#i worked through the block in my mind that left me feeling so uninspired for so long :^)

[secretly-of-course]

sorry to keep complaining on main but I need to vent about this

I’m just. So Upset. about this whole leak situation.

I’ve tried blocking tags. I’ve tried blocking people. I haven’t opened pinterest or youtube in two days. And it’s still not enough. I still have seen spoilers. Maybe not as many as I would have had I not taken those precautions, but still enough.

And I feel like I’m (and as I’m sure everyone else is) at such a crossroads because like. Now I have to make the decision of watching the leaked episode and not say a word about it or not watching it and risk getting even more spoiled? It’s only been two days how are any of us supposed to last two weeks? Am I just supposed to not go online for two entire weeks? What am I? A cavewoman? As much respect as I have for people who are capable of that I’m too weak-willed for that.

I saw a screenshot of a moment I know would have squealed at in delight had I seen it live, and instead it just made me way to throw up. One thing about me is I hate knowing other people are watching and enjoying something while I am missing out. You know, when Hollow Mind aired I had to work that day, so I set my alarm for 5:30 AM just so I could watch it and react to it before going to work and I was freaking happy to do so.

On the flip-side, when DOAFP season 2 aired I only got through an episode and a half before our internet completely shit the bed. I was so upset that I cried. It took 2 days to fix and when I finally got to see the episodes and got back online to talk about it, it felt like the hype on tumblr had completely died down already and I had missed it. That was 2 days, how is 2 weeks going to effect this fandom?

I was so excited to see this episode, and now my excitement has been completely ruined. I was literally talking to my therapist on Tuesday how I feel I have been so much better mentally recently than I was a year ago, largely in part due to having toh to focus on and the new episode to look forward to. And I know, I know. I knew from the beginning that staking so much of my mental health on one show was a bad idea but frick I couldn’t help it. I haven’t cried yet but man I’m getting close. I already laid face down on the floor a while. Is this a healthy reaction? No. But what else am I supposed to do. I’m trying so hard to remain optimistic, to tell myself that I don’t know the whole story and there will still be surprises, but the truth of the matter is I’m not excited for this episode now and that’s fucking sad.

We should be making theories right now. We should be writing fics and drawing art. We should be rewatching the previous episodes in preparation. And instead we’re fucking dodging leaks left and right.

I wanted so badly to finish my Gus x Matty reunion comic before ftf aired and that’s just been ruined for me. I was even hoping I might have time to do a Hunter x Willow comic too and it just feels pointless now. I am trying so hard to focus on drawing my comic and writing my Steve x Katya fic and I’m just struggling to focus on any of it because I’m too upset. And it sucks because I know if I’m not careful I could easily slip into a creative block again like I was exactly a year ago before toh altered my brain chemistry. I don’t want to go back to being depressed and uninspired like that again.

I don’t know what to do really. I know everyone in the fandom is going through the same thing, I just had to get my thoughts out, even though they are very self-centered. I just don’t know.

[dreamgirledward]

I'M UP IN THE WOODS (RUN FROM THE LIGHTS, RUN FROM THE NIGHT) I'M DOWN ON MY MIND (RUN FOR YOUR LIFE) I'M NEW IN THE CITY (DOWN FOR THE NIGHT, DOWN FOR THE NIGHT) DOWN FOR THE NIGHT

I'M LOST IN THE WORLD.

ANGELS // lost in the world // kanye west my amvs | watch on youtube (it loops!)

[captains-writing-desk]

From Heaven and Hell

Universe: Harry Potter

Character: Severus Snape

Type: F!Reader insert

Words: 2,724

Prompt: Dude, Dude- I love your Snape works! ❤❤ Could you please do a Snape x Prof Reader where she is the hot new teacher and everyone gossips about her or sum? She's like a major flirt too so she flirts with Snape a lot. Eventually with the gossip and flirting he finally admits he likes her? Can end smutty or fluffy- surprise us! Thank you! Keep being awesome!

Note: I’ve done my best to research locations, layouts etc. But I’ve discovered a lot of contradictory information, so this is all going to go how I want it to go. No nit picking please

Guys. I’ve been gone for so long. I’m in such a rut, I feel so uninspired all the time. Sorry for the LONG wait. 💔

-

Something was happening and if anyone could find out, it would be one Professor Severus Snape. He had a nose for sniffing out trouble like a bloodhound and boy what a nose it was. He made a sweep of all the corridors on his lunch time stroll but everything seemed to be in relative order until he noticed the regular bustling noise that filled the corridors and the sound of the outdoors seemed to dissipate and compress into whispers. Then he noticed students had started to lean over the sides of the stone bannisters and other students on the grounds were looking in the same direction. How curious. He tried to peer over their heads but he was unsuccessful so headed to one of the sets of steps down to the grounds. He made it precisely 2.3 steps down when his purposeful stride immediately dissipated and the last 0.7 steps was spent holding onto the stone wall to balance himself as his body somewhat stuttered and moved itself to one side.

“Thank you.” You smiled and brushed lightly against him as you ascended the steps he had just taken. Severus’ gaze followed you lazily until you disappeared up the corridor, then his body snapped into action and went to catch up with you which proved more difficult with students blocking his path after they cleared space for you.

When he finally had caught up to you, you were being ushered away by Minerva and he had to leave it at that for now. Though he could not see you anymore, you certainly were fresh in his mind and did a good job occupying it for the rest of the day and apparently most of the students’ too. Severus had to interrupt no end of conversations and gossip about who this mysterious stranger was and how ‘easy on the eyes’ you were.

-

Severus had lost his train of thought so much that day that it never even crossed his mind that you were the new Arithmancy professor until the headmaster was announcing it to the students. He stared for a moment with his mouth slightly agape and clapped slowly, off beat with anybody else’s applause. He despised the fact that you had him stumbling over himself, well before even knowing your name.

Once dinner was over he watched you leave the hall before making his own move. The eyes that followed you did not go unnoticed by him either as he grit his teeth and walked faster, despite wanting to make sure you left first so he would not encounter you again.

“..No, no. It’s not important to our studies, just a preference but it can’t be helped!” He heard your voice then the headmaster bidding you goodnight as he approached the large doors out to the entrance hall. He peered around the frame and all seemed clear so he confidently strode to the dungeons entrance only he came to pause at the top of the steps and felt the need to look up the stairs, something was different which made his eyes narrow instinctively as he crept quietly to the bottom of the ascending stairs. He almost jumped when your own narrowed eyes appeared from the darkness.

“You.” He stated in no particular manner which amused you a little.

“It is me, yes.” You folded your arms and leant against the wall for a moment, “..and you are?”

“Severus Snape.” He remained fairly neutral in expression and tone until you started descending towards him, then he seemed a little startled as you held your hand out to him, repeating the name he had already committed to memory.

“So, Severus. You’re the reason I can’t have the dungeons for myself.” You resumed your stance leaning on the wall again.

“I suppose I am.” He responded in a more Snape friendly tone as the edge had been taken off.

“I was rather looking forwards to all the devilish little things I could get away with down there. Dancing with the devil perhaps.” Severus was too busy processing what any of that could insinuate to respond. “Well, I’ll try not to bother you too much but I may need some local knowledge from you at some point. Feel free to visit me in heaven sometime.” You winked then laughed at yourself, a terrible joke really but the tease of it worked enough.

“Of course.” He raised his brow, wondering what was with all the biblical crap, though judging by the smirk on your face, his expression had meant something else to.

“I look forward to your visit, Goodnight for now, Severus.” Shit. It meant acceptance of the invitation.

“Good night.” He mumbled back and watched you disappear up the stairs as you lit your way with your wand. He couldn’t help but notice how literal your heaven and hell joke seemed as he watched the white light fade, then glanced down his own set of steps before him, taking in the reddish hue of candles and torches. He shook himself from his thoughts and descended the steps to hell.

The next morning after breakfast, Severus found himself once again stood at the bottom of your stairs just being captivated by you and the conversation you were both having.

“Sir-” one of his students attempted to speak to him as they walked by but was cut off by the famous glare.

“Wait downstairs.” He instructed and returned to you with a softer gaze.

“Have I distracted you?” You laughed at his little interaction.

“I wouldn’t say so. I’ll be on time.” He reassured himself more than anyone.

“I shall try harder next time then.” You raised a brow suggestively then bid him a good morning and left him to go to his class.

-

Your little chats happened on a daily basis now, making good on your word to try harder to distract him and in the evenings they would run at great lengths and would always end when you asked if he wanted to come up rather than just sit around in the stairwell but he would always decline and retreat to his little cave. You wanted to make it your mission to get him into your room or vice versa, mainly for comfort but also it was just a more intimate setting but you weren’t going to force it. You enjoyed flirting with him and he never told you to stop or that he was uncomfortable but you weren’t just going to push through his boundaries like that.

Unbeknownst to you, he was rather hoping you would push his boundaries, although he didn’t quite realise that himself either, he would soon though. He would tell himself that you initiated everything and he merely listened and tolerated your company but he would now come face to face with the reality of the part he played.

It was after dinner one evening when you both walked back to those fateful stairs and he leant against the wall, preparing for a long conversation but you took a step up the stairs and turned to him.

“I’m afraid I’ve got a student coming in a moment so I can’t stay and chat tonight, you can always come knocking later if you want a late night chat though.” You winked at him, briefly noticing the disappointment in his eyes, then a glint of something like panic before he mumbled that it was alright and that he would speak to you soon then he left. The panic was very odd, but the rest was a sign to you that he enjoyed your company at least.

Once he got back to the dungeons he sat himself at his desk and thought for a moment. He had panicked a little when he had left but it wasn’t necessarily bad but it was certainly new. The reason being was that he realised you had both been speaking for weeks, almost never missing a day but only for things you were both required to attend. As a result he hadn’t given any detentions or anything which was fairly unusual for him. No, it must be that the students finally learned how to behave. That’s what he told himself anyway but his students were going to make him think again the next day.

-

He was running late after talking to you that morning, not that he would admit to it but he took his time getting to his classroom, especially when he heard the mention of your name from inside so he paused to listen.

“Merlin, what I wouldn’t do for that woman!” He heard one student say.

“Arithmancy is easy-ish right? I could get into that class.” Another asked but was scoffed at and told it wasn’t exactly easy.

“You seen the way she flirts with Snape? Not only is she stunning but she flirts- albeit questionable- with Snape which keeps him out of our hair.”

“You’re right! None of us have had detention in weeks, he’s the late one now AND if you ask me, I think he doesn’t want to give us detention because he wants his evening free for her. I bet you anything that those two are fuc-“ That conversation came to an abrupt end when Severus practically flew into the room which stunned everyone into silence. He had to put an end to what he was hearing for his own sake but he was too embarrassed about it to confront them so went about his lesson but he knew as soon as it was over he had a lot of mulling over to do. In fact, he barely left his room all day which didn’t worry you but it wasn’t half boring without him to talk to all day.

Almost a week it had lasted. His little phase of barely leaving his room and any chats you usually had had come to a stop. Maybe you’d pushed him too far, or perhaps he had come to realise he couldn’t be bothered to put up with your incessant chatting anymore.

You watched one morning as he walked in front of you yet again rather than beside you then disappeared down into his dungeons, You sighed and went to ascend your own staircase.

“Professor.” The voice of a student behind you interrupted your thoughts rather abruptly, he was no student of yours.

“Yes?” You smiled welcomingly, opening yourself up to any conversation this child wanted to have with you as they shifted nervously before you.

“Do you think you could start talking to Professor Snape again? I know I’m out of line here but he isn’t the same and when you did speak to him he was much nicer than before but now he just seems... off. It’s unsettling to tell you the truth.” You almost laughed at the cheek of the child but they said it so innocently and with genuine concern that you stifled a laugh and chuckled lightly instead.

“I’ll do my best. Now hurry along or you’ll be late.” You continued chuckling to yourself as you carried on up the stairs, wondering if you should take his advice.

-

Later that evening you stood at the top of the stairs, staring down into the darkness before forcing yourself down them. You reached his door and knocked before you could even contemplate doing it. You waited longer than you should have before trying again after there was no response but once again, nothing. You turned to leave and thought perhaps you should wait for him for a few minutes in case he was preoccupied somewhere else for a moment so you made yourself comfortable on the bottom step.

Still, he never returned and you gave up, thinking you would try again tomorrow. Walking back up you were consumed with just how boring everything was without him to help occupy your time. Sure, you had things to get on with but there were little gaps in the day now that felt so empty. Just before you reached the ground between the two staircases, purgatory if you were to run with the biblical themes you had going on for some reason, he came into view. He was coming down from the tower you resided in and for a moment, you both just stared at eachother, frozen.

“Just the man I was looking for.” You broke silence first, opting for your usual flirtatious inflection.

“I am?” He forced in a innocence to his tone.

“Yes. What were you doing up there?” You addressed the elephant in the room.

“I was looking for you. I waited a little while. What were you looking for me for?” He folded his arms and raised his brows, pushing the interrogation back onto you.

“Well,” So he wanted to play that game huh, “I’ve been awfully bored as of recent and you’ve been avoiding me all week. So, I thought why not entertain myself with bothering you for a while.” Alright, that was the real elephant in the room and he knew it.

“Ah,” His eyes were downcast for a moment as he briefly contemplated, “Why don’t you come down with me then and bother me for the evening.” He closed the gap between you and paused just before you with his arm gesturing down the stairs as an invitation.

“I just bloody climbed these stairs.” You groaned but turned around and started walking anyway.

-

Once inside, he got you both a drink and sat with you to have one of those conversations he was so used to having with you but before that could start, you had to know whether he even wanted to.

“Severus.”

“Yes?” He shifted uncomfortably at the seriousness of your tone.

“Don’t misunderstand me when I say I do enjoy bothering you and talking to you but do you tolerate my babbling or do you actually enjoy my company?” You found yourself unable to look at him as he took a moment to think, despite how direct the question was.

“I suppose I tolerate your babbling BECAUSE I enjoy your company. Although I wouldn’t call it babbling really.” That was a start.

“So you’ve just been busy this week and I’ve foolishly thought I’d done something?” You looked at him now, apologetically with what you had insinuated.

“Well, I’ve been busy thinking about something you’ve done.” He put a great deal of thought into what he was saying and it still came out like that? Your eyes narrowed.

“You’re being very cryptic.” You stated plainly and he sighed lightly.

“Truthfully, I’ve been thinking about you. You’ve managed to keep this hold over me which I’m not totally unfamiliar with but it’s still new to me, especially with the way it affects me. It’s been... difficult to come to terms with.” He took a shaky breath and waited for your response as he stared at your hands. He watched them reach out to his own hands before looking you in the eye.

“I know exactly how you feel.” You smiled reassuringly.

“However, I do need to take things slow. In regards to processing what it all is.” He was still on edge.

“It doesn’t have to be anything you know, just see what happens.” You offered.

“I know, but it is something. I’m just in unfamiliar territory.” He had colour in his cheeks now as he waited for your delayed response.

“So no dancing with the devil yet then?” You cocked your brow and he visibly relaxed.

“Well.. I wouldn’t say that.”

[space-kitten-606]

Hi Kitty! First of all, how are you? I hope you've been doing well :D

I saw your requests were open and I decided to take the chance hehe

Currently I've been feeling a tiiiiiny bit depressed and sort of really tired? And I just want to spend the whole day sleeping >_<

Can I request Saeyoung comforting an MC that's just a bit down and uninspired? You can add as much fluff as you want, go crazy with it, honestly just write something that makes you happy too!

Remember to drink lots of water and to take breaks! Your health comes first!

Sending you tons of hugs and I hope you have a wonderful day :3

Thank you so much for the cute request (and giving me so much free reign too lol). It’s actually something I’ve been also going through in the last couple weeks, so I really felt that lmao since this ask fit right in there, I’ll combine these ^-^ 

I hope that it’s okay and you guys like what I’ve come up with ~

Saeyoung comforting a depressed, uninspired Mc

Normally, Saeyoung really doesn’t mind you spending a day or two just in bed

he assumed it was just one of those days and left you be

but when two days turned to three and eventually three to four, he started to get a little bit worried

so he decided to prepare some food for you and make sure you’re alright for real and that it is not just something you tell him to calm his nerves

with a tablet in hand, he strut towards your shared bed and placed it on your nightstand

you could hear him entering, but it wasn’t enough for you to pull the blanket from over your head. 

nor were you in the mood to do so anyway

“Somebody home??”, Saeyoung asked a bit too cheery for you liking

you answered with an annoyed hum from within your obvious hiding spot

“I made us something to eat.”

“No, thank you. I ate some yoghurt last night.” 

You heard an exasperated huff from next to the bed

“And it is almost afternoon again. You should at least eat a little bit. For me?”

His pleading voice at least got you to peak out from under the blanket. 

On the tablet there were two bowls of some noodle dish, something light, and two glasses of water

“Mmhh noodles….”, you mumbled. 

Your stomach clearly agreed, grumbling as you eyed this dish. 

Smiling, Saeyoung helped you up to rest against the bed’s headboard and handed you the bowl before taking his own. 

“Enjoy your meal!”

The relief was obvious as he spoke. 

You felt bad enough as it was hiding out all this time

it wasn’t like you wanted to spend your days curled up in bed

but every single task you could think of seemed way too stressful to complete

and if it wasn’t the low energy that was stopping you from doing the things you loved

it was the guilt of not having done them in a timely manner

and what was the point of starting them now

As if he was able to read your mind, Saeyoung reached for your hand, squeezing it lightly. 

“Have you been taking your meds?” 

You took a deep breath at the question. 

You weren’t offended, really, but it just solidified your thought that currently, it seemed like your meds weren’t doing their job

then again, seeing how you were treating yourself currently, they probably weren’t to blame

“Yup. I don’t want to know how I’d feel if I did not take them.” 

“Would you like to talk about it?”

“I….don’t know what there is to talk about, Sae. I just. Can’t right now, you know? I didn’t even get any of my work done, but I can’t think of anything. I feel like my brain is a damn desert. There’s nothing I could use to do anything meaningful. It’s terrible and I hate it.”

Your rant went on like this for a couple minutes. 

about how nothing seemed to work out for you and how you couldn’t even use your usually so helpful creative outlets to cope, because that just seemed too hard to do.

it was like your brain was blocking you from doing anything that meant something to you

you could barely even hold a conversation with you friends, making you feel incredibly isolated. 

Sighing, Saeyoung climbed into bed with you, pulling you into his chest.

“I’m really sorry you feel like this, but this will pass. I promise.”

you let out an unconvinced hum, making your boyfriend laugh to himself

the movement of his chest felt a bit funny under your head, making you smile to yourself.

you felt your senses waking up a little.

feeling his warmth around you and inhaling his scent gave you the fuzzies still

even in that dark mindset, being close to him managed to make you feel something

if was fascinating 

Was that what he meant when he told you that he feels like sitting under the sun when talking to you?

You sighed, and relaxed into his embrace

Saeyoung rambled away, showering you in positive affirmations

about how much he loved you and that he believed in you

that he knew you would make it out of this low, coming back energized and strong and able to do anything you want to. 

you couldn’t help but think how this wave of positivity sounded so incredibly naive

and yet it was so similar to the things you’d remind him of whenever he was in an equal situation to yours

as you lay there Saeyoung watched you intently

his hands caressing you with featherlight touches

he didn’t address it, but it made him so happy to see you calm in his embrace like this

he could feel the tension leaving your body

and how your mind seemed to shift a little bit

your facial expression growing softer as you nuzzled into him, taking deep breaths

he tightened his embrace gradually, only stopping his monologue to plant kisses on your temple, and continuing to pepper your face with them

you were so beautiful to him, even in times like this. 

“About your creativity low….”, he whispered, “why don’t you start slow? Just create for the sake of creating. Judgement free zone. That’s what I do when I don’t know how to continue my work on my newest robot! I just make a screaming mouse bot and sneak it into Yoosungs bag! Before you know it, I know just what my latest project was missing!”

You laughed at his silly example at first, until it sunk in what he just told you.

“So it WAS you?!”

Saeyoung cringed. “Don’t tell Yoosungie. He had to go through to weeks of detention because of that, and he’s still upset about it.”

You let out an elongated sigh. 

“With you as a friend, Yoosung really has his work cut out for him. You should do something to apologize.” 

“I’ll think of something. BUT in turn I want you to do something randomly creative. Just working away without a set goal. Deal?”

If he thought he was being clever, he was sadly mistaken.

It was easy to see through what he was trying to do, but it was endearing either way. 

Charmed by his attempt, you gave in, pushing the skeptic voice inside your head away.

“Alright. I’ll try. And you apologize.”

“It’s a deal then!” 

Excited to have you on board and on the best way to get you out of your slump, Saeyoung pumped his fist. 

Incapable of holding back, you let out a laugh at his childish demeanor. 

He really was quite something, wasn’t he?

Saeyoung could feel his heart swell at hearing your beautiful laugh again. 

He couldn’t be happier to help you through your struggles, just as you did for him

[kinomiakai]

Hello! I am so impressed by your writing, how much of it you release and how high quality it is!! Do you have any tips for just making yourself sit down and write? I feel like for me that is my greatest roadblock.

Ahh anon!! Wow, thank you so much!! That is so sweet of you, I’m so glad it feels high quality with how much I do write :’) <3 That’s a great question!! It is really tough, it’s so easy to get distracted or overwhelmed, especially if you have a big idea. A lot of my advice is tailored to that feeling when you open up the document, or you’re sitting there like “I should write��� - that sort of feeling? That’s a big roadblock for me, too.

My biggest advice would be to get past the first line. I feel rusty every time I start that day. It’s always this feeling of “I don’t really know where to go here”/“where was I”/etc etc. So my first few ideas will be kind of off. My first few lines will be a little bit awkward. But then the next few will be a bit less, and a bit less, until I’m finally actually writing, and I can go back and pick out what it was that was making those first few bits not fit as well as they could have. The hardest part is just getting yourself to start, because once you start it suddenly gets a lot easier to just keep going. So—it’s a lot easier said than done—but I would just let yourself be awkward and rusty and just get the ideas out, because the worst thing that can happen is that they’re bad. And if they’re bad, then you can either: (1) fix them, because now you know what’s wrong, (2) scrap them, because now you know what doesn’t work, and you are one step closer to figuring out what will. So, uh. Write badly?

The other bits of advice I would have would be:

Don’t beat yourself up for not doing enough. Any writing is good. Wrote one idea? A point form note? Great. You wrote today. That’s wonderful! I find stressing about how much I want to get done only makes it more difficult to get into the zone. And that one line might lead to more, might inspire you tomorrow, and that’s great!

Art and music really help me. Art to inspire ideas, get me feeling some kind of way that I want to put into words (that was the reason I originally started this blog haha), and music helps me stay in that zone while not getting too distracted. I have a writing playlist of songs that specifically don’t break me out of that zone, or get me feeling a way that I want to write down.

Some days aren’t writing days. They just aren’t! And if you’ve stared at a blank document for like two hours, there might just be a point where you have to call it. That’s okay! Do something else you love. Take a daydreaming day. Take an inspiration day. I’ve been in the middle of playing Stardew Valley when I’ve sprung up and grabbed my laptop because my mind was just left to wander and it /finally/ came up with the thing that fixed whatever I’ve been struggling with. That doesn’t always happen, but it’s really tough to force something when you’re just not feeling it.

I work on a bunch of things at once. I’ve sort of set myself up this way, but it works for me because when I’m blocked on one piece, I can switch to something else, and it sort of refreshes me for the next time I come back to it. Not everyone works this way, but it’s helped me break through some blocks before! It also just lets me be uninspired for certain stories, while still feeling good because I’m still writing.

Note down ideas whenever they come to you. And I know, I know, it’s like 3 AM and you’re delirious and the last thing you want to do is turn on a light or look at your phone - but if you can, I find it’s a lot easier to work from something than it is to work from nothing. And that’s why days where no concrete writing gets done but you’ve scribbled down loose, messy ideas are still good writing days. Those ideas will help you, later on :>

I thiiink that’s all I have? It’s all I can think of right now. I hope it’s helpful! I know everyone is different, but I think we put too much pressure on ourselves to be like “ah yes, my 8 hour writing session was just concluded. I wrote 20 000 words. Another successful day :)” when like…nope. I can’t do that. I think a lot of this will be sort of finding the way you work. Finding the things that inspire you, finding the things that get you excited and motivated and like “yes! I want to write this!” and just doing the best you can at it and letting yourself off the hook for your best looking different from day to day. And from person to person.

Does that make sense? I hope it does haha, thanks for the ask anon! If there’s anything else I can try to help with, let me know :>

[1dffchallenges]

It’s All Happening

Written By: @luminescencefics

Characters: Frankie/Harry 

Summary: If Frankie Goodhart had one secret in her life, it would be that she spent her summer writing album reviews to Rolling Stone, hoping one day they’d give her a shot. If she had a second secret in her life, it would be that she was constantly chasing love, never knowing what it felt like to be truly immersed in another person. She blames this on her ever-growing record collection filled with love songs. 

Harry Styles had a lot of secrets in his life, but if he had to share one, it would be that he was trying his hardest to balance his life while being on the road with his band. Just as he’s starting to feel like he’s begun to balance the ever-shifting scales of his life, Frankie shows up, and suddenly he doesn’t want to keep his secrets hidden any longer. 

Well, except one. 

Inspired by Almost Famous, a 70s au about a girl whose job required her to ask the hard-hitting questions and a boy who did everything he could to avoid them.

March 1973 - entry no. 1

Most mornings in the Goodhart household typically started with some sort of screaming match between Frankie’s mother and her older sister, Mary. You see, Mary had a penchant for rebellious behavior, or so their mother believed. She liked listening to rock music and kissing her boyfriend Greg outside in his Chevrolet Nova past curfew. Mary graduated high school four years before Frankie did, and her mother had begged her to go to college. But instead, Mary took that time to “find herself,” and put off enrolling into schools on the west coast in favor of finding her own place in the world.

Cynthia Goodhart had a lot of rules in their household, but two that stood out the most (and practically ruined Mary’s life) were: no rock music and no popular culture influences. Cynthia believed that her children did not need those things to rot their brain, and instead played classical music and watched films that she had seen numerous times before to ensure they were censored appropriately and recently introduced soy to their diets.

“This is why dad left you!” Mary would say whenever their mother would find a hidden record that went against her arbitrary rules.

“You’re so ungrