve got a paper due in English tomorrow,” Tony explains. “Can you look it over once it’s finished? Maybe later this evening”

“Of course,” Davey replies. “What’s it on?”

“Lord of the Flies.”

Davey’s nose wrinkles up. “Oh, I hated that one. What’s the essay prompt?”

“Identify Golding’s argument about human nature as proposed in Lord of the Flies,” Tony reads off the top of the assignment outline. “Then make an argument agreeing or disagreeing with his assessment, using evidence from the text.”

Davey rolls his eyes. “Good to see that high school literature classes haven’t changed much in the last few years,” he says with a sigh. “How much have you written so far?”

“Oh, I haven’t even started it yet,” Tony casually rebuts.

“Is everything going okay?” Davey asks, frowning slightly. “If things are getting worse we can make an appointment—”

But Tony waives his concerns aside. “Nah, this is regular old procrastination, not ADHD procrastination. Like ya said, Lord of the Flies sucks ass, so I just didn’t want to write it.”

“Well, let one of us know if you start having trouble,” Davey says.

"Okay, mom,” Tony agrees, somewhat distracted. He’s already got a blank document pulled up on his laptop, a battered and thoroughly dog-eared copy of the book laying open beside him.

Davey looks at him for another moment, then he shrugs and continues making his way into the kitchen—he figures there’s no need to worry unless Racer starts actually missing assignments. And he’s right: Lord of the Flies does suck ass.

By the time Jack gets home they’re each fully entrenched in different activities: Davey’s washed a sink full of dishes and is working on drying the last few pieces of silverware, Tony is still posted up at the kitchen table, carefully hammering out a draft of his paper, and there are the familiar sounds of Charlie working through different musical scales on his oboe in the back bedroom.

“Honey, I’m home!” Jack calls jokingly as he enters. There’s a rustle of plastic and soft thunk of the front door closing behind him, then he comes around the corner into the dining room with an armful of groceries.

“Hey, Jack,” Davey greets absently. He starts rifling through the bags almost before Jack can finish putting them down. “Did you get the tomato—?”

“I got the tomato paste,” Jack says, kicking off his shoes and leaving them in the entryway with all the others, “and I picked up some more of that fancy coffee you like from the place around the corner, even though it’s expensive as all hell.”

“Don’t judge me,” Davey replies, gathering up an armful of vegetables and carrying them further into the kitchen. “You spend a semester grading 'Intro to Shakespeare' homework and tell me how much caffeine you consume.”

“I’m just saying, the rest of us schmucks drink regular coffee and do just fine,” Jack continues. “You can feed your crippling caffeine addiction just as well with Folgers and it’ll cut down on the grocery bill.”

“Watch it, Kelly,” Davey says, pointing a finger teasingly in Jack’s direction. “Smartasses don’t get dinner.”

“‘s that so?” Jack asks with a grin. “Then why the hell are we still feeding Tony?”

“I heard that,” Tony grumbles from the kitchen table.

“Yeah, you were supposed to,” Jack says, moving over to Tony and slinging an arm around his shoulders, pulling him into a side hug. Tony bats at Jack’s hand but makes no real attempt to get away. Then Jack says, “So, I hear you and your brother lost another set of keys.”

Tony throws Davey a look of the deepest betrayal. “You told Jack?”

“Of course he did,” Jack says. “Someone’s gonna have to get new ones made, and it sure ain’t gonna be either half of the dynamic duo.”

“Charlie lost the spare,” Tony says, mercilessly throwing Charlie under the bus while he’s not in the room to defend himself. “And I didn’t lose my keys, I just left them in my locker.”

“Uh huh, save it for the judge,” Jack responds, ruffling Tony’s hair. “Just know if I end up having to change the deadbolt, it’s coming outta your subway money.”

“Jackie, leave Tony alone,” Davey comments mildly over Tony’s spluttering protests. “He needs to work on that paper and you’re distracting him.”

“Yeah, Jack,” Tony repeats, a little smug. “You’re distracting me.”

Davey turns to look at him, one eyebrow raised. Tony quickly busies himself with his homework.

Davey makes quick work of washing a green pepper and peeling an onion, then starts dicing both into small, neat pieces. He feels more than hears Jack sidle up behind him: the familiar weight of his gaze, the solid presence at his back. He stands there quietly, leaning against the counter-top and just watching Davey cook; unbothered, Davey leaves him be for the moment and moves to the stove, scraping the chopped vegetables off the cutting board and into a pan to start softening.

After a few minutes of comfortable silence, Davey glances over his shoulder at Jack and says, “Are you just going to stand there or are you going to help me with this? You know there’s no loitering in my kitchen.”

“Well, I’m nothin’ if not a law abidin’ citizen,” Jack drawls in answer, the corner of his mouth quirking up. He rolls up his shirt sleeves, exposing the long, muscular line of his forearms, and washes his hands in the kitchen sink. “Where do you want me?”

Davey licks his lips. “Think you can handle browning the hamburger?”

“I’m sure I can manage,” Jack responds with a smirk.

Davey steps out of the way, letting Jack take his place in front of the sauce pan while he gets a pot of water set up on a different burner, salting it so it boils faster. They settle into their familiar dinner-routine, moving around and past each other with ease as they work on getting everything ready, chattering idly all the while.

“I’ve gotta head back out this evening,” Jack says at one point, as he sets the tray of garlic bread in the oven to toast. “Johnson’s got me working a night shoot and I have to be downtown by 9.”

“How long is the session?” Davey asks. “Here, will you open this?”

“We’re scheduled for five hours, but we might get to wrap it up early if everything goes well.” Jack’s hand brushes against the small of Davey’s back and they trade places again, Davey stepping back up to the stove-top and Jack rifling around in one of the drawers for a can opener.

“Are ya spendin’ the night or are ya headin’ back to campus?”

“Depends on how much help Tony needs with his paper,” Davey replies, shaking his head. He takes the can when Jack hands it back to him and empties it into the saucepan, then gives the whole thing a good stir. “We might be at it a while.”

Jack huffs out a laugh. “Well, if you do spend the night, go ahead and take the bed. The extra blankets are in the usual place.”

Davey sets down the spoon he’s holding, crossing his arms across his chest. “Jack,” he says warningly.

“Davey,” Jack echoes back in the exact same tone of voice. In the background there’s the faint sound of Tony muttering, “Jesus, not this again.”

“Jack, I’m not gonna kick you out of your bed,” Davey says, rehashing the same old argument for what feels like the millionth time. “I’m perfectly fine taking the couch.”

“Or you could do the smart thing and just take the bed,” Jack counters as he always does. “I’m not even gonna be here to use it.”

“You’ll want an actual mattress when you get home, especially if you’re out late.” Davey argues. “I don’t even have class tomorrow, it’ll be fine.”

“If you don’t take the bed I’ll just carry you in there once I get back,” Jack says, as if that's a perfectly reasonable course of action. “So you might as well save me the trouble.”

Davey sputters. “That’s not— You can’t just— That only happened a couple of times!” he finally gets out.

"Well, actually, it's been more like four or five times," Jack says with a smirk. "But hey, who's counting?"

"That trick won't keep working," Davey grumbles, feeling the back of his neck start to heat up.

“You sleep like a fucking rock, Dave,” Jack says, rolling his eyes. “Why wouldn’t it keep working?”

“No, see, that’s exactly why I should take the couch,” Davey insists. “It’s not like the sound of you coming in will wake me up—”

Jack turns to face him. Davey cuts off, slightly startled—he hadn’t realized they were standing so close to each other.

“Just take the bed, Davey,” Jack all but orders, and those dark eyes with that low voice are a heady combination. “Please?”

Davey bites at his lower lip, suddenly flustered. “Fine,” he reluctantly concedes, hoping Jack will attribute his flushed face to the heat of the kitchen. “Just this once.”

"Thank you," Jack says with a dramatic heave of his chest, looking much too pleased with himself. "Now that wasn't so hard, was it?"

"You're letting the garlic bread burn," Davey answers tartly.

"Oh shit—!"

00000

Later that evening, after they’ve all finished eating and have cleaned up, Davey, Tony, and Charlie are still gathered around the table, working on various assignments.

Davey is finishing the readings for his Monday lecture in between helping Tony finalize the exact wording of his essay. Charlie sits opposite him, working through his geometry homework and every so often there’s a huff of breath and the rubbery scratch of an eraser—Davey makes a mental note to swipe some more pencils and notebook paper from the grad lounge when he’s there next.

Davey notices the time and frowns. “Jack,” he calls out, “it’s already 7:30. If you don’t leave soon you’re gonna be late for work.”

There’s a clamor of noise from down the hall, then Jack appears, freshly showered and fumbling to put on his socks and button up a clean shirt at the same time.

“Fuck, Johnson is gonna kill me,” Jack grumbles. He pats down his pockets, then groans. “Christ, has anyone seen my—”

“Your wallet and keys are on the counter by the microwave,” Davey says, pointing. “And take a jacket, it’s supposed to rain later.”

“Great, I’m sure the models will love that,” Jack says with a groan. “Hopefully we’ll be able to get through everything without getting rained out.”

He meanders his way over to the table, peering at Charlie’s homework from over his shoulder. “If Tony is still busy and ya get stuck, text me,” Jack tells him. “I probably won't be able to answer right away, but if ya send me a picture of the problem I can probably talk ya through it between shots.”

Charlie hums his acknowledgment, still scribbling furiously. Jack turns to Tony.

“Listen to whatever Davey tells you about your paper,” he advises. “The only reason I got through undergraduate writing was ‘cause Davey proofread all my shit before I turned it in.”

“I thought I was s’pposed to always listen to Davey,” Tony says distractedly, tongue poking out between his teeth as he types.

Jack pauses, considering. “Yeah, just do that.”

“Jack—”

“Oh, and Dave cooked, so you shitheads better do the dishes, get me?”

“Jack, you’re gonna be late,” Davey cuts in firmly, holding out Jack’s jacket for him.

“Alright, I’m going,” Jack says, shrugging it on, and he finally starts making moves towards the door.

He gives Charlie one last pat on the shoulder and cuffs Tony lightly across the back of the head in a slightly rougher, but no less affectionate goodbye, which is per usual. Then he turns to Davey, tips his chin up, and kisses him right on the mouth, short and sweet.

“Lock the door behind me and don’t forget to—” Jack stops mid-sentence, then turns bright red.

“Um,” says Charlie.

“Holy shit,” says Tony.

Jack’s mouth opens and closes soundlessly. Finally, he stammers out, “I u-uh— I-I d-didn’t mean—“

Davey doesn’t respond. He couldn’t, even if he wanted to—he’s frozen in place, his mind a sudden wash of static. For a moment, they just stare at each other. Then Jack blurts, “gottagoseeyoulaterbye,” and bolts out the front door.

Davey’s not sure how long he stands there, staring blankly into space, utterly dumbfounded.

“Davey?” Charlie asks hesitantly. “Are you okay?”

There’s a strangled, choking noise. A split second later, Davey realizes it’s coming from him.

"...What just happened?"

[authorized-trash]

To Tie a Knot: Chapter 5: Important Meetings in a Coffee Shop Bathroom

Ao3

Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three | Chapter Four

Content Warnings:

Self harm, self deprecation, making out, stress, emotional turmoil, elusion to character death, (If anything else needs mentioned tell me)

Chapter Summary:

Damian should know better than to walk into coffee shops when he’s the protagonist of a romance fanfiction smh

Word Count:

3,600+

Note: I posted the last chapter on Ao3 a day or two ago, and it got so many comments so fast I was inspired to write another on. So here is nearly 4k words of >:]. Chapter six is halfway done as well, so please, keep the comments up, I’ve never written so much so fast in my life asdf

-

-

By the time noon had come and gone and Logan had left, the others were restless. Patton was stress baking and Roman was practicing his lines a bit louder than normal. Virgil was nowhere to be seen, most likely hiding in their shared room listening to too-loud music.

Patton kneaded dough between his hands, planning on making bread. One would think he would make cookies or something while stressed, but he found the process of homemade bread and the smell of it baking was much better for calming. 

Over the years he had gotten pretty good actually, won a few dumb little neighborhood competitions with his baking. His soulmates all adored his cooking, Roman had stated one of his favorite things to wake up to was the smell of pie or bread.

Patton let his mind wander while he worked, thinking about his new soulmate. He couldn’t help the wave of anticipation and impatience that hit him when he thought about their meeting. He was just so excited! A large smile stretched across his face, and he did a few happy stomps with his feet.

Roman stopped repeating his lines and looked over to him, a soft smile on his face.

“You okay over there, dear? You’re lucky that bread isn’t alive, you’re beating it quite thoroughly,” Roman said with a teasing tone.

Patton looked up at him, blushing a bit at being caught, “Oh! Yeah of course I’m fine! I’m just overwhelmingly giddy, I guess.”

Roman laughed and crossed the room with a few long strides, grabbing Patton around the waist and setting his chin to rest on the other’s head. He gave a kiss to Patton’s scalp, and Patton giggled and swatted playfully at him.

“Ro stop, I’m trying to cook,” Patton whined, placing the kneaded dough into a bread pan. He leaned back into Roman’s hold either way, looking up at him through his eyelashes.

“Sorry Sweetheart, I simply couldn’t resist,” Roman winked, laughing softly. They stood there for a few moments in silence, swaying slightly.

“Do you think they’ll like my bread?” Patton asked quietly.

“What? Of course! If they don’t I will have to fight them,” Roman said dramatically. Patton chuckled.

“No fighting Roman, everyone has their own tastes.”

“If someone’s taste doesn’t like your bread, they’re wrong. Sorry, I don’t make the rules,” Roman spun Patton and gave him a peck to the lips.

The oven beeped a few times behind them, and Patton started to squirm in Roman’s hold.

“Babe, you gotta let me go so I can cook!” Patton said, squealing as Roman held steadfast, unmoving.

“Nuh uh, you are in the Princey Dungeon of snuggles and cuddles, I’m very sorry Padre, but I simply cannot let go unless you pay bail.”

“Which is?”

“Kiss me.”

Patton didn’t protest as he pressed their lips together. Roman hummed and smiled into the kiss, trailing his hands up Patton’s back and threading his fingers into Patton’s hair. After a few long seconds they parted for air, but Roman didn’t seem to want to stop, and at this point neither did Patton.

Before long Patton was up against the counter, kissing back with fervor as Roman picked his legs up and sat him on the counter. Patton made a small noise into the kiss, arms draped around Roman’s shoulders.

Just as Roman was teasing his hand up and under Patton’s shirt, a gagging noise came from the door.

“Eugh, can ya’ll like, not be horny in the kitchen please? I don’t want you contaminating my bread.”

Roman nearly fell to his ass with how fast he jumped off of Patton, and Patton buried his head in his hands and grumbled something under his breath.

Virgil laughed all the way to the kitchen’s island, wheezing and wiping tears from his eyes.

“You two should see your faces, you would think your parent’s just caught you or somethin’. Calm thyselves.”

Patton just stood silently and went to put the bread in the oven.

“Wait, excuse you. Your bread? No, sorry sis, it’s mine,” Roman said as he brushed himself off.

“Oh god, please don’t call me sis, I’m your boyfriend, that’s weird,” Virgil said, moving to sit himself up onto the counter on the other side of the room.

“Oh,” Patton spoke up suddenly, “Roman, I meant to ask, how’s Remus? You haven’t talked about him in awhile.”

Roman’s brother Remus visited them every holiday. It was getting close to thanksgiving at this point, and they were all looking forward to seeing him.

Roman shrugged, “Don’t know, haven’t talked to him in… a little over a month now?”

“How come?” Patton asked.

“Normally I’m not the one who reaches out to talk, I just haven’t thought about it. And since, ya know, I don’t talk to my parents, it’s easy to lose contact for larger periods of time,” Roman explained, slumping into a chair at the kitchen table. Patton nodded in understanding.

They went back to their routines, this time with both Roman and Virgil on their phones while Patton baked a few more things.

Half an hour went by with little words, just a comfortable silence as they all enjoyed the company.

A sharp and hard tug caught their attention.

“Ow, damnit,” Virgil said, shaking his hand roughly as if it were burned. The other two looking down at their hands in confusion, wincing as their yellow strings gave another sharp and painful tug.

“Language,” Patton chided absentmindedly, then, “Do they want something?”

“I don’t think people yank on their strings that hard in order to get someone’s attention, Dearest,” Roman said, flinching as he bent his finger. It was already sore.

“They’re not trying to take the string off or something, right? That’s impossible, they should know that,” Virgil said shakily, curling in on himself and his hoodie.

“It is. Maybe they’re not thinking clearly?” Roman said, trying to offer an explanation.

Patton pouted, 

“I hope they’re okay.”

-

Damian was not okay.

You wouldn’t be able to tell it, though, with the way he was carrying himself.

His strides were confident, and he held his head high. He tipped his hat at the people who walked by and offered polite hellos. He looked like every bit of a man who was sure of himself.

But he was far from it, really.

If you knew him personally and were looking closely, you could see the way he sometimes fidgeted with his jacket sleeves. You’d notice the slight tremble in his hands, or the way he seemed to run his fingers through his hair too many times. He honestly probably had his hat off more than he had it on, lifting it off of his head as much as he was.

Damian was a nervous wreck, but a nervous wreck who was good at hiding it.

His classes that day were ridiculously stressful, and it didn’t help when every other person exclaimed suddenly when they noticed the shadows of his soulstrings. He would wave them off, or excuse himself. Hell, a few times he even made up what his soulmates were like. He wove tales of wonderful people who had swept him off his feet, if only to appease the asker and get them to stop bugging him.

He had watched earlier that day as the indigo string seemed to detach from the others, just barely heading in a different direction. It was a very slow process, meaning they were probably decently far, but it still scared him.

Were they going to work? Coming to find him? Oh god, what if indigo left the other three because he couldn’t deal with another string showing up? What if Damian was the reason why they broke up?

No, Damian thought to himself with a shake of his head, no that was ridiculous. Really, he needed to stop letting his head go off in random directions, the self deprecation was getting old.

Damian walked up the steps of his apartment building, entering with a nod towards the doorman. The man smiled and waved.

“Heya, DJ,” He greeted. 

“Hello, Larry. How’s the wife?”

“Oh you know her, same old. She’s missed you, you know. You should really come over for some tea sometime soon,” Larry said, opening the door for Damian.

“Sure thing, how does Thursday sound?”

“That would be awesome, see you then, Damian.”

Damian smiled to himself as he entered the elevator to his floor. He let out a shuddery breath. Small talk came to him easily, he was never really introverted to be honest, but that didn’t stop it from being taxing on the days when he really didn’t want to have to see people.

As soon as he crossed the threshold to his apartment, he checked the time. 

Okay, it was a little past five in the afternoon, cool. He figured Remy would be up to go somewhere, if he wasn’t already out with Emile.

He shot him a text, which he got an immediate reply on.

Girl course i wanna hang. Ill be there in half hour, see ya hot stuff xoxo

Damian chuckled to himself. Of course Remy would be the kind of person to still unironically use X’s and O’s.

He double tapped the message to like it, and took off for the restroom. He needed to freshen up before he left for the outside world.

He went ahead and re-brushed his teeth, combed his hair, and washed his face. He really needed some moisturizer for his burns, they were getting a little scratchy around the edges, the sensitive skin looking a little red and agitated. 

By the time he was done toweling himself off, his eyes fell from his face in the mirror to the strings tied neatly around his fingers. He had spent most of the day ignoring them, other than the occasional check-in on Indigo’s progress.

He looked at them for a long while, feeling how they moved. He always found it so fascinating, how sometimes they would be pulled tight and sensitive to any slight movement, and how other times they seemed to pool onto the floor in piles of color. He figured it depended on some kind of need or something, it was always when someone’s emotions were high that the strings seemed to tighten, maybe as a way to aid communication.

Damian just figured it was some weird magicky shit, and didn’t let it bother him too much. He had gotten over the trying to explain the strings stage back in middle school, back when it was just him and green.

Nausea and guilt ate at his insides even thinking about the green string. It hung loosely to the fingers on the hand opposite the new strings, its once brilliant earthy color now a faded grey.

It was so pale and sad looking in comparison to the other brighter strings, and Damian couldn’t help but want to cry again. It was such a lovely color, and he was sure they would have been such a lovely person.

He didn’t even have a name to mourn, a funeral to attend to. Only a sad little frayed string to cry pitifully over.

And that brings up another question, why frayed? Damian hadn’t met anyone who had a dead soulmate that had a frayed string. Sure, others had their colors dulled, but the end looked clipped with scissors. Damian’s looked as if someone had pulled it apart with their teeth.

It wasn’t fair, Damian thought. It wasn’t fair that he got all these questions. It wasn’t even a simple, “oh no, my soulmate is dead, I’m doomed to be lonely and soulless.” No, he had to deal with all these mysteries. Why frayed? Why four others? Why add him to an already complete group? Why not someone else? Why had it been a month, when the average wait on the reassigning was a week? Were the other’s even able to love him like they loved each other? Damian wasn’t paired with someone equally as heartbroken and lonely, he was paired with an already complete soulmate relationship. Was he doomed to be an outcast?

Damian didn’t want this, he didn’t ask for this. 

His emotions were all over the place, but he steeled himself, and with an angry huffed, he grabbed his four strings, and yanked.

White hot, dizzying pain lanced up his arm, and he gave a shout. His vision blanked, and a throbbing headache pounded behind his eyes.

His vision cleared after a while, stars and dots still dancing across his eyes. The pain was so bad, it was nearly incapacitating. 

And in a mix of morbid curiosity and the horrible feeling of self loathing, he yanked again, harder.

He stumbled to the ground, sweat beginning to drip from his forehead. His heart was pounding in his ears, and what sounded like a dull roar caused his eardrums to hurt. Every bone in his body ached, and his arm hurt to move.

Well, he thought, guess they were pretty authentic then, at the very least.

He heard a knock at the door and tripped over himself to get up. He dabbed his face with the towel once again, wincing at the pain in his arms.

By the time he left the bathroom, Remy was already standing inside.

“What on earth were you doing in there, you look awful,” Remy asked, before going a bit pale, “You know what? Don’t answer that.”

“Oh shut it,” Damian snapped, taking his hat off the counter and fitting it back into place.

“So, wanna head out to that coffee shop you like downtown?”

Damian shrugged, “Why not.”

“Sweet, let’s blow this popsicle stand.”

Damian sighed but laughed at his friend's antics, following him out the door with a fond shake of his head.

The coffee shop was nice. It was small, cozy, and had a nice arrangement of potted plants scattered about. The barista was kind, and pretty cute. They had a cute grungy-emo thing going on. 

Damian had a thing for emos.

He, like normal, had ordered some black coffee with two creams and a sugar, much to Remy’s dismay. Remy had then proceeded to buy some ridiculously over sweetened drink with a stupid name and two muffins to share, much to Damian’s dismay.

“You have got to stop buying food for me Remy, I’m a grown man, I can pay for myself.”

“I offered. Besides, you need your money for your hobbies.”

“What hobbies?” Damian laughed, smiling despite himself.

“I don’t know, your music. You play the clarinet, right?”

“Flute, actually,” Said Damian, rolling his eyes, “And it’s not a hobby. Band was the only reason I managed to get into college. You know this, why are you asking?”

It was Remy’s turn to roll his eyes, “Small talk, babes.”

Damian was so caught up in their conversation he missed as the indigo string tied to his finger moved at a rate much, much faster than earlier that day.

“Mhmm, small talk about something we are both familiar with?”

“I don’t know, you band nerds seem to like to talk about band, despite making sure it is known that it is hell on earth,” Remy laughed, “Why don’t you, I don’t know, tell one of those ‘this one time at band camp-’ stories, babes?”

“Uh huh, and which one haven’t you heard?” Damian did in fact have a lot of stories, as every band kid tended to, but he was almost certain Remy had heard every one three times. It was obviously his best friend was just trying to cheer him up, and honestly? Damian really appreciated it.

“I don’t know, what about the one time you passed out on field and went to the hospital for a broken rib after being stepped on?” Remy’s grin was shit-eating, and Damian felt his face turn a deep crimson.

“We agreed not to talk about that,” he hissed, attempting to hide his face behind his coffee as he took a sip.

Remy shook his head as he laughed, before standing up.

“I’m heading to the restroom babes, try not to miss me too much.”

Damian sighed and sat back in his chair as Remy left, closing his eyes and smiling to himself. He was enjoying himself, this was nice. Remy was an awesome friend and really helped Damian to forget all about his stupid soulmates.

If all went Damian’s way, he wouldn’t have to deal with soulmates for the rest of the day.

Of course, knowing how fate liked to fuck him over, that isn’t what happened.

-

Logan had had an exhausting day, and he was ready to get it over with. He wanted nothing more than to go home to his soulmates and curl up against them, but he knew he couldn’t. He had been sentenced to sleeping in a cold hotel bed, alone.

The day had started well, with breakfast with his beloveds and a few kisses to his cheek, and a few kisses he returned. He had left with a small smile on his face.

But his good mood had slowly disappeared as the day wore on, as no sign of his other soulmate was to be found. The string slowly started to move more and more as he was sure he was getting closer, but the direction it was in was so vague, he could only hope he was going the right way as he drove.

Honestly, he didn’t know why some machine to find them hadn’t been invented yet. Surely there was some way to get some magnetic something or other to pick up on soulstrings, and then lead you there with a convenient little GPS voice.

But nope, the stupid strings were too stubborn to be beat. Everyone had just accepted them as immovable magic and was done with it.

Everyone including Logan, but he still felt like he was allowed to complain about that fact.

It was a little past six in the evening at this point, and the sky was beginning to darken considerably. Logan could feel his body getting heavier, but wasn’t quite tired enough to stop yet. 

He didn’t think his perception skills were too bad, surely he had a few more hours left in him.

That was probably a bad judgement call, as they were apparently bad enough to not notice how fast the string on his finger moved as he turned the corner into coffee shop parking lot.

He locked his car as he stepped away from it, and entered the building. He took a right to the restroom, wanting to wash his hands before doing anything else, not enjoying the feeling of sweaty driving palms. 

He heard the door behind him open, and looked up to see a man wearing sunglasses (indoors?) walk in.

“‘Sup Babes,” the man said, and Logan lifted an eyebrow in confusion.

“Babes? I’m sorry, do I know you?”

The man laughed, “Nope, you just look like someone who would be fun to piss off by calling them babes. For real though, why are you wearing a necktie in a coffee shop?”

“Plenty of people wear neckties in a coffee shop,” Logan answered, fixing his tie with an affronted look. The other man just laughed, running a hand through his hair.

“The name’s Remy,” The man said, offering his hand to shake. Logan took it, if with a little hesitance and confusion.

“Logan.” Logan responded. Remy nodded, going to turn around and leave, probably deterred from using the restroom in what would now be an awkward situation. He stopped suddenly, eyes going wide from behind his sunglasses.

“You have four soulmates?” He said, looking at the slight shadow cast on the tiled floor.

“Yes,” Logan answered, easily. Remy was not the first one to ask that today. There was the woman at the gas station, and the man walking his dog outside of the Ihop. It was a little disorienting hearing four instead of three, but whatever.

“You here with someone? One of your strings seems to be pointing in a weird direction,” Remy commented, nodding down at the shadow heading straight out the bathroom door. Logan looked down hurriedly, just now noticing the yellow string that was pulled tight.

“I- no I’m not. I’ve actually been looking for our fourth soulmate all day,” Logan didn’t take his eyes off the string, “In fact, it only appeared recently. Me and my other soulmates decided it best to find them as soon as possible.

After a few more minutes of staring wide eyed at his yellow string, he looked up at Remy. He, once again, looked confused at the wide smile that had spread across Remy’s face. The sunglasses clad man grabbed Logan by the hand and tugged him towards the door.

“Come on, there’s someone you need to meet.”

Logan allowed himself to be pulled back into the main part of the coffee shop and led in the direction of a booth in the back. He opened his mouth to protest, but stopped when he caught sight of the man seated at the table.

“Damian, babes, you will not fucking believe who I just ran into,” Remy exclaimed. The man, Damian, turned around to face them.

The two men locked eyes, and Logan felt his heart hammering in his chest, that familiar yet foreign feeling of something clicking into place in his chest was present for the fourth time in his life, and he was almost certain he had never been happier.

Logan was at a loss for words for one of the few times in his life.

“Uhm, hello?”

-

-

Taglist in reblog

[negans-lucille-tblr]

Hi. I'm the girl who asked about the BYG chapter. I want to say I am really, truly sorry I made you feel the way I did. It was NOT my intention. I didn't think it through and I'm usually a very sensible person that takes into account other people's feelings. I haven't been well mentaly lately and I know that is not an excuse but your brilliant writing was my escape (selfish I know, had no right to do that). You do not owe anyone anything. I hope you accept my apology, I won't bother you again.

Thanks for apologising. What's done is done.

Tumblr is a demanding place to be and I feel like I say that on behalf of most writers on here. I didn't mean to attack just you personally in my reply to what I'm sure was just an ill thought out message but it was the straw that broke this camel's back.

One of the reasons I took a step back from tumblr was because I found people to be very demanding and expectant and the stress was only adding to what is already a shitty time for me mentally. This isn't really something I addressed in my hiatus post just because I thought simply telling you all that it was essential for my mental health was enough and I didn't want to ramble on with a pity post.

I think everyone needs a reminder from time to time that no one here is entitled to anything that someone doesn't want to share. Us writers work damn hard to provide you with content and we are only human. It's easy to forget that when someone churns out so much content so regularly like I do, I get that. But rest assured I work my ass off between being a mum, wife and working to give you that content and until now that was at the expense of my mental wellbeing.

I know BYG is already written but it's not as simple as just posting it. It's copying and pasting the correct format. It's tagging my 70+ tag list, it's adding links to my masterlists and setting up timezone reblogs. It's people commenting and wanting the next chapter and it leads people to believing I'm ready to come back when I'm not.

My posting schedule is going to massively change when I return to ease the stress and I'll discuss that when the time comes.

When I'm ready to start sharing again I'll let you all know. Otherwise all I ask is that people give me some space. You're still welcome to send me asks about random crap but please just leave my writing out of it for now.

I hope you feel better soon, nonnie and there are plenty of other amazing writers out there to occupy you during my break.

[ive-been-reminding-you]

Mun OoC: Just Be Cool With Each Other

I messaged the person who I know, without a doubt, sent me this anon message, to let them know that I needed to drop our RP. Even though this person made me anxious, I still didn’t want to ghost them. It felt crappy to me to be publicly replying to everyone else and leave them with no answers. So I wrote out a message to inform them and explain why I needed to drop our RP (which I’ll include, along with their reply, under the Keep Reading for the sake of transparency so you can see that I wasn’t rude or insulting, and so you’re not just taking my word for it without seeing my words, if you are so inclined to look at it).

Their response, which only confirmed for me that they were the anon, despite their denial of it, made me so angry that I was in the process of writing a giant call-out-style post about it. 

But I won’t do that. I am not my muse.

I am still angry. I am still frustrated that, instead of owning up and apologizing, this person was rude and snarky and flippant about my situation. But, nah. 

All I’ll say is this: If someone with a personal, non-RP blog comes to you and asks you to RP, but will only RP in their messages, proceed with caution. 

I won’t even say, “ Absolutely do not RP with this person.” Who knows? You might hit it off. I won’t post their name and I won’t write the call-out. I hope they grow from this and learn how to treat people. I genuinely meant what I said at the end of my message that I hope they find partners and have fun on here.

I hate drama. I just want to write and make friends, as I’ve said a trillion and one times on here. But I also want people to be aware of this so they can make a more informed decision and not potentially have the same thing happen to them.

Now, I’m gonna do a couple of replies tonight. At the very least, I’ll do one or two. I’d like to do even more if I can. I’ll be starting with the ones that have been waiting the longest and work my way up. After tonight, I’ll do more on Thursday and/or Friday.

Thanks for being so lovely and patient with me throughout this horrible time. It means the world to me.

⚔️ Spike ⚔️

I’ll be posting the screenshots, so you can see that it is exactly what I said, and then I’ll post the text because I know that reading screenshots is hard sometimes. I was explaining how they made me feel, why I knew that they were the anon, why I couldn’t write with them anymore, and I even stated no ill will whatsoever.

Also, apologies for the long-form of the posts. I would have liked to post them as a grid, but if there’s a way to do that in a text post, I don’t know how. I’m also sorry for all the text. I tried to give context where needed and stuff.

The text:

((Hello. It’s taken me a while to write this because I was trying to think of what to say. I said I wouldn’t leave you hanging, so I am letting you know that I need to drop our RP. I wish I didn’t have to, and I thought long and hard about it, but it’s the best thing for me.

I know that you were the anonymous person who sent that message. I know because it was written exactly the way you talk to me when we’re not doing the RP. I know because you are the only person that I write with who has pressured me for replies, no matter how many public posts I make talking about how poorly I’m doing. Everyone else tells me not to worry and to take care of myself. You are the only one who asks when I’m getting to your reply. Even when I made the post about my partners letting me know if they wanted to continue our threads, your response was to remind me that I still owed you one. Not to say that you were still interested, but to /remind/ me that you “still need a reply”.

It’s gotten to the point where continuing with our thread will cause me more anxiety. I say “more” anxiety because it has gotten to where I get anxious when I see a notification from you. The first time you ever asked me how I was doing, it turned into you lamenting that all of your partners were on hiatus at the same time. Which is why I didn’t reply to the second time you asked. 

I don’t say any of this to attack you. I say this because you need to know that this isn’t how you treat RP partners. Especially when you’re already asking to RP in messages, which is difficult for some people to do, and you have people willing to do that. It was hard for me as a neurodivergent person to keep track of everything, and have to edit in the messages, but I felt bad because I feel everyone who wants to RP should have a chance to do that. I don’t know why you don’t want to start a blog for RP, but I think you should. At least consider it. You’ll also probably get more partners that way. A lot of people are wary of RP in private to begin with, even without the difficulties it presents for some people.

All that’s left for me to say is that I wish you the best. Please don’t pressure anyone else for replies. Please consider starting a public blog. Other than that, I still hope you find people to write with and that you have fun on here.

Regards, Spike)) <Then I added the link to the anon message>

To clarify about the lamenting about their partners part: The first time they asked me how I was doing, I responded thinking that they actually wanted to have a friendly chat. However, within 3 replies, it turned into, “When are you going to get back to the RPs?” They never cared about me as a person. They only cared about whether they were getting their replies. And once I knew that for sure, I didn’t respond to the only other time they asked how things were going.

Maybe I shouldn’t have explained? Idk, it’s always been hard for me to figure out when to explain and when to keep it simple. Maybe I should have just left it at, “Hey, I need to cut back on some RPs and I have to cut yours, sorry”? If that’s the case, then, yes, I didn’t see that at the time. To be quite honest, though, I doubt that would have been any better. But I know that I would want to know why if someone dropped me and seemingly kept everyone else’s threads, and also seemed to be taking on new ones. And I also know that if someone sent me a message like this, I’d be upset that I made someone feel that way and be apologetic as hell. I definitely wouldn’t send this as a reply (the part that upset me most is highlighted):

This is also the part that confirms for me that they were the anon. “Haven’t bothered” with my blog. When I certainly was updating, however scarcely, about my situation and how hard things have been for me. One such update was the anon message, itself. They continue to behave as though this blog should have been my priority. Regardless, even on the small chance that I was wrong and they weren’t the anon, all the rest of how they behaved still stands.

Either way, I’m just glad I’m done with that and I hope things remain quiet. They unfollowed me and I blocked them. I just want to be able to have my hobby in peace.

[kalluun-patangaroa]

Suede

SKY magazine, December 1993

written by Simon Witter 

"HELLO! WHAT HAVE WE GOT HERE?!" asks Brett Anderson rhetorically, staring at the fluff he has just removed from his ear. "I haven't taken these earrings off for about nine years."

It may seem an incongruous moment to ask the 27-year-old indie pin-up about his personal style, but hey, that's the kind of guy I am. "Tatty," replies Brett with a wry smile. "I haven't been able to get out and go shopping."

Brett Anderson, frontman of Suede – the British pop sensation of 93 – is hotly rumoured to have a great dress sense. Today however, perched uncomfortably behind an executive desk at the central London HQ of his record company, his head inadvertently framed by a halo of Right Said Fred promotional balloons, he is sporting a navy blue jeans'n'top ensemble he accurately describes as "just anything". Brett has been telling me how he spends most of his time with people who work in shops or are unemployed – "real people, not in the business" – so I presume this boutique bonding provides a clue to his supposed, though temporarily non-evident, style savvy.

"Oh no," he gasps. "Not clothes shops! Most of my friends are in food shops. So I know a good bit of brie when I see it."

The thought of Brett Anderson having, at any point in his life, ever eaten food, conjures images of pigs flapping their trotters as they sail past this second floor window. But we press on with the personal style enquiry.

"I want to change it at the moment," he says. "I'm sick of wearing second-hand things. I used to have a grudge against new clothes because I don't like wearing things that another thousand people are wearing. It's nothing to do with being into clothes from years ago, or tatty clothes at all. I'm quite keen to toy around with my style until I eventually find something, to have clothes made for me. There's never anything, when I go out and look for clothes, that I really love. I've got quite a strong vision of what I want, which would be very, very well fitted things. I don't like baggy things. I like lots of ethnic looks. I really like the Spanish look, that sort of matador thing." By way of explanation, Brett strikes a pose, clicking imaginary castanets above his head. "I like that shape. Prince wears a really brilliant little thing sometimes. When I kept getting my bellybutton out, it was really a desire to achieve that shape more than anything, nothing to do with flaunting my navel."

It's well worth flashing your bellybutton while you still can, I assure him, a rueful hand on my own expanding waistline.

"Yep," he smiles. "Well I can't anymore. Not after that chinese last night."

In May of 1992 Suede released their first single, 'The Drowners'. They had already been on the cover of Melody Maker – before they had a record out – and would grace 18 other British magazine covers over the next year, including the cover of Q on just their second single. Their eponymous debut album, released last March, went straight to No. One in the charts and went on to win the Mercury Prize, and last autumn they released a full-length concert video Love & Poison. At this rate, it will be time for their memoirs by easter.

Within the bizarre, incestuous fishbowl of the British music media, Suede have become almost self-damagingly important. After a couple of wilderness years spent faffing about, finding their feet and being universally loathed, their overnight transformation into the most hyped band in the world was nothing short of miraculous. Yet it created impossibly high expectations of their music. A German friend told me how surprised he was, after long distance exposure to their media glare, to discover how average Suede sounded – a judgment that casual discovery of the first album would hardly have elicited. And while touring America, their support act the Cranberries famously outshone them by an enormous factor when it came to album sales. Yet phase one of Suede's career has been – or appeared to be – so extraordinary, that they are going to be hard-pressed to follow it up with anything similarly momentous.

For now, we have 'Stay Together', a new, epically long single. As a measure of Suede's magnitude in the reality-starved world of British indie pop, I am treated to an absurd preview of the track the day before meeting Brett. Before entering the listening room I am subjected to a bag search to check – I kid you not! – that I'm not carrying a concealed tape recorder.

In LA, the world capital of muso control freakism, I was played U2's Desire, the immediate-follow up to their 15-million selling Joshua Tree album, eons before its release without anyone thinking twice. Yet now, without a hint of humour or irony, I am being treated as if I not only know anyone who cares what the next Suede single sounds like, but would be willing to pay for a tape of it recorded through a leather bag.

After regaining consciousness, I join in the fiasco, insist on a full body search (well, at less reputable establishments you'd have to pay good money for this touchy-feely experience) and am seated. The label boss places two speakers on each side of my head, facing my ears from about 20" away, turns it up LOUD, and begins to do that embarrassing, pseudo appreciative in-chair grooving that only people who work in record companies and recording studios have the gall to indulge in. "It's not pompous," he assures me, "even though it's eight minutes long."

Of course any pop song – as opposed to dance record – that lasts eight minutes is by definition pompous. 'Bohemian Rhapsody' was gloriously, defiantly pompous with a side order of pomposity to go. But, despite the circumstances, 'Stay Together' sounds like a fine, many-hued song, liberally doused with Bernard Butler's life-saving guitar, that is destined neither to win many new fans nor shock the devotees.

"It's about a sense of unrest I feel about the world," Brett tells me the following day, in an ill-advised shot at an explanation. "An attempt to make some sense when everything seems to be going slightly insane. I do get a real sense of impending doom, but not in a depressing way, not like we're all gonna die, let's go and rape people. I feel quite content with it. We're living under some shadow, and I'm not quite sure what it is. It's a bit like the fears I felt when I was growing up, when things were unstable and there was the threat of nuclear war, or the fear that your parents could die of aerosol poisoning."

Brett grew up, together with Suede drummer Mat Osman, in the soulless satellite town of Haywards Heath, between London and Brighton. According to Osman, if they'd been the tea party fops people make them out to be, they would've formed a grunge band. They only wanted to be really glamorous because of their stultifyingly dull working class backgrounds. Some might say that that would lead to the three-Es-a-night, dance-and-forget syndrome, rather than the formation of a glam rock band.

"Hopefully we're not a glam rock band," Brett shudders defensively. "You can escape those surroundings by taking a load of Es and ignoring it. Another way is to create your own myth, to try and become romantic in your own eyes, to create something beautiful out of the rubbish and the shit. It all sounds very Oscar Wilde, but that's the way we did it. None of us were brought up in workhouses, but we haven't had easy lives at all."

Suede claim to be obsessed with fame because they were excluded from it. Yet surely fame is the one classless thing people aren't born into?

"Lots of people are constantly privileged," says Brett, who has clearly spent an unhealthy amount of time pondering the abstract qualities of fame. "If you're born in Soho to rich professional parents, and you've got Jonathan Wotsisname coming round to your house every night to see your father, then you've got this world that you slip easily into. When you're excluded from it there's a desperation, you're desperate to have it. It doesn't come as second nature to you, like professionally famous people who hang out in Beverly Hills. It's not something you're comfortable with, but that mutates it into something far more interesting, a bit prickly and far more creative, because you're not just sitting there lapping it up."

Suede's appearance coincided not unfortunately with the post-Madchester 70s revival. But was their styling something more than just the result of being unable to afford new clothes? Personally, I had thought the emergence of Gary Numan had killed off the idea of anyone ever again wanting to be David Bowie (not to mention Bowie's recent records). Then along came Suede, with their rough guitars, their androgyny and their theatrical singer.

"I never thought of ourselves as '70s," Brett insists. "David Bowie is a genius, but the rest of all that rubbish I always found laughable. As for the clothes, I always thought we looked more 60s than 70s. It's all tied up with this whole kitsch thing, this Magpie and Porridge and rediscovering the culture of British music journalists' youths. Kids of 14 didn't know what anyone was talking about, it was just that the people in power had reached a certain age where they were getting sentimental about their youth and started remembering Magpie. That's all it was, all a complete load of rubbish. As soon as we were aware that this scene was going on, we wanted nothing to do with it."

Brett's voice is a highly variable instrument, perfect and beautiful on slow numbers like 'The Next Life', but occasionally, when he affects that archly operatic Bowie yodel, a whiney, sneering sound like Rik Mayall on speed boring into your brain – absolutely maddening. It goes without saying that his delivery owes much to the most overrated British pop star of the last decade, Morrissey.

"I forced my voice in that way because of how we were born, musically, playing shitholes. It was the only way I could make myself heard. I didn't want to sing in the murmuring way that was the style of the time. I wanted to project my voice, because I was writing songs that I wanted people to hear the words of. I wasn't just writing about fluffy little clouds, which is what everyone was doing at the time. People read into my intonations a theatrical seventiesness, but it was a complete accident."

Overworked as the subject is, it's hard to avoid asking why Brett thinks his androgyny caused such a fuss. It's not the first time it has been done; it's not even the tenth time. Genderless, mincing fops are to classic British pop what hairspray is to American rock, a staple ingredient. Brett, by comparison to most, is pretty tame.

"I don't know," he sighs. "We certainly weren't thinking 'oh let's be androgynous', it's just the way we are. I'm naturally quite an effeminate person – not all the time, I do play on things. I think it was because, at the time, people were so incredibly boring. We had been through five years of the cult of non-personality, and we never wanted to go with the flow. When everyone had their heads down, chugging away, we wanted to twist things a little bit. It's like at school, when you find that something annoys someone, you keep on doing it more and more. And that's what happened really."

A female psychologist wrote recently about the overt sexual expression of pre-pubertal girls at pop concerts, the way in which, amidst the non-contact hysteria of the pop experience, they could sometimes experience their first orgasm. She was, admittedly, talking about a Take That show, but I can't help wondering if it looks like that from the stage to Brett Anderson?

"No, nothing like that," he purrs, "nothing sexual. I always feel like people are putting it on."

Having their first fake orgasm?

"It's a bizarre thing in my head. I know they really like me, but I can't really take it seriously. When I'm onstage, and it's working, I feel like I can do absolutely anything. I feel as though there's no limit, even in the sense that I could fall asleep if I felt like it, because I'm that relaxed. I feel much more comfortable on stage than walking down the street. I could go off into a corner and do a crossword or shave my head. I feel ridiculously relaxed. I really enjoy the power of being onstage. It's to do with the circuit of the flow between the audience and you, when it's an audience willing you to be good. Your own power is an expression of how the audience is feeling, but I can't say I ever feel sexual, even if it looks that way. I think that to call the power purely sexual is to belittle it. When I've been to incredible gigs, it hasn't been a sexual thing, it has been something far more magical than that. "

Brett and Osman came to London in the mid 80s to study, respectively, architecture and politics at UCL and LSE. Suede began after they placed an ad in the NME in 1989, but initial concerts had audiences shouting "Fuck off!", critics calling them effete wankers and record companies running for the hills - a three-pronged invitation to eat shit and die that would have spelt the end for most bands.

"That X factor that made people despise us," muses Brett, "was something we managed to turn around in our favour. It's like being in love with someone, and exactly the same things you adore about them, completely horrify you when you've fallen out of love. We went away and learnt how to write songs, and came back transformed. And those qualities that originally pissed people off, we transformed into something provocative. I think the fact that we went through all that rubbish was a fucking good thing for us. People forget that the Beatles spent five years in Hamburg. No one would touch them in England, cos everyone thought they were an utter load of shit. They spent five years getting it together, suffering a bit and fighting for it."

A typical lyric from those hard years was Brett's line about "shitting paracetomol on the escalator". When they were recently described as chemically saturated, I had assumed more interesting chemicals were involved.

"That's about pure mundanity, being off your face every night and your staple diet coming from your bathroom cabinet. It's a metaphor for a humdrum life, going up and down the London underground, which I spent five years of my life doing."

In many ways this – Suede's poignant soundtracking of new depression Britain – is their strength. But if they are Her Majesty's equivalent of slackers, it hasn't made America any more amenable to their cause. Indeed, despite Brett's avowed loathing of the British character – "negativity, small-mindedness, lack of faith" – there may well be a Britishness about Suede which prevents America from getting the point.

Brett makes the mistake of quoting a Smiths song to me – something about innocence, fragility and trust – forcing me to point out that American audiences don't want to be trusted with something precious, they want to rock out with their cocks out. Evan Dando may wear a dress and pigtails, but the wider American market is notoriously unkeen on sexual ambiguity. Queen were big in America until the early 80s, when Freddie Mercury started appearing in full clone gear. They never toured America again, and didn't have a single hit until after his death (and then only thanks to Wayne's World). In fact, America's association of guitars and manliness make Suede fundamentally unsuited.

"No!" storms Brett. "I don't think we're fundamentally unmanly. All you have to do is come and watch us live. We're about sexuality, power and emotion, things that everybody feels."

Whether or not America is destined to fall for his Morrissey-meets-Larry Grayson stage persona, Brett's much-aired desire to move to America (and less well-known plan to live in Paris) has, for now, been replaced by a much smaller act of bedouinism.

"I've moved from Notting Hill to Highgate," he announces proudly, "from a fashionable place to a place where you're living in the last century pretty much. I was living in a very small flat in Notting Hill and it was driving me insane, I couldn't write and was being bombarded with nonsense all day long. I needed the peace and quiet, and now I have a bigger flat with a studio room in it and I'm writing quite prolifically. It's more serene, there's more space to think. It's quite a beautiful place, but you do feel like you're living in the last century, like you're some sort of oddity, or in a play. You keep going into these odd characters. But it's a great place."

In person, and despite the affectation of much of his thought processes, Brett Anderson is quite charming. An endearing smile – which seems to hibernate when cameras are around – plays constantly around his face, suggesting shared confidences which, to some extent, he delivers. Like so many people cocooned by over-protective minions, he is refreshingly open and approachable. I like him. But he is deeply shocked and incredulous when I paint a picture of the special treatment afforded him by those he works with.

"They treat me with the respect I deserve," he jokes defensively. "I don't have tea with Lenny Kravitz. My best friend works in a chip shop, and that's why I like it, it's a complete escape. One of the beautiful things about being successful is that it can rub off onto your friends as well. Not fame and all that bullshit – the really brilliant thing about being successful is the self-confidence, the sense of life having a purpose, that life is a wonderful thing. You open the shutters in the morning and the sunshine pours through. That sense of vitality about life can completely rub off on your friends. Sometimes it doesn't, it can go the other way, with friends ignoring you cos they think you don't have time for them, but that never happens with your proper friends."

And yet, engulfed in the sweltering perversity of his peer group, Brett has come to hold some pretty crap views, views that seem utterly irrelevant beyond the borders of saddo indie land. He worries about being thought a sell-out, thinks Suede are radically honest because they admit to having ambition – as if people didn't get over all that bollocks a decade ago – and, worst of all, that people don't talk enough about music in interviews. Oh dear!

But, despite all this, Brett's public image remains unshatterably cool. He exudes waves of sultry, sulky hipness. I feel an urge to know what naff items lurk in the corners of Chateau Anderson, his ownership of which will shock Suede devotees to the core. Brett tells me he's been to see Aladdin, listens to jazz music, likes The Orb and Verve and has just bought the new Shamen single. To prove it, he even does his Mr C impression - "Comin' on like a vibe, y'know!". This won't do at all.

"I like Terence Trent D'Arby," he admits, trying harder. "I think he's really good."

It's good, but it's not right.

"I bought Billy Joel's River Of Dreams album. I like that one."

Aha – as Inspector Clouseau used to say – now we are getting somewhere! What about films?

"No, I've got impeccable taste when it comes to films."

No feature length On The Buses video stashed chez Brett?

"No. I have got Crocodile Dundee."

Bingo and Bullseye! So much for impeccable taste.

"Well, my perennial favourite is Performance," he flusters wildly. "I can virtually quote the whole film from start to finish. And there's a brilliant film which I've just discovered called The Shout, with John Hurt, Alan Bates and Susanna York. It's about a man who has spent years in the Australian bush learning the secrets of the bush doctors coming to this ridiculously reserved Cornish village and turning two people's lives upside down. It's like an animal alive within this village, and when he shouts, everyone within a mile radius dies. If Alan Bates' part had been played by Vincent Price, it would've been laughable, but it's incredibly powerful, one of those great lost films."

It's a nice try, but nothing can erase the impression created by Billy Joel and Crocodile Dundee.

[busanbunnie]

ooc; i feel like i owe everyone an explanation about why i dropped off the face of the earth regarding ims / current responses / discord. pls forgive me. ♥

i haven’t written in over a month and a half now -- my queue has been on to post once a day at midday uk time and that is slowly running out. i have so many drafts and i literally owe everyone along with memes and sweet asks that many of you have sent. on top of that i haven’t been on discord pretty much at all for the past two weeks bar a couple of times for personal reasons. here is my explanation. my dog has been severely ill for two months now and unfortunately two weeks ago we had to say our goodbyes. in between looking after him and working two jobs, i simply couldn’t get online to do replies. a week after that happened my boyfriends mum got very ill and had to be rushed into surgery (personal matter so i won’t go into detail) so that is something i’ve been dealing with and helping him cope with. this week i’ve been celebrating my birthday in london despite all the shit that has been going on so again, i haven’t had my laptop or anything with me nor did i have any signal on my phone so again, i was unable to be reached upon discord & im. these next three weeks i will be busy packing up as i’m moving seven hours away from my home to live with my boyfriend but i’m gonna make it so i can get on here again because i miss everyone.

i WILL be answering discord & ims tonight & i will try and get to asks either today/tomorrow. i will also be sending some asks around to people myself because despite my absence i have been thinking of you all and missing you all a lot. unfortunately real life comes first and while it was never my intention to just disappear, i’ve been through a lot of heartbreak this past month and the last thing i wanted was to come online. at one point my computer wasn’t even switched on for an entire week. i miss hana, i miss writing and i miss creating stories with people. all i can do is apologise for me upping and leaving but i understand if people are upset and for that i am sorry. i hope everybody is doing well and have been taking care of themselves! i personally am beginning my healing process but i know it will take some time.

this all being said, i want to thank you for those who have continuously checked in despite me not answering ( i promise you now that i never intentionally ignored, i legitimately just haven’t been on ) but it genuinely means the world to me so truly, thank you from the bottom of my heart for showing your care, love and support. i’m also looking into going back to my tifa lockhart account as i miss her dearly. hana song will still be here and i will still be writing her, i just miss both the babies a lot! so if you wanted to follow/interact with her as well ( she isn’t quite revamped yet ) let me know and i will give you the url so when she is up and running once more we can interact!! all this being said, imma message people now!! i love you all so much & i can’t actually believe i haven’t lost any followers in my absence... i truly appreciate you all sticking around my potato-ness. you’re all gems!! 

[smrwine]

I’m sad that you won’t be continuing to post that one actor au fic you had😭 but I’m excited for any fic you’ll be posting in the future ! :)

Since you’re the sweetest anon I’ve had all day, here’s the whole 17k wip I abandoned.

Turbulence rocked the heavily polished walls of the too posh and too narrow jet. Glowing blue lights illuminated the landing strip outside of the window, as the black of the night drowned out any and all existence below them. Buildings stood only dimly lit from the late hour and not a single soul roamed through the veins of the city. They were flying somewhere above England. Somewhere right outside of London.

Home.

The same soil he grew up digging his fingers in and the rich scent of tea leaves nearly tickling his nose from all the way up in the clouds. Finally, home at last. Comfort and familiarity practically yanking him back down to earth.

“A car will be waiting for you to take you to your final appearance,” Jeff managed to inform through an exhausted, drawn out yawn. Twelve hours across the Atlantic was common in their line of work, yet never ceased to take its toll on the body, “It’s just some nightclub in London. I’ll make sure your shit gets back to your place and meet you out there, okay? Just be sure you're seen and you'll be free to go.”

Harry sighed in response. Rolling his eyes shut and crossing his arms over his Gucci covered chest.

It was quite easy to become irritated with someone he hasn't been separated from in ages. Someone who shoved him out of bed and out of the door, every single morning, for endless hours of promo, and shooting for his next film. Someone who dragged him across multiple continents, threw him to the wolves for their syndicated fabrications, and watched unflinchingly as he stumbled through vague, long winded answers. Someone who pushed him into one last public appearance while his bed was just within reach.

It was frustrating, and easy to place his sour mood on the one person running the show, but Harry understood it was all part of the process. Knew he owed Jeff a great debt for catapulting his acting career into the stratosphere. And as the sound of his voice clawed its way under Harry’s skin, he reminded himself of his surroundings. Overly luxurious private jet, stocked to the brim with champagne and a full staff ready and waiting to cater to his needs. Embroidered silk suit designed with his brand and measurements in mind, steamed to a wrinkleless fit, and fingers dripping in diamonds and gold.

He didn't have it in him to complain, opting to keep his mouth shut, and roll with all the minor punches that came his way.

His irritation would fade soon enough. Just the thought of being on holiday for months on in, without Jeff, or the ruthless training and stunting for multiple films at a time, had his body blossoming with ease. Acting was all he ever wanted to do. Was willing to die for the art form alone. But when given an opportunity for time off and pure rest, he wasn't going to pass it up.

The seat beneath him shook as the jets tires screeched against the runway. Wouldn't be long now before he could settle. Just a few more hours of mingling, and flashing lights, before Harry had time in his grasp. His eyes flickered open to peek over at Jeff. Thumbs tapping away at his mobile and brows slightly dipped in gloom. Yearning clearly written all over his face. He missed his lover. Was likely letting her know he landed and would arrive home late.

It often slipped Harry’s mind that everyone around him had lives and relationships of their own. All of them were so invested in advancing his career, there was hardly ever time to delve into the details of their personal lives. Harry also sort of forgot what it was like to have someone awaiting his arrival back home. Granted, his mum consistently counted down the days each time he was away, but couldn't recall what it was like having someone significant to sleepily tiptoe down his staircase and welcome him home with open arms. Someone to tug at his heartstrings and kiss him gently on the lips. Fill the empty spaces in his massive house with shimmering light and early morning laughter. Someone for him to miss. His career didn't allow it. Whether he was physically in front of the camera, or not, he was always working, always on the move, and that meant the same for the people surrounding him.

The fact alone formed a guilty lump in the pit of his stomach, and forced his features into a wince. Jeff was a bloody nuisance, but Harry had somewhat of a heart, “You can–um,” he cleared his throat after hours of no use and swallowed down the remorse that lingered there, “You can take the night off, yeah? Go see Glenne, get a head start on your holiday, whatever. I can handle one appearance on my own.”

“Don't be ridiculous—”

“No really,” he sat up and unbuckled himself from the seat, “I'll stay for a few hours and let the paps get their shot. It's nothing I haven't done before,” he shrugged and practically saw the cogs of consideration turning in Jeff’s head, “Besides, I’m sure you're sick of me anyway, and your brooding eyes aren't making it any easier on my conscious.”

Jeff remained silent for a bit. Flipping his mobile against his thigh and not breaking his stare for a moment. Harry sat back coolly in his seat, unmoving, and unblinking, as the jet slowly rolled to a stop. He had him. Could feel permission radiating off the posture of Jeff’s fidgety body.

“Alright, fine,” Jeff resigned as he unbuckled himself from his seat and began to gather his belongings, “But it’s only because I'm sick of you–like you said–” he scrambled to wrap his different cords around his multiple electronics and nearly tripped over himself a dozen times, “I'll uh–I'll need updates—”

“Mate, relax, Glenne isn't going anywhere, yeah?”

“Fuck you.” Jeff mumbled under his breath as Harry let out his first genuine laugh in over twelve hours.

“I don't think I've ever seen you move with such a purpose. I'll be expecting this sort of urgency from now on.”

Jeff shouldered his carryon and paused all frantic movements for a second, “I mean it,” his voice dipped into something more serious as he pointed a finger, “Keep me updated.”

“As if you’d read them, anyway,” Harry stood to his full height, ignoring the stern look on Jeff’s face, and smoothing out the suit against his body, “Y’should probably get going, then.”

“I'll see you when you're ready to start working again. Maybe even before then. Know you can't keep still for too long.” he reached up to pat Harry’s cheek twice before turning away and throwing a wave over his shoulder, “See you, H.”

“See you.”

Harry watched as Jeff shouldered his way off the jet and out onto the brightly lit staircase just outside. He was right. Harry didn't like to keep still. Grew fond of having a busy lifestyle and always having a project to work on. It would be there for him when he was ready, however. Multiple scripts to be read over and dozens of campaigns to be the face of. He would miss it. But for the sake of his health, he needed the time off.

Ahh, shit. Fuck. One last appearance. It was going to be strange to not have someone to guide him through the night. To not hear the nagging tone of Jeff’s voice in his ear every time he so much as turned the corner. It wouldn't be too hard. Shouldn’t be. It was just a routine he'd grown accustomed to.

Just a few more hours, he thought to himself. Just a few more hours until he could rest without a deadline. Without being ripped from his sleep and worked to the bone.

He could do this. He could.

--

I want romance

Harry drunkenly sent off to Jeff as he stumbled up the slick concrete of his front steps. It was too quiet in Oxfordshire. Too chilly for spring and too starless for the countryside. His house was too big, and too secluded, and Harry was too pissed to not feel the effects of isolation. He was so bloody lonely and needed to vent to someone. Jeff asked him for updates anyway, what's one that was slightly more personal than the others?

The tail end of his silk jacket caught in the door as he slammed it behind him. Fucking useless piece of fabric. No purpose for it being so long. Harry slipped his body from the arm holes, not bothering to pull it from the door, and unsteadily began to climb up the stairs one step at a time. Tripping over his clunky boots, catching himself by his ring covered hands, and pushing his way upward. When did his staircase become so bloody high? When did he become so incredibly unbalanced and so regrettably sloshed? Must have been the last few drips of sparkling liquid that did him in. Material practically flew off his body as he tugged, unbuttoned, and unzipped his way down the hallway, and messily fumbled his way into the bedroom.

Okay? I can’t give you that.

Read Jeff's reply. Wanker. Always so insensitive to Harry’s needs. The floor beneath him disappeared as his body flopped down against his bed. Sheets so soft. Mattress practically cuddling him back.

Is everything alright?

Jeff's second reply came just as Harry’s head buried into the pillow.

No. Everything wasn't alright. Champagne remnants lingered on his tired tongue, tasting of sour grapes, and attempts at drowning out loneliness. Empty bedroom around him kaleidoscoping as he tossed between the sheets, legs tangling in fabric, and chest heaving in frustration. Body warm, sticky, and longing, and not a soul to press it up against. Everything was not alright. Everything was spinning and spiraling and the pissed part of his brain had him fully convinced he was going to be ill.

Peachy. xx

Harry sent off as he tossed his phone to the ground. Shit was entirely uncool. Couldn't bare the thought of explaining his heartache when he had it so fucking good. Wouldn't dare let this vulnerable side sliver its way into the public eye let alone someone who worked for him.

Sleep. The coherent part of his brain whispered seductively as the cushion of his bed wrapped it's warmth around him and consumed him wholly. Sleep would be a quick fix. Shutting his eyes and waking up on the right side of the bed in the morning. Hopefully. Time was all he had now and it was thankfully all he'd need.

--

2

It’s nine in the evening, at the end of February. Humidity fogging the glass windows of the building and hazy moonlight reflecting gently against the London rain. Harry’s just sat down for a late meal. Not even hungry, really. Just tired of sitting around his house, answering emails, and falling asleep to the absence of white noise. He hadn’t been out in ages. Only leaving his house to keep his body fit and quickly returning to his reclusive ways. It was only fitting that his first night out was alone, cold, and dreary. Thankfully, he has yet to be approached by anyone other than his waitress. Hat tipped low and gaze pointed downward, he has so far avoided the heated stare of curious eyes.

Red wine settled bitterly on his tongue as he found more interest in swirling the glass around rather than enjoying the food in front of him. Jesus, he hoped nobody has recognized him yet. Who is Harry Styles without a model clinging to his arm, or an elite entourage talking over him, basking in their prominence, and flashing their white teeth for the meddling cameras? Being recognized in a sight this sore would surely put a damper on his cool factor. Not that Harry gave a shit, it’s just, the same couldn’t be said for Jeff and the team that worked tirelessly on his public persona.

“Would you like to take a look at our dessert menu, Mr. Styles?”

Harry cringed at the sound of his surname being spoke into existence. If people around him were wondering, and listening close enough, all of their speculations were clearly confirmed.

“No thank you, darling.” Harry looked up from under his hat, pasting on a closed lipped smile, and charmingly flaunting his dimples, “I do fancy the cheque, however. Whenever you get the chance.”

The apples of her cheeks flamed red as she visibly shivered at his words.

Christ. Jeff really did a number on the general public. Easily convincing them Harry Styles was someone to fawn over and be in awe of. Hell, even he was partially convinced he was something special half of the time. If only everyone knew how great of a hermit he actually was.

“Of course, Mr. Styles. I’ll be just a moment.”

The sharply dressed waitress bowed and went on her way as Harry took one last sip, and swallowed down the burgundy liquid.

A quick flash of blue caught his eye from outside the window. A lovely sight choosing that moment to grace Harry’s eyes with magnificence. Sheer material clinging to a nearly soaked through body, a mess of fringe dripping with rainwater, and delicate hands swiping pesky droplets from his face. Fucking hell. This man was otherworldly. Pretty. Flawless. Stunning. Unparalleled in all terms of beauty. Shivering body finding shelter under the coverage of Harry’s window, bottom lip bitten cherry red, and fingers shakily tugging his mobile from his obscenely tight trousers. Bloody gorgeous and dripping wet, and so incredibly tempting. Harry couldn’t recall the last time he was so easily taken by another man’s looks alone.

For a second, he let himself ponder over what would happen if the man on the other side of the glass would look in and see him. Would he recognize Harry with his infamous bedroom eyes, and distinguishable tattoos hidden away? Would he blush at the sight of Harry admiring every curve and slope of his perfect body? Would he cringe at the contrived person he believed Harry to be? Did he even know who Harry was at all?

“Here you are, Mr. Styles.” A kind voice forcefully ripped Harry from his thoughts. “It was a pleasure serving you this evening. Enjoy the rest of your night.”

Harry’s eyes flickered to hers as she bravely shot him a wink and pushed the bill across the table. A pang of guilt settled heavily in his stomach as she stepped away. He hoped there was nothing he said that insinuated he was even slightly interested in her. He most certainly wasn’t and he didn’t recall making it seem that way. She was probably just being polite, Harry reasoned. Or cheeky.

Blue material caught his eye once more and he slightly turned to peek between the raindrops of the window.

Smile nearly reached those beautiful eyes as a significantly older man pulled him in by the waist, and kissed his temple gently. Unreasonable jealousy coursed through Harry’s veins as the pair cuddled in close, and entered the doors of the establishment.

It took a special type of prick to leave their date alone and waiting in the pouring rain, and this one has yet to offer up his coat, or even attempt to dry his partner off. Bastard. It was already fairly clear to Harry that the dripping lad deserved better. Given the chance, Harry would run over and drape the coat off his back over his shivering shoulders. Maybe even introduce himself and sweet talk his way into a conversation.

But that was just his luck, wasn’t it? First person he’s been instantly attracted to since his acting hiatus started – the one time his schedule would allow for him to get to know another human being – and said human was already spoken for by some undeserving sod.

Sounded about right. Harry was destined for a life of loneliness and film.

A quiet giggle fell from the man’s pretty lips as their host led them in the direction of a secluded table. Not-so-innocent blue eyes flashed towards Harry’s green ones and a spark of arousal ignited through Harry’s body. The man’s neatly curved brows raised in interest as he bit down against a slightly bashful smile, and slowly stepped in the direction of Harry. Possessive hands curled their way around his shapely hips and tugged his younger body alongside the older one. Harry smirked as the older lad’s expression was sourly plastered across his face. The pair knew exactly who Harry was, then. Younger lad was likely a fan judging by the tight grip on his hips alone.

Harry was smug for all but a second, when an unmistakably selfish kiss was stolen right in front of him, and the couple continued on towards the back of the dining room. Goodness, Harry desperately wished that were him. No matter how inflated his ego grew as the other lad blatantly checked him out, he was going home alone tonight, and would wake up alone in the morning.

It stung. Fucking pained him to not know the feeling of mutual devotion.

Acting was the only real commitment Harry knew. And from the time it took him to stand from his table, pay, and push out the door, he decided this hiatus was over. Three months of being stagnant was no longer appealing, he couldn’t go on for a full year of this. If he was going to be lonely anyway, he might as well be surrounded by other people while being so.

--

“I'm ready to get back into it, Jeffrey.” Harry calmly spoke through the phone as he laid his body out against his sofa. There was a niggling feeling in the pit of his stomach that knew Jeff wouldn't take too kindly to the news, or the fact that he called him at nearly three in the morning, so he figured he'd make himself comfortable for the inevitable grilling.

“Harry–” Jeff cut off with a muffled sigh as Harry winced at his exhausted tone, “It’s only been a few months. You were supposed to take the rest of the year off at least—”

“I'm aware of that, but I'm ready to jump back in. Sitting around all day just hasn't been cutting it for me.”

“Well, it's not just about you not working all day, Harry, it's about not over exposing yourself. Not exhausting the public of your projects. You've been off for three months and I still see your face plastered everywhere. Coming back now could be potentially damaging.”

Harry rolled his eyes shut and threw his head back against the cushion. Of course Jeff had to put it in simple terms, making the issue too easy to understand, and sounding every bit as professional as he dumbed down the magnitude of what Harry coming back could do to his career. He was right, and Harry knew that, but that didn't mean he had to like it, or agree to it.

“I just want something to work on. It doesn't have to be a massive role or campaign. I'm just tired of doing nothing.”

“That's the point of your hiatus, Harry.” Jeff spoke stern yet soft, “You're supposed to be doing nothing. You should be half way across the world by now, on some beach somewhere, soaking up the sun. This is about you as well, and your physical and mental health. We talked about exhausting yourself and how you should use this opportunity to relax, and do all the things you don't normally have the time to do.”

Fucking hell. He hated feeling like he was being spoken to like a child. Hated that Jeff was always so fucking right no matter which way he spun it. God. Harry should have just went off and started a project on his own. He would have happily dealt with the consequences versus being told time off is the better choice for him. He couldn't help that he was stubborn and loved what he did.

“Go visit your family, see your childhood friends, get involved with your local charities, but seriously, H—give it until at least summertime.”

Harry perked up at the sound of his words, “Summer time, you say? So – what – only three months from now, and I can get involved in something?”

“I'll make you a deal,” Jeff paused to consider his words and Harry sat up a bit straighter at the proposition, “If you can sit still for the next six weeks, I'll send over all the scripts I've collected for your comeback. You can read over them all, take as long as you need, choose whichever role you want to jump into, whatever. But you have to promise me relaxation until summer, in return. Sleep late and lounge in the sand, or your bed, wherever, I don't give a shit. Pick up a new hobby—whatever you have to do. Just don’t call me about work for another six weeks unless you're coming to visit Glenne or me. Sound fair?”

Fuck. It was tempting, yes. Jeff knew waving around the promise of brand new scripts would sway Harry a certain way. But summer was seemingly so far from now. Frost still lightly dusted the tips of his garden every morning. What was he supposed to do until the beaming sun melted all of that away? Harry supposed he could bother his trainer for some time. Maybe take up boxing lessons like he's always wanted to. See his Mum. Visit his sister in America. Something. Anything. Just get out of the house for once to speed up the process. He didn't have much of a choice anyway.

“You there?” Jeff spoke through the extended silence.

“Yeah, I'm here,” Harry sighed and rubbed a hand over his face, “Throw in some Oscar worthy roles and I'll make it seven weeks of silence.” he added sarcastically

“Shut up, Harry. You know I always have your best interests in mind.”

“I want that validation, Jeffery. I'm only getting older.”

Harry choked down a laugh as he could practically picture the exaggerated roll of Jeff's eyes. It was always humorous to play into the image that was carefully constructed for him. Vanity and fame meant nothing to Harry, but for some reason, the opposite illusion worked for the headlines, and his brand, and the public didn't really think anything of it. As long as Harry and those close to him knew who he truly was, he didn't mind dabbling in the persona every once and awhile.

“You're a pain in the ass,” Jeff snipped, American tone bleeding through the line, “But you've got yourself a deal. Seven weeks.”

“Alright, sounds good. Don't miss the sound of my voice too—”

The line went dead before Harry could get his last word out. Prick. He'd have to get him back for that later.

As the clock wound down closer to morning than midnight, Harry figured he should drag his body up the stairs, and into his bed. Oxfordshire was quiet this evening and he honestly wouldn't expect it to be any other way.

Seven more weeks of staying still. He could do this.

--

3

Summer beams warmed the ever growing back garden of Harry’s estate. Pool side looking every bit as tempting as the brunch gone cold in front of him, but three heavy stacks of printed dialogue kept him rooted to his seat. Jeff was meant to meet him here to discuss his future roles and which would be wisest for the longevity of his career. He was late, however. By nearly half an hour. Doubt was beginning to nip at Harry’s heels. Nerves and uncertainty tugging ruthlessly at the back of his mind.

Harry narrowed down dozens of choices to three.

All action packed. All roles where he's able to show off his stunting ability. Characters that do little to show his vulnerability and further convince the public he was as cool as he was on screen.

Every last one of these scripts were layered with brilliance. Yet, Harry couldn't help but feel they weren't right for him. Something was off and he couldn't quite reason why.

"I know, I know, I'm a dick!" Jeff exclaimed through winded breath as he clamoured through Harry’s back garden. Both of his hands raised in defense, one clenched to a script, and the other to his mobile. He's only twenty-five minutes late. Harry couldn't imagine what could've kept him so held up.

“You know, if it were me that was half an hour late, I would've never heard the end of it. Probably would've woken up to some publication slandering my punctuality on behalf of you.”

“As long as it's a credible publication.” Jeff made himself comfortable in the seat in front of Harry, plucking a strawberry from a bowl of fruit, and pushing the plates of brunch to the side. “Another meeting had me held up, sorry. Grabbed something on the way. Appreciate the effort though.”

Harry pushed aside the food in front of him as well. Stomach too full of tension for there to be room for anything else.

“S’alright. Should we just get to it, then?” Harry mumbled through bitten lips.

“Sure, what are your options?”

The midday sun warmed the back of Harry’s neck as he struggled through pitching the scripts in front of him. Slight breeze doing its best to soothe Harry’s tongue tied words, and tense shoulders, but ultimately failing in the end. The more he stumbled over himself, the more sweat began to collect at his temples, and every crevice of his body.

Fuck. He was usually so sure of what he wanted. Uncertainty gnawed at the corner of his words making it nearly impossible to articulate why he narrowed his choices down to these three alone. He wished he could get a fucking grip and swallow down whatever type of nervousness was rising to his throat like bile.

Jeff sat mostly wordless. Only speaking up to question Harry at the peak of his reasoning and sit back to watch him fumble once again. Jeff had to know Harry couldn't quite come up with a solid decision on his own. Was watching him drown in his own explanations as if he had something waiting behind his knowing stare. Something Harry’s choices couldn't match.

“Sounds like you've given this a lot of thought.” Jeff bit down a laugh and dodged a grape aimed straight for his head.

“Fuck you.” Harry threw his shoulders back against his seat, letting his skin bake under the balmy sun, and allowing his nerves to dissipate with the summer heat. Such a lovely day spent worrying rather than indulging. “You've yet to offer up any solid options, or advice, what am I paying you for?”

“Here's what you're paying me for.” Jeff slid over the script he'd been clenching to. Not as thick as the others but still held close to his chest like the print itself was scrawled in gold. “I know you're not going to like this but hear me out—”

Ardor, the title read in bold font. A script Harry briefly skimmed over before tossing it to the side.

A son of a farmer, living in the hills of Oxfordshire, disregarding the path set out for him since birth, and trading it in for rehearsals and stage lights. The character lets his life’s passion wholly consume him, leaving his family and relationships behind, and living out his dreams with only a pocket full of change. A hopeful yet devastating role when the main character severs these ties only to be faced with the harsh realities of Hollywood.

Just a bit too close to home for Harry’s taste. If Jeff read past the first few lines alone, he'd know this amount of vulnerability wasn't something Harry was too keen on.

“You and this film need each other.” Jeff leaned over to tap his fingers against the script rapidly. “This is what kept me held back from meeting you on time. This is going to be the turning point in your career, Harry.”

Harry eyed him warily. He's worked alongside Jeff for nearly seven years and has never heard his voice r each such assuredness. There was more to what he was saying, surely, and the knowing look in Jeff’s eyes left Harry curious. He was a bit hesitant to dig for more, seeing as Jeff prefaced everything with Harry not liking it, but his desire for the unknown was too intense, and he was eager to hear more.

“What makes you say that?” he questioned calmly from his sitting position, one leg crossed over the other, and forefinger stroking his prickly chin.

“Low budget film needs a recognizable name, said actor with recognizable name needs a vulnerable, artistic, role to set him apart from not only his contenders, but himself.” Jeff paused to let his words sink in. “Your last four films have had the same explosive storylines, H. It gets boring after a while and you start to lose your credibility as an artist.”

Harry recoiled at his words. Fear of repetition setting his skin aflame, and beads of sweat slowly extinguishing the burn. Jeff’s words stung. But he wasn't wrong.

“This role has depth, and art, and it's heartbreaking, and full of hope, it'll highlight your skills in a way that fighting crime and jumping off burning buildings won’t.”

“Excuse me,” Harry interrupted only slightly appalled. “It took enough bloody skill to jump from a burning building, Jeffery.”

“I know, I know, that's not what I'm saying at all.” Jeff sighed frustratedly as he sat up properly and puffed out his chest, “This role is special, yes. However, it's going to be overlooked like most art films if there's not a proper lead demanding the attention of not only the audience, but the academy. You've worked hard for all the recognition you've received, yeah? I think it's time you've earned yourself a nomination. I know you have the talent to turn this role into something memorable, and the producers over there want you, Harry. It's all we spoke about earlier, they're willing to renegotiate contracts, and start filming within the next two weeks if you agree to it. You have the power here.”

Harry’s stomach knotted in clusters. Weight of decisions and responsibility nearly bringing him to his knees. He didn't feel too powerful in the moment.

Jeff might have been onto something, though. Was making far too much sense to not be right. Harry did need this film and the production needed him. The storyline would shine a spotlight on his talents in new and undiscovered ways, and his name attached to the role alone, would raise interest, and allow the production to profit. All sides would win. Renegotiating contracts would be a pain to everyone involved, but Jeff and his trusted team always had a way with sorting everything out.

Something about this felt right. Felt like this was the next step Harry so desperately needed to take. Bring his career back to its roots and fall in love with the artistry all over again. It's just—. It's been so long since he's played a character so...normal.

“I know you're unsure about this but let me remind you how expected the other three roles are. Even you saw them coming and you couldn't even sell them to yourself.”

Fuck Jeff. He was a right prick, but right nonetheless.

“So—” Harry paused to chew against the inside of his cheek and consider his next questions carefully. “If I agree to this right now, we’ll be able to get things moving pretty quickly, yeah? I can come out of hiding and get back to work?”

“It'll take some convincing and a few favours, but yes. Absolutely.”

Jeff stared back at him unflinchingly and full of confidence. Never has he steered Harry wrong or led him to believe something was good for him when it wasn't. Jeff had all the strings in the industry to pull and he could definitely make this happen for him. The decision was practically as clear as the day above him.

“Give me a full day to get into character and I'll let you know by morning.”

“Great, I've already put us on the next flight to LA.”

“You what?!” Harry jerked forward in his seat as Jeff fiddled with his mobile.

“What? Twelve or so hours is enough time to feel out the character right?” he smirked without taking his eyes off the screen. “Most of the filming will be done just up the road, but deals have to be made in LA. You know this.”

Harry rolled his eyes and grabbed for the script. “I know you're a pain in my arse that's for sure.”

Jeff ignored him in favour of typing away at his mobile. Harry stood from the table and walked through his garden on bare feet, sun warming the earth below him. Finally. After months of moping around and lusting for his rightful place in front of a camera, it was finally happening. And so quickly. The script weighed heavy in his hands as the summer breeze flicked through the pages with interest. Small smile creeping up on him as his eyes caught glimpses of dialogue.

“Don’t wander off,” Jeff yelled from his spot at the table. “We have about two hours ‘til we need to leave!”

Harry threw a vague vulgar gesture over his shoulder and continued on his path through the garden.

This felt right. He finally felt sure. As if there was  something special waiting on the other end of this role. Harry couldn't quite shake the adrenalized tremble in his bones, and quite frankly, he had no desire to.

--

4

Even when silent from slumber, London welcomed Harry with pink skies, and the feeling of optimism. High-rise buildings passed in a blur as he carefully sipped at his light roast blend, and let the steam from the caffeinated beverage render his exhaustion. Jeff sat alongside him. Business emails and phone calls already taking priority at the early hour. Fittings for Ardor were scheduled for the day. Dozens of different costumes to be tailored to his body and the first real opportunity to properly introduce this character to himself.

The studio appeared to his right as the vehicle rolled to a stop. Harry stumbled from the car door as gracefully as he could manage and did his best to follow behind Jeff’s ambitious strides. The first floor seemed quiet. Lobby vacant of visitors and a receptionist only offering a polite nod. The elevator ride up was smooth. Dragged on for far longer than expected and led them both into the belly of chaos.

Multiple clothing racks and rolling steamers pushed vehemently across the floor by employees and interns alike. Voices shouting over voices and  sketches tacked against the walls by the dozens. A room stocked the the brim with seemingly unsystematic energy and a thriving sense of proficiency. Harry felt a bit of motion sickness just standing there.

“There's the man with all the power!” a voice broke through the madness and seemed to stop everything in its tracks.

Wandering eyes shifted over to Harry. Some awed, some impressed, some completely indifferent to him as a whole. Awkwardly, he lifted a hand, and let a tight lipped smiled slip onto his face.

“Well don't just stand there darling, we have loads of work to do.” A silver-haired woman surrounded by prestigiously dressed employees, and a child clinging to her leg, broke through the silence again. “That goes for everyone, yeah? Back to work.”

Harry sought out Jeff for answers, but was only met with the back of his head as he moved to greet the woman.

“Lou, it's good to see you again.” Jeff greeted her with a kiss on the cheek. “Harry this is Lou Teasdale, costume designer. Lou, this is my client, Harry Styles.”

Harry slightly bowed before taking her hand and shaking firmly. Her grip was loose. Something that immediately rubbed Harry the wrong way.

“So you're the lad responsible for all the madness?” she said with a smile, yet her words had a bit of a bite to them. Harry had no idea what she was on about either.

Best to just roll with it then.

“That would be me.” he easily flashed his dimples and subtly bat his lashes. “It's a pleasure meeting you, Lou. I'm looking forward to working with you.”

She eyed him for a moment. Arms crossed over her chest and and mouth pursed in consideration. It was a bit nerve wracking. He couldn't help but continue to smile convincingly in the madness around him. He felt the eyes of who he assumed was her daughter staring up at him, big, curious, and full of wonder. He offered up a small wave, which sent the child running behind her legs. Oops.

“At least he’s charming.” She hitched the girl up on her hip and grabbed him by the arm. “Come along, then.”

Lou began to walk him, and her entourage, towards a room in the back. Harry desperately looked over his shoulder. Pleading eyes meeting Jeff’s and Jeff’s offering up absolutely no emotion. Harry couldn't help but wonder if he was the only one that noticed everyone was a bit cold. Not rude, per se. Just not warming up to him as quickly as he's used to.

“Louis, babe, your assistance is needed.”

Harry turned to look into the room. Sight instantly drawn to a man sat by himself near the window. Nose submerged in a book and pencil sketching designs in the margin. His brown hair disheveled without messy product and sleepless circles thinly bruising beneath his eyes. He was lovely. Skin the shade of marmalade and lips appearing just as sweet.

Fuck, Harry was so single.

“If you'll take his measurements and help him dress, yeah? Just pin any adjustments and write down everything else – we’ll get to tailoring later – I just need to speak with his manager for a bit.”

Louis stood from his seat, giving Harry a quick once over, and noticeably flushing at the sight. Harry didn't mean to smirk, but as soon as the corners of his mouth lifted, Louis’ mood seemed to shift.

“Sure, Lou. Should be finished with him soon.”

Lou nodded as she led Jeff out of the room, quietly discussing business, and entourage obediently following behind. Harry stepped passed the doorway, shutting it behind him, and placing himself in the middle of the room. Louis moved with such elegance. Effortlessly making a dance out of pulling clothing racks across the floor. Harry couldn't take his eyes off him even as Louis’ paid him no mind.

Tongue tied even in his brain, Harry struggled to come up with a line worthy enough for introductions.

“This process will go a bit quicker if you undress—” Louis looked up at him with brilliant eyes. He was so gorgeous. “You know, instead of just standing there.”

Harry chuckled under his breath. Lips curling into a smile as Louis flicked to a fresh page in his journal, and unwound a tape measure from his neck.

“Should probably get to know me a bit better, yeah? At least be on a first name basis before you see the goods.”

Louis rolled his eyes with a shake of his head. Clearly irritated and not at all amused with Harry’s flirting. Without a word, he crossed his arms over his chest, impatiently tapping his foot, and waiting for Harry to get on with it. A zing of chills traveled down Harry’s spine as Louis’ relentless stare bored into him.

“M’Harry,” he softly introduced as he unbuttoned his blouse and let it slide off his shoulders. “And you are?”

“Your costume standby.” tape measure circled around Harry’s neck as Louis removed it and penciled in a measurement, “No need to patronize me while we’re here. The sooner we get this done, the better.”

Harry's brows creased as he watched Louis take measurements in the mirror. Jesus. What was in the air today? Seemed like everyone had a chip on their shoulder.

“I wasn't patronizing you.” he spoke earnestly ”Just wanted your name is all.”

“Lift.” Louis instructed. Harry raised his arms slightly, allowing Louis to wrap the tape up around his chest, and back down to his waist. He moved with such precision and attentiveness. Scribbling in measurements and working around Harry’s body with ease. It took everything within Harry not to shiver at his touch. “Remove your trousers for me, please.”

Harry watched as Louis grabbed his blouse from the floor, and hung it carefully on a separate rack. So delicate with everything. Even in the way he handled clothing. Harry was quite possibly smitten.

He slipped out of his boots and took his trousers along with him. Louis quickly grabbing for both and storing them away properly.

“So if you're my costume standby, that means we’ll be working together daily, yes?” Harry questioned as Louis squat to the ground in front of him.

“Correct.” Louis replied dryly. Hands moving to Harry's thighs and tape wrapping snugly around them.

Harry averted his vision to the ceiling. It had been far too long since he had a pretty boy on his knees for him, especially one this pretty. The visuals were stunning, but now was clearly not the appropriate time.

“We should probably try to get along then, yeah? Should at least be able to address each other by name? Maybe even become mates, or summat?”

“I have enough mates as I'm sure you do too.”

“I'm quite lonely, actually.” Harry admitted as he looked down to find Louis measuring his inseam. Christ. “I could–I could use a friend, you know? Someone who's nice. You seem nice enough. But I'll need your name to be friends, yeah? I think it’s only fair—”

“Are you normally this chatty during fittings?” his voice was humorless and his eyes were focused on the journal in front of him.

“No, not normally.” Harry smiled as Louis rose to his full height and gave him a second of his attention. “You're just special, I guess.”

Louis’ face twisted in discomfort as he shut his book of measurements and grabbed for the costume closest to him. Harry was fighting a losing battle and he knew it. He just couldn't help himself.

“Are you not charmed?” Harry asked with a slight quirk of the lips.

Louis wordlessly began to dress his upper body, carefully buttoning up a crisp collared shirt, and rubbing out the wrinkles across his shoulders. The material fit nicely and having Louis’ delicate hands feeling out the fabric had him nearly trembling.

“Not everyone is going to fall for the Harry Styles charm.” Louis replied dryly. Not even looking up to address him.

“I've noticed,” Harry followed Louis’ movements in the mirror as he went to select a pair of trousers from the rack. “No one here has taken a liking to me it seems.”

“Hm, I can't imagine why.” his words were laced with sarcasm and scoff. “Will you step into these trousers for me, please?”

Harry took the clothing from Louis’ hold with pinched brows, “What aren't you telling me, Louis?”

Mmm. His name felt good against Harry’s lips.

“How d’you know my name?” Louis bit with equally pinched brows.

“Answer my question first.”

“Don't be a child! Tell me how you know my name.”

“Lou addressed you when we walked in here together.” he raised his hands in defense. “I paid attention because you're gorgeous.”

Louis eyed him. Disgust clear in his stare.

“You might want to cut that out, yeah? Only does more damage around here.”

“What do you mean?”

“Attempting to charm the people beneath you as you use them as a stepping stool.”

Louis reached for the trousers in Harry’s hold, assumedly to dress Harry through the awkwardness, but Harry resisted, and looked louis in the eye.

“What do you mean by that? I've done nothing to use anyone as a stepping—”

“Nothing? You think you've done nothing?” Louis placed his hands on his hips with a look of disbelief. “Nothing at all?”

“No, I haven't.” Harry defended only slightly peeved. “I've been holed up for months. I didn't even know you existed before today.”

“Well, at least you've got that part right, darling.” Louis smiled a cunning smile, but it was breathtaking nonetheless. “You didn't know I, or any of us, existed, and surely you had no idea of our plans and ideas for the costumes in this film.”

“I can't be at fault for that—”

“No, of course not. We both agree on that.” Louis stepped up to him slowly. Leaving their bodies only a breath apart, and winding his measuring tape back around Harry’s hips. “Tell me what you think happens when production gets rolling weeks before scheduled?”

Harry swallowed thickly as he followed the movement of Louis’ tongue licking his lips. It was hard to come up with cohesive thoughts when Louis was clearly setting him up for a grilling, but continued to press their bodies together.

“Um–madness, I would assume. Sort of like what I walked in on this morning.”

“Mhmm.” Louis looked up from under his endless lashes and dragged the measuring up against Harry’s skin. It was fucking maddening. Harry couldn't resist clutching to the fabric of Louis’ hips. “And when someone like me assumes they have weeks to submit their designs to Lou Teasdale, because she's given them an incredible opportunity, and that opportunity is suddenly ripped from beneath them, how do you think that person feels about the man holding the rug?”

“Um, fuck—” Harry went breathless as the front of his pants slightly dragged against Louis’ trousers. It had been far too long since he's had intimacy and Louis seemed to catch onto that rather quickly. Any slight touch to Harry’s cock was bound to get him off. “I would–I would imagine there would be some resentment, yeah? Some–fuck–um...bitterness? Wouldn't know, though. Haven't been in that position for years. I would assume by your attitude I'm not too far off.”

“Mhmm. You're a smart one aren't you?” Louis dropped the measuring tape from around Harry’s waist and brought his hands to fit around Harry’s biceps. God, their bodies were so bloody close. “I guess that's why you chose this role in the first place, innit? A smart choice, hm? A low budget role where you get to voice your demands, maybe even snag an Oscar nom, and that skeevy manager of yours makes it all happen with favours, and promises, and your name in the credits. It's smart for you, of course. Your career will flourish, darling.” he gently trailed his fingers up Harry's chest softly rubbing at the skin, and moving to thread his fingers through Harry’s short hair, “But the rest of us are caught under your shoe and sleepless from making this production possible. You'd do best to drop the charming act, when we both know how easily you’d use us again for your own gain.”

Louis gave his scalp a sharp tug, forcing a gasp out of Harry, before he stepped back and shoved his journal into Harry’s chest. He looked hurt and above all angry.

“Well m’sorry for what it looks like, babe. But the producers wanted me just as much as I wanted this role.” he reached out and gently cupped the side of Louis’ face, “You needed me as well, huh? Who else's body would you have designed for had Lou not given you my name?”

“You weren't even considered for the bloody role by then.” he shoved away Harry’s hand with rage, “All of my sketches are of clothing because auditions hadn't even been held yet. Because the role hadn't been handed to you yet. While I was out there trying to make something of myself, you destroyed the one opportunity I earned, because you couldn't go too long without your name in the headlines.”

Harry stood mildly shocked. No one has ever spoken to him this way. With such vivid disdain and devastatingly betrayed eyes. Harry felt a pang of guilt in his chest. Everyone always immediately adored Harry. Loved working with him and always greeted him with a smile on their face. Going from that to this was not a transition he'd like to get used to.

“Louis–I'm–Had I known you were—”

“S’too late for that now, Harry. We both know nothing can be undone.”

Louis smoothed out the wrinkles of his clothing as he draped his measuring tape over Harry’s shoulders, and moved to walk out of the room.

“Wait–where are you going?” Harry was stood in a button up and pants, clutching to only Louis’ journal, and praying his slightly hard cock wasn't visible. Totally inappropriate. Now more than ever.

“I'll be back to stroke your ego soon, don't worry, Hollywood.” he smirked as his dainty fingers curled around the door knob. “Just need a bit more coffee to get myself through it.”

Fuck. He was gorgeous even when he was leaving Harry half hard and remorseful. His cock had seemingly never known arousal before Louis entered his life.

The door slammed behind him as Louis exited the room.

Fuck. It was all quite strange. Louis easily ripped him to shreds yet Harry was still weirdly turned on. And Louis did it all to him with a radiant smile on his face.

Jesus, Harry would love to figure him out.

Guilt and shame pricked at Harry’s skin as Louis’ journal weighed heavy in his hands. He flicked through the pages carefully. Most sketches were left incomplete, but others were finished, and brilliant. His vision for this film and this character was so clear in the strokes of his pen alone. He was obviously talented and Harry could tell this opportunity meant the world to him. It must have been painful for Louis to dress him in costumes that weren't his own, knowing they could have been.

“Fuck.” Harry mumbled under his breath as he discreetly adjusted himself.

It was quite a shitty feeling. Harry didn’t intend to use anyone as his stepping stool, but there was absolutely no denying what he did. Or what it looked like he did. Harry clutched the journal shut and glanced up at his reflection. Ugh. What a poor sight. Guilt didn't look good on him at all.

Louis didn't seem like the type to forgive easily. But that was no matter. Harry always fancied himself a challenge, and he wouldn't stop until all was well between them.

He could only hope Louis was as willing to give him that chance.

--

5

First few hours on set stretched on as expected. Table read occupied most of the adrenaline induced morning, forcing Harry to jitter and squirm silently in his seat. Buzz underneath his skin ate away at the pit of nerves in his stomach and his stuttering tongue relaxed line by line. He couldn't wait to get in front of a camera and bring Ardor to life.

Costume standby was awaiting his arrival at his trailer and Harry knew that meant Louis. Last week’s dress rehearsals went colourless without his boundless enticement and intoxicating allure. He didn't appear to be anywhere near the table read through either. Harry searched for him in every corner of the set. From the amorphous labyrinth of trailers, to the posh garden of the estate they were filming at, it was hopeless. Not a single body moved as graceful. Not a single smile had Harry weak in the knees. The entirety of the run through left Harry longing for just a glimpse of his perfect face and clever tongue.

It wasn't a secret to Harry, or anyone, that Louis couldn't stand him, but there was still an overwhelming need for Harry to impress him. To convince him he was wrong about Harry Styles and that Harry - himself - was actually someone he could warm up to. And Harry might've had a way to make that possible.

“Harry!” Jeff called from somewhere behind him. Nasally Californian accent even more prominent in the British setting.

Christ. It truly seemed like he couldn't go more than a minute without Jeff hovering over his bloody shoulder. Harry kept his pace. Walking with his head held high and smirking at the sound of Jeff’s labored breaths catching up with him.

“Hey, you dick,” a hand smacked against his back as Jeff caught up to his side. “I've been trying to find you—you hightailed it out of the reading. Everything good?”

Harry shrugged with a lingering smile, “I'm eager to get started, I dunno.”

“Yeah, sure.” he scoffed, “You're eager to see that Louis guy. I have no idea how you land all these roles when you're such a shit actor.”

Harry stopped in his tracks, placing one hand upon his hip, and shielding his eyes with the other. Jeff seemed all too pleased with his previous remark. Shit eating grin plastered across his face.

“Was there something you needed, Jeffery?”

“Oh. Nah, not really.” Jeff shrugged. “Just wanted to wish my favourite client good luck since I'll be off set for a few weeks.”

“I believe the proper phrase is break a leg, but thanks.”

“Break a leg then.” Jeff pat him on the shoulder and began to move away, “I'll check in every now and then. Don't forget about your proposition to Louis, yeah? Took hours of convincing. I worked hard on that one.”

“Don't worry, mate, I haven't, and I was on my way before you so pointlessly interrupted me.” Harry laughed as Jeff responded with a roll of his eyes, and a turn of his heel. Quite sensitive lad. “I’ll see you, Jeff! Thanks for everything!”

Harry was waved off with a middle finger. Oh well. Jeff would be fine eventually. A small smile grew into Harry’s cheeks as he set back off towards his trailer. The thought of seeing Louis crept back into his mind and his stomach churned with a nervousness he hadn't felt in ages.

The sun beamed as the butterflies fluttered aimlessly. Minimal clouds shaded the walkway as a summer breeze gently carried him on towards his destination. Harry felt lighter with each step closer to the boy, and excitement bubbled through his veins at the mere thought of spending time alone with him. It didn't go too well the last time around, but Harry was confident he would be able to sweep Louis off his feet this time.

His wandering came to a halt as he reached the the sleek door of his massive trailer. The other trailers surrounding his seemingly dwarfed in comparison. Not really a good look. Kind of fed into the whole Harry Styles mega star image. With a shake of his head, Harry pulled open the door. Cool air, jasmine, and rose scents hit across his face in a gentle caress. It was actually quite lovely and welcoming. Jeff must have passed along the fresh flowers and scented candles memo.

Harry took a peek around the posh space. Sleek counters and leather sofas. Curtains drawn shut, and drowning out any light in the small living area around him. Not a single sign of Louis. Only proof of anyone being here was the soft glow of the flickering flames.

“Louis?” Harry called out to no answer. “Anyone here?”

Shuffling could be heard from down the hall. Harry stepped in the direction, swallowing down his pesky giddiness, and pushing through the slightly cracked door.

Goodness. Louis sat crouched in a squat position. Golden brown hair sweeping over his gentle eyes, and fingers carefully stitching the end of a trouser leg. His concentration went unscathed as Harry shut the door behind him. Nimble fingers toying with the needle and thread, and bottom lip bitten between his teeth. Even with his brows pinched together, his face remained soft. Harry wanted to reach out and touch.

“Hey, Louis.” Harry spoke slower and more tender than intended. “What’re you doing in my trailer with the curtains drawn and candles lit?”

“It was like that when I arrived.” Louis snipped without looking up. “I didn't want a lawsuit on my hands for touching your things, so I just left it alone.”

“Hmm, is that so? You really think that way of me?” Harry drawled as Louis hummed out a quiet mhmm. “Well, in that case, you have my explicit permission to make yourself at home here. Anything on this trailer is yours to touch, whenever you please.” The including me went implied, but unsaid.

Louis sighed frustratedly as he stood from his crouched position. Harry didn't miss the pink tinge that warmed his cheeks.

“You're an idiot.” Louis shook his head humorlessly. “Let's get you dressed, yeah? We’re already running late.”

“We have at least an hour, babes. No rush.” Harry stepped over towards the sofa, laying his body down against it, and stretching his arms out above his head. “Where have you been, hm? Haven't seen you since fittings. I was beginning to worry.”

“They needed me in tailoring because somebody had to have production rolling early.” Louis pushed his palms into his eyes and scrubbed irritatedly. “I feel like I haven't slept in weeks.”

“There's a bedroom down the hall, love.” Harry offered in a gentle tone. “You can use it anytime you’d like. Might even join you later this afternoon.”

“Absolutely not.” Louis clipped. “No rest for the weary, Harry.”

Oh.

That was a beautiful sound. His name slipping from Louis’ lips for the first time since they met.

Harry would give anything just to hear him say it again.

“You deserve it though.” Harry sat up straight against the sofa. “I’d imagine your hands and neck are cramped and sore. Your eyes have probably been strained for days—”

“I don’t need you to pity me, yeah? Just get up so I can get you dressed.”

“It’s not pity, love,” Harry carefully stood from the sofa. Slowly striding towards Louis and the clothing rack, and gradually unfastening the buttons of his shirt, “I just think - if you're working as hard as you are - you should at least be doing what you love.”

Harry let his silk shirt slip from his shoulders and shivered when Louis snatched it from his body. It wouldn't be the first time he was topless around him, but it was the first time Louis visibly flushed at the sight of his body.

“We don't all have the privilege of being Harry Styles.” he aggressively hung Harry's shirt on the clothing rack, causing a small ruckus in the tiny room. “Opportunities don't just fall into our laps.”

“What if one did, babe? Would you take it?” Harry questioned cryptically as he stepped in closer and leaned an arm up against the rack.

The blues in Louis’ eyes were greener up this close. Harry felt beyond fortunate to have the opportunity to notice this detail.

“What are you on about?” Louis’ tone dropped to nearly a whisper.

“Costume design is your dream, yeah? Tailoring and dressing actors isn't what you want to do forever.” Harry stepped closer and let his eyes easily linger on Louis’. “How do either of those benefit you, hm? Other than being able to ogle me.”

“Ughhh—” Louis rolled his eyes at that last part and crossed his arms in front of him, “Tailoring is a skill, but costume standby pays my uni debt.” Louis shrugged looking more vulnerable than he seemed to like to. Maybe it slipped. Maybe Harry wasn't meant to know and Louis was just too exhausted to filter his words. Either way it was out there now. “Why do you suddenly care anyway? All of my design dreams were shot to hell as soon as you picked up this script.”

“Well, because I can fix that.”

Harry stepped just a bit closer. Leaving only Louis’ crossed arms between them. His stubbornness seemed to visibly waver as he took in the tan skin and light dusting of hair against Harry’s chest. The look alone did wonders for Harry’s ego.

“What d’you mean?” Louis uncrossed his arms and placed them on his hips, seemingly interested.

“My manager and I convinced Lou to let you come up with a look for me.” Harry smiled deep. Dimple easing its way into his right cheek. “You’ll be limited on time but I wiggled it out of her. Told her I had the pleasure of seeing some of your sketches and she took my word for it.”

Louis stood motionless. Face void of emotion and mood in the room completely unreadable. Before this, Harry assumed Louis would have bounced around with joy. Maybe even would have went as far as to throw his arms around Harry and thank him endlessly. At the very least, he expected Louis to go red in the cheeks with excitement. When that didn't immediately happen, worry began to settle in Harry’s stomach.

“What do you say, Louis? I think this would be a great opportunity for you and—”

“Have you completely lost all sense of right and wrong over there in Hollywood?”

Harry stilled in confusion. “What—”

“Do you really think you're doing me a favour by using your charm to get my designs out there? Do you really think that adds to my credibility as a designer?”

“Connections get you far in this industry, Louis. I've worked hard for many years to build up my brand and image but—”

“And you think I wouldn't want to do the same for myself? You think I want to be known as the person who got their start from a Harry Styles recommendation and not from my work alone?” Louis’ breathing increased with his anger as Harry stood topless and shocked, “I’m willing to pay my dues and work hard for my spot in this industry. That's why Lou Teasdale offered up that opportunity in the first place! She admired my work ethic and I spent hours under her wing for that once in a lifetime chance. I did it on my own and I can do it again without your guilt riddled offer.”

“Louis that's not what I was trying to do I—”

“You were trying to win me over with this weren't you? You knew word would travel fast around set and you wouldn't seem like such a bad guy after all.”

Harry couldn't move. Harry couldn't breathe. He was caught between every last chill rolling down his spine and his heartbeat picking up in speed. Louis was right. Fuck, he was fucking right. Harry knew the favor he pulled for Louis would get around to different crews and different departments. He had hoped it would not only soften Louis towards him, but anyone else who resented him for pushing production to start early. Louis saw right through him. Harry fucked up. Badly. And this was not the way he planned for things to turn out.

“I don't need your hand out, darling, and I humbly decline any future offers to design for Harry Styles.”

“Lou–don’t….don’t—”

“You can get yourself dressed, yeah? M’really not up for this right now.” Louis shouldered his way past a dumbfounded Harry and paused right before the doorway. “You know, it would've been different if it was truly done out of the kindness of your heart. But it wasn't. This was all some sort of mutually beneficial business deal that went wrong. I believe your heart was in the right place when you thought this up, but I'm not your charity case, nor your chance at redemption either, love.”

Harry turned to face him and the hurt in his eyes. Even after something so insulting, Louis seemed to remain level headed and soft spoken. Something that was so rare and uncommon in their line of work.

“Hair and makeup will need you soon. I'll see you again around three.” Without another word Louis turned out the door and went on his way.

Fucking hell.

Guilt and shame washed over Harry like an unforgiving tidal wave and Louis’ words stung in all the soft corners of his brain. If he felt this horrible, he couldn't imagine how sickly Louis must be feeling.

Jesus, he truly felt like he was doing the right thing for both of them. If only he would have thought this through a bit more carefully. Maybe just left it alone all together and let Louis warm up to him on his own.

He felt like a giant prick.

A giant prick that wasted too much of his free time and now needed to be on his way. Louis should be here. Should be the one to dress Harry and pin him in all the right places. But he wasn't. And Harry wasn't sure how he was ever going to earn a spot on his good side.

--

In front of the camera is where Harry thrives.

Well rehearsed lines flow from his mouth effortlessly, charisma exudes brightly from every facial expression, strides and animated movements are carefully planned and well executed. There wasn't a feeling quite like getting into character for the first time. Harry was nervous yet relaxed. Was slightly insecure in front of the new crew yet knew this set was exactly where he was meant to be.

Set lights usually served to drown out the examining eyes and critical whispers, but something about Louis being in the room dulled their intensity, and did little to keep Harry’s eyes from flickering over to his. The first few takes, before Louis showed up, went without a hitch. Harry nailed his lines and even improvised when needed. He knew he gave the production a solid first impression, but as soon as action was called, and Louis caught his eye, Harry began to stumble over his lines, felt himself heat up under the collar of his shirt, and ultimately cocked up his entire performance.

“Alright, let's stop right there for a minute.” James, the director, hollered as Harry flubbed yet another line. “Harry we’re going to come back to this, alright? Can someone fix his wardrobe please? His collar is going to drive me mad.”

The crew seemed to disperse as Louis approached him with a raised brow and an all too attractive smirk on his lips. There was no one else in the room to Harry. No one other than Louis to witness the stutter in his breathing as his delicate hands traveled up his chest.

“You know, for everything we went through to get you into this role, you're sort of doing a shit job in return.” Louis giggled under his breath as he adjusted the collar of Harry’s shirt gently. “Can't say I’m too impressed, Harry.”

Fuck, his smile was so pretty. His spirits seemed to be in a higher place than they were this morning. Frown and lack of warmth for Harry completely replaced by fluttering lashes and a shimmering glow in the apples of his cheeks. He almost seemed...playful. Maybe even a bit cheeky. As if seeing Harry fumble through his performance brought him some weird sense of joy. Harry decided not to question it. Figured it's best to bask and indulge in this newer side of Louis.

“Oh yeah?” Harry questioned as his right dimple carved its way into his cheek. “S’that what it'll take to get me off your shit list? You want me to impress you, babe?”

“M’not so easily amused,” he sneakily ran a hand through the back of Harry’s freshly trimmed hair and scratched lightly against his scalp. Fuck. Was this actually happening? Was anyone around them actually seeing this too? A touchy-feely, softer, Louis? “But you're welcome to try sometime. Show me why this role was given to you and all.”

“Oh, I'll show you something that was given to me.” Harry’s voice dropped low in tone as he further crowded Louis’ space.

“That one wasn't even clever.” Louis tugged on the hairs at the back of his neck, causing Harry to hiss out in pain. “You're far more charming when your mouth is kept shut.”

“Is this your way of flirting with me?” Harry asked through hooded eyes and a twitch of his cock. “Cos I’m kind of into it if I'm honest.”

“You couldn't land me even if I did fancy my colleagues.” Louis’ eyes shined underneath the set lights with mischief and mirth. Harry wanted to press a kiss in the space between them. “You're just easily riled up, and you deserve a bit a ribbing, don't you think? S’only fair after everything you've done to me.”

“I'll take it all on the chin so long as you're on speaking terms with me.”

“God, you're pathetic.”

“And yet, you're still standing here.”

Harry chanced a step forward, and to his surprise, was met with a curl of Louis’ lips. He was unpredictable and fickle, and it only served to draw Harry in further.

“It’s my job,” he spoke through tantalizing pink lips, “Someone has to keep you looking fit.”

“I think I do just fine on my own, sweetheart.” Harry shot a wink and inwardly celebrated at the tinge of Louis’ cheeks. “Wouldn't you agree?”

“Well, besides your head being about as big as your ego—”

Harry cut him off with a pinch of the hip and his lip half bitten. Louis’ laughter was alluring, colourful, and contagious, but Harry didn't want to let his honk of a laugh slip out just yet. He was content to watch Louis squirm, however. It felt nice. Felt something close to comfortable. Such a lovely contrast to the morning they had together.

Speaking of, he should probably apologize for that.

“Hey, um, about this morning—”

“Alright! Back to your positions everyone.” James’ voice cut through every corner of the set, sending everyone scattering back to their places.

Harry didn't have a moment to spare before Louis was tiptoeing his way back behind the cameras. Traces of previous warmth gone from his face and smile lines set back into to a frown. Back to business for him. Back to being colleagues that couldn't bloody stand each other.

Harry shoved a hand through his quiffed hair, and shook himself from his Louis induced daze. But not for long. Rolling! Rolling! was shouted through the madness as Harry locked eyes with his over the cameras and through the shadows of the set lights. The inner performer rumbled from within him and had a sudden urge to be let free. To show Louis just what he was capable of and prove to him that all of his hard work was worthwhile.

It was quite strange how Louis’ presence alone was enough motivation for Harry to put out the best version of himself. Made him want to do better, to be better, without even really knowing Louis at all. It was an unfamiliar feeling, but Harry wouldn't mind getting used to it.

Action!

--

First day on set came to a long, drawn out, yet satisfying wrap. Dusk settled over the rolling hills of Oxfordshire in a gentle wave and the evening sky began to glitter with twinkling lights. The stars were always brighter and more vivid outside of London or LA. Harry lost himself in the not quite visible view of constellations from the window of his trailer. He was putting off stepping into his awaiting town car, and leaving this place, for as long as he possibly could. He didn't fancy heading back to an empty estate when he felt more comfortable right where he was. It shouldn't be that way, should it? After a long day of filming, he should be aching to go home. To be in the one place he's most familiar with.

A muffled voice drew him out of his somber and lonely daydreams—bloody hell. Louis rounded the corner, rid of his entirely black wardrobe from earlier, and slipped into a tight pair of jeans and a cut off white shirt. Tan skin of his tummy and succulent curves fully out on display, and Louis making no effort to hide them. Fuck, his body was gorgeous. The delicate slope of his back, down to the soft outline of his arse, and perfect thighs. Harry wanted to take a bite out of him. Just experience a lingering taste of what he had to offer. Louis’ body was designed to be roughed up and kiss bitten.

Without another thought, Harry hurled himself from the sofa, and stumbled out the door. No speech prepared or practiced lines, he just had an overwhelming need to end the day with Louis.

It also wouldn't hurt to see his marvelously skimpy outfit up close.

“Louis!” Harry yelled out across the lot, bypassing his awaiting car, and jogging in his direction.

Louis paid him no mind. Breeze flicking his fringe angelically and bare hips swaying in time with his steps. The world was his runway and Harry was honored to be front row.

“Lou—hey,”

Any words that may have been waiting against Harry's tongue, were stolen from him just as quickly as the breath in his lungs. Louis had freckles. Little specks dotting his left cheek and one lingering near the corner of his eye. Harry would spend the rest of the evening discovering new, endearing, quirks about this beautiful man if he’d have him.

“You–um–you changed.” Harry mindlessly babbled as Louis shot him a glare. “Your clothes, I mean. You changed your clothes. You look great. Um, quite fit, actually.”

Harry laughed awkwardly as Louis remained silent and kept up his speed. Fuck, if only he'd slow down for a sec. Harry couldn't take his eyes off the flawless skin Louis’ hips. He wanted so badly to reach out and touch, and feel how he was softer than he looked.

“So umm. Where are you headed, love?”

“The shuttle.” Louis answered lowly. Keeping his head down and lightly scratching at the skin beneath his belly button.

“Shuttle? For what?”

“To catch the train back to London.” Louis looked up and met Harry’s heavy gaze. “As much as I'd fancy a chat with you, this is the last shuttle, and I can't miss it. Don't wanna be stuck here all night.”

“Well, let me give you a lift then.” Harry sincerely offered as Louis rolled his eyes. “No seriously, I only live up the road, I can have my driver take you home.”

“Jesus, Harry, I forgive you for this morning. You don't have to treat me any differently than you would anyone else.”

“What?” Harry's brows dipped in bewilderment, “What are you on about? What do you mean treat you any—”

“Look, I've had a really long day, and I have a long train ride ahead of me, I just want to be left alone, yeah?”

“But I only offered a ride, what does that have to do with this morning?”

Louis halted all movements in a dramatic fashion and turned to face a slightly winded Harry.

“You don't know me, Harry. You know nothing about me, or who I am, or where I come from, and yet you won't quit pestering me with your guilt ridden offers. Why is that? Why hasn't anyone else on set received the same treatment?”

Harry was stuck, once again. “Louis—I…”

“What is it that makes you pity me?”

“That's not what I'm doing, Lou. I just—” Harry struggled to put it into words. He knew it looked to be how Louis was interpreting it, but it was not Harry's intention. He just….liked him. Wanted to get to know him. Wanted to be kind and friendly, and hopefully have Louis warm up to him. It didn't  seem to be working, however. Their situation felt more like a juvenile, one sided, crush gone wrong. “I don't know. I just want to show you I'm not as horrible as you think.”

“I don't think you're horrible, Harry.” Louis crossed his arms over his chest, whilst giving Harry a slight once over. “I just don't want to feel like your project.”

“You're not, babe. I just—”

“Then don't treat me like one. I've already made it clear I don't want to be your charity case.” Louis chided as he took a step back and shook his head.

“Louis that's not my intention–”

“M’gonna be late yeah? I'm sure you have an upcoming model waiting at your place, anyway.” Louis left without another word, adjusting his collar up over his shoulder, and jogging his way out of sight.

Jesus. A parting line so cold the both of them would still feel the effects come tomorrow morning.

Harry felt fucking defeated. There was no winning in this situation. No convincing Louis, Harry wasn't the person he clearly thought him to be.

Christ, and it was only the first day on set. How was he meant to get on with Louis for the next several months?

His boots dragged as he buried his face in his hands and made his way towards his town car. Guilt and shame clawed at his conscious and would surely eat away at him for the rest of the evening. The look of hurt on Louis’ face replayed on a loop, and Harry’s twisted desire to know what made Louis so defensive, jabbed at his curiosity. There was a reason Louis was so guarded. So fiercely protective over his reputation and how he wanted to be seen as an equal.

Harry would give anything to know Louis just a bit better. Even if it was clear Louis disliked him and wouldn't give him the time of day, famous or not. He was an attractive mystery. One that had Harry enticed and longing for more. But for now, he needed to mend what little relationship they had between them. And if that meant giving Louis his space, and keeping it professional, so be it.

--

6

The early beams of Oxford’s dawn cast upon his knackered eyes unforgivingly. Clock near his bedside read half an hour past four and unseasonal heat slipped it's way under his bedsheets. A useless night's sleep. Tossing and thrashing about only to lie awake hours before he was due on set.

Harry forcibly stood up from his uncomfortable position in his bed. Rubbing the sleep from his eyes and unsteadily clambering his overheated body towards the en suite. A cool shower would do him well. Clean his sweat sheened body and fully wake him up at the early hour. Water sprinkled from the ceiling as he turned the knobs to his preferred settings. Not having to worry about sleeping in clothing, he stepped right under the spray, and shivered as he closed the glass door behind him.

Eyes slipped shut, he let the coolness beat down against his tense shoulders. Rolling his neck side to side and doing his best to keep his thoughts at bay. It was far too early to over think yesterday's events, and far too early to let himself be torn up over it, again, like the night behind him. Instead, he watched as the beads of water trailed aimlessly over his body. Down his torso, over his laurel tattooed hips, and down the length of his legs until they swirled into the black hole of his drain.

Flashes of Louis’ supple skin clouded Harry’s imagination. He couldn't help but wonder how erotic the sight of a dripping wet Louis would be. Streams of water sliding down every curve and dip of his body and his golden skin glistening under the flattering mist. Harry bit his lip harshly as the first twitch of his cock had his adrenaline pumping. It felt sort of strange. Contemplating a wank over a beautiful colleague and nothing more. Not to mention the amount of disdain that was felt on the other side.

Harry figured if he couldn't rid him from his mind, he could at least attempt to fist fuck him out of his system.

Right hand loosely wrapped around his length, Harry conjured up images of Louis’ hips and incredible arse. He sighed at the vision of freshly licked pink lips, and just how sinful they'd look stretched around his cock. Harry did his best to push aside every snarky remark that left that same mouth.

Tightening his grip, Harry picked up his pace and imagined Louis bare and begging. God, what he wouldn't give to have Louis’ legs spread wide for him, and his tight hole out on display. Cheeks of his arse pink and burning from Harry’s hands alone, and flawless thighs prettily bruised by the hunger of Harry's mouth. Fuck, he just wanted to rough him up a bit and bring him back down to earth. Take care of the whimpering boy and have his body trembling from a mind blowing fuck.

The steamy images should have been enough to get Harry off. His imagination revealed his deepest desires he didn't even realize he was into. But guilt overpowered his need for a one sided pitiful orgasm. Harry desperately flicked his wrist against his inevitably softening cock. Thumbing his slit in a haste and scrunching up his features to focus on what was left of the pleasure. It was bloody useless. He was sure he wouldn't be able to get off even if Louis were stood right in front of him.

“Fucking hell.” Harry groaned, clearly irritated as his wrongdoings infiltrated his sensual fantasies.

The only substance swirling down the drain this morning would be sudsy and violet scented. Harry felt fucking pathetic. Couldn't even pull a wank off, let alone have the source of his hard on forgive him. Facing Louis later on was bound to be awkward enough to begin with, now he's gone and made it unknowingly worse for them.

Harry grabbed for his body wash and huffed out one last frustrated breath. Might as well get ready to head to set early. Maybe he could hide away in his trailer and hope that Louis would spare him from a visit today. he laughed humorlessly to himself, he knew he'd never be quite so lucky. But even as he hoped against the inevitable, he couldn't help but let his body tingle in anticipation, and over think just how warm his hello to him would be.

--

Harry ran a hand through his tousled and uncombed hair before pulling open the welcoming door of his trailer. Busy bodies buzzed around the lot without bothering to lift their gaze towards him. It was slightly maddening. Everyone easily breezed past him without so much as a hello or a grumpily mumbled good morning. He couldn't tell if it was because no one could stand to look at him at the early hour, or if they were just genuinely too occupied with their pre-filming duties.

The darkness of his sitting room drew him in. Monogrammed slippers slid off his socked feet and worn t-shirt pulled off and over his shoulders. He would be dressed in a few hours anyway, for now he resigned himself to the awaiting comfort of his trailer's suite. Shivers rolled down his spine as the cool air from the hallway pulled him forward. His door was open ajar, and he didn't think anything of the clothing rack blocking his way. Mind set solely on getting to his bed.

As he wheeled the rack of clothing away from the entrance, Harry forced down a stunned gasp at the sight in front of him. Slept peacefully, with a halo of fringe, and dainty fists tucked under his cheek, Louis breathed evenly, not even twitching awake at the movement in the room.

Harry stood breathless. Not sure if he should make a run for it and risk waking him up, or remain motionless at the foot of the bed and risk Louis waking up to him standing there, topless, like a fucking creep. Goodness. The length of his wispy lashes were visible even in the dim light. Harry nearly missed them fluttering open.

“Harry?” Louis whispered in a sleep heavy voice. “Shit. I'm sorry–I...”

Louis shuffled under the covers, attempting to quickly rid himself from the bed.

“No–no, uh. You can sleep.” Harry put his hands up and backed out of the room. “M’sorry I didn't mean to wake you—I. I'll just. I'll go.”

Harry shoved himself out of the room in a haste. Stumbling backwards and accidentally slamming the door behind him. Fuck. Shit. He couldn't get down the hallway fast enough. What the fuck was Louis doing in his bed? Harry would imagine he'd want to be as far away from him as possible, at all times. Louis clearly wasn't expecting him anytime soon seeing as he laid down and shut his eyes for a sleep. Jesus, did he have to look so ethereal whilst doing so?

“Harry?” Louis’ soft voice came from down the hall as his quiet steps padded closer. Fucking hell, this boy. Dressed in all black and tummy on display, again. Did he own any shirts that were proper length? “Hey, um, sorry about that, s’just I got here around five because of the train schedules, and you weren't supposed to be here for a while, and I'm just so exhausted, I—”

“Hey, no, it's alright. Don't worry about it.” Harry subconsciously placed his hands upon his hips, proudly displaying his body, as he felt Louis’ sleepy eyes wander over his inked skin. It felt nice, “I meant it when I said you could relax in there. Just wasn't expecting you is all. Good morning, by the way.”

“Good morning.”

Louis rubbed gently at his eyes. Soft hair sweeping over his forehead and and pretty lips stretched around a yawn. He was so gorgeous. So soft. Harry had to remind himself that pulling him into his chest, and swaying his slumberous body in his hold, would not end well. Louis couldn't stand him, and Harry made an unspoken promise to respect his boundaries.

“Can I fix you a cuppa, or something? You can go back to bed if you want.”

“No, you're here now, so I'm officially on the clock.” He stretched his limbs up over his head and Harry bit his lip at the amount of skin he was displaying. Even in the limited light he glowed a pretty summer shade. “I'll be back, yeah? Need to wake up a bit and go pick up your trousers for the day.”

“Alright,” Harry whispered only a tad bit smitten. He wasn't used to this barely awake and completely lovely Louis. The morning softened him even more than what Harry thought was possible. He wouldn't mind these run-ins becoming more and more common. “You know where to find me, yeah?”

“I do.” Louis smiled from under his lashes as he stepped forward towards the trailer’s door. Harry wanted to catch him by the wrist and cuddle him back to sleep. “Don't wait up for me, Hollywood.”

Flirting. He was absolutely flirting. Harry held the door open behind him as Louis stepped down into the earliest light of the day, and watched as he purposely swayed his bare hips from side to side. What a lovely fucking view. One Harry thought he'd only ever see in his daydreams.

Harry sighed wistfully as he shut the door and pranced his way down to his suite. There was a bright and invigorating energy in the air that only Louis could leave behind. Sheets left haphazardly straightened, and room fragranced with the sweetness of his scent. Harry draped the fabric over his bare torso and basked in what was left of Louis’ warmth.

He could only hope the morning they shared set the tone for the rest of day. He was more than aware it was a stretch of the imagination, but Harry always did consider himself a dreamer.

--

Dreams be damned, Louis was back to his polished, professional ways. The personification of poise whilst dressing Harry in his costume for the day and tummy covered with appropriate clothing. Gone were the bedroom eyes and bashful smiles, and back were the irritated expressions and focused hands. He wasn't even charmed when Harry greeted him softly from his bed. Practically yanked the duvet away from his sleep warm body and switched on nearly every light in the trailer.

“Turn around.” Louis mumbled from his squatted position as he tugged harshly at the bottom of Harry’s trousers.

“Turn around, please?” Harry suggested as he rolled his eyes and turned for Louis anyway.

His words went unacknowledged as Louis kept his focus on the reference photo beside him. Tucking and lacing Harry’s work boots and trousers exactly how they were designed to fit. It was probably a good thing Louis never paid him attention anyway. As soon as he dropped completely to his knees in front of him, Harry had to crane his neck away. Recurring images from his failed wank clouded his vision and he could feel the heat in his cheeks turning him a deep red. Fuck, he was so embarrassed. What a shameful position to be in.

“Turn.” Louis stood to his full height as Harry shifted his vision to focus on Louis.

“Ask nicely.” he softly demanded.

“Harry, we don't have time for this—”

“Then do as I said.” he challenged with a perfectly arched brow. “A simple please will do.”

Louis indignantly crossed his arms over his chest “No.”

“God, you're such a brat.” Harry ran his hand frustratedly through his quiff. Lack of sleep officially affecting him and his mood. “Aren't you the one who wants to be treated fairly? Shouldn't that be extended to me as well?”

“When have you ever been fair to me?” Louis cocked his head in curiosity. “I must have missed it between you swiping opportunities and attempting to hand them back to me.”

“Jesus, Louis, I didn't mean to do either in a malicious way! I'm sorry I ruined such a brilliant opportunity for you, alright? I had no bloody idea it would turn out like this.” Mood in the room shifted, Harry didn't mean to roar his apology, but it stunned Louis long enough for him to listen. “Had I known I was jeopardizing your career I would have never agreed to this, and had I known that by trying to make it better, I would only make it worse, I would have left that alone as well and just let you believe I'm some sort of self righteous prick. It's what you think either way, yeah?”

“Harry, what? No—”

“You wouldn't be the first, babe. Don't fret.” Harry huffed out a sigh and nervously ran his hand through his hair again. “M’sorry for yelling—M’sorry for all this mess I've caused, and how I've treated you from day one.” Louis looked up at him with a sympathizing expression and his lip slightly bitten. Harry could help but actually reach out this time, and take his sweet face in the palm of his hand. Soft. So incredibly soft. “I'll do my best to stay out of your way, yeah? You'll only have to be bothered with me when needed.”

Louis gripped onto the wrist holding his face wordlessly. Eyes wide and pleading but mouth completely sealed shut. Looked as if something was dancing on the tip of his tongue as he let his gentle thumb stroke against the back of Harry’s hand. It was the sweetest touch. The most pleasant Louis has ever been. Harry wished he would say something. Anything. Whatever it was that he wanted to say right now, but wouldn't. Wished they could stay in this moment for just a bit longer, and let the softness of their touches pull them under, but he knew nothing was owed to him, and he knew just how stubborn Louis could be.

He needed to get out of there.

“I'm sorry.” Harry let out sincerely one last time before dropping his hand and making his way off the trailer.

He wasn't due for hair and makeup for a while, but the long and winding walk up to the set would do best to clear his mind. It was good he got that apology off his chest. It was good that Louis heard him out, and more or less accepted what he had to say. Perhaps they could grow from this, and become colleagues that didn't bicker every moment they’re together. Maybe Louis would finally see Harry for the person he was. Who knew. Only time could tell for now.

--

7

A full week had gone by since Harry and Louis spoke.

Moments between them went awkward and silent ever since Harry promised to keep his distance. Louis dressed him quickly and made a mad dash for the door as soon as he was satisfied with the fit. Like he couldn't get out of Harry's space fast enough. On set wasn't much better. Harry could see him in his peripherals, nervously biting his nails, and watching him with wide intrigued eyes, but as soon as cut was called, and Louis was instructed to tend to him, their lips never moved to speak, and Louis fixed him up with hurried hands.

Downtime was even worse. In between takes Harry seemed to always end up near Louis. His attractive laughter and alluring smile was always just around the corner, waiting and taunting Harry with their endless enchantment. He wanted to approach him. Wanted to ask him about his day and join in on the conversation. Maybe even be the reason for Louis’ crinkly eyes. But Harry was stubborn and a man of his word, and if he ended up alone in his trailer more than a few times over the course of the week, he didn't mind.

“You meet your love interest today.” Jeff snickered from his spot on the sofa.

The sun had just barely crept up over the hills of Oxford as Jeff invaded his trailer. Harry paced the narrow length anxiously, ignoring most of his small talk, and keeping an eye on the window. Louis was usually here by now, setting up his pins and needles, and steaming the clothing to his liking. It was only slightly concerning when Harry walked into an empty dressing room, and had no way of knowing where Louis was. He supposed it was none of his business, anyway. He just couldn't help but wonder.

“I'm not fake dating her so you can leave me out of whatever foolproof plan you're conjuring up in your head.” Harry expressed distractedly as he slightly pulled the curtains back to check for the boy.

Jeff went on in the background. Yapping about how lovely she was and maybe this could lead to something, you never know, you're lonely anyway, Harry. He knew it was meant to coerce him into the business strategy that was onset relationships, but Harry couldn't be arsed. Wouldn't agree to it this time around, especially with a role as important this one.

“Is there a reason you're bothering me this early in the morning, Jeff?”

“Oh, I need a reason now? I can't just visit—”

With a roll of his eyes and a shake of his head, Harry effortlessly tuned out the sound of his voice. His mind was elsewhere at the moment. He wasn't nearly as interested in their friendly banter as he normally would be.

Harry's eyes caught sight of a soft body rounding the corner into the trailer lot. Head drooped and shoulders sagged. Fuck. That couldn't be good. There hasn't been a time where Harry has seen Louis look anything other than poised with his head held high. Something was wrong. Something was off.

“Are you listening to me?” Jeff cut through his internal worry.

“No—um,” Harry peeked through his curtains one last time, judging the distance between Louis and his trailer, and quickly dodging out of the way just as Louis looked up. “There's no nice way to put this, but, can you leave? I've got someone coming and–”

“A visitor? Who is it?” Jeff sprung up off the sofa, before Harry could block him, and pulled back the silky fabric of the curtain. “Oh, you've got to be kidding me.” he said as his face twisted into a grin. “You're still pining over this guy?”

Jeff dissolved into a fit of laughter and Harry couldn't even begin to imagine why.

“No? Fuck you. Yes. God, can you just please leave?” Harry struggled as he attempted to push Jeff towards the door.

“No, I really needed to talk to you. I received your promo schedule the other day—”

“Christ Jeff you can email me this, yeah?” Go, go, go.” Harry pushed and pushed until Jeff was halfway out the door

“I haven't seen you this desperate in years, it's great.” he cackled as he stumbled out the door.

“Piss off.” Harry slammed the opening shut and breathed a small sigh of relief. He smoothed out the wrinkles of his clothing and twirled a strand of hair to dangle over his forehead. Whatever it took to look presentable, and not like he was fretting over Louis’ absence for the last hour.

He quickly threw himself against the sofa as the trailer door began to jiggle. His body language fiend nonchalance as his heart rate gave away his nerves. Louis slowly and carefully slid his way through the door, head still faced down, and not noticing Harry at first glance.

“Hey, Lou.”

“Oh fuck—” Louis gasped and curled his body in defense. “Jesus, you scared me.”

Shit.

“Sorry, babe, I didn't mean to.” Harry stood up from the couch and stepped just a bit closer to him. “Everything alright? You usually beat me here, I was beginning to worry.” Harry tried for lighthearted. Even went as far as chuckling lightly and pasting on a smile.

“I–um–yeah, just missed the train s’all.” Louis shrugged it off, and moved toward the entrance of the dressing room.

Harry followed cautiously. Keeping his distance and doing his best not to hover. The last thing he wanted to do was set Louis off or do anything to further upset him.

“Why aren't you dressed yet?” Louis asked distractedly as he began to pull clothing from the racks.

“Well that's your job, innit?” Harry tried for a joke, but ultimately fell flat when Louis’ lips remained pressed in a firm line. “I actually don't have to be dressed til late afternoon today. Think there was some minor difficulties on set this morning, and it mucked up everyone's schedule.”

“So I assume that means we’ll be on set later than planned?”

Harry shrugged. “I would assume so, yes.”

“Great.” Louis sighed as he abandoned the clothing rack to curl up against the sofa.

“Are you sure everything is alright?” Harry questioned with a bit of worry. “You don't have to tell me, of course, but is there anything I can do?”

“Everything will be alright, mate. Thanks.”

“Mate?” Harry repeated a bit taken aback. “So we’re mates now? Are we finally moving forward?”

“No we’re not bloody mates.” Louis grumbled as he crossed his arms over his chest.

He was in a right mood today. Eyes rolling more than usual and grumpy scowl a bit more prominent. Harry’s efforts seemed useless. Might as well let him get through whatever he’s going through without serving to further annoy him.

“Alright, I'll leave you alone then.”

Harry turned to exit out of the room but was quickly halted by a soft wait. He thought he could've imagined it, but when he glanced back over his shoulder, a pair of tired blue eyes met his, and a nervously bitten lip drew him in.

“There is—one thing you can do. If the offer is still on the table.” Louis spoke with a bit of hesitancy. If only he knew how tightly wrapped around his finger Harry already was.

“Sure, anything.” Harry shrugged as he awaited his instructions.

“Okay, but there are rules.” he pointed his finger sternly and sat up a bit to address him properly. “We don't speak of this afterwards and you don't get to fall in love with me.”

“What?” Harry asked taken aback. Feeling somewhat caught even though he never admitted to anything. “That's awfully presumptuous and a bit sure of yourself—”

“Agree to my terms, Harry.” Louis said with a bit of an edge. Letting Harry know his patience were running thin and he could look elsewhere for someone to help him out.  

“Alright, fine, I agree.” Harry rushed out still partially confused. “What is it that you need me to do then?”

Louis looked at him through droopy eyes. Mirth and playfulness gone and replaced by his previous exhaustion and need. With his dainty hand, he leaned over and pat the opposite corner of the sofa, quietly instructing Harry to sit down. Harry obliged willingly. Taking the short steps to reach the cushion and sitting awkwardly in the corner away from him. Louis eyed him carefully, before moving in closer. Studying all of Harry’s features and seemingly testing the boundaries of their personal space. Slipping closer and closer and hovering just within breathing distance of Harry’s lips.

“Cuddle me.”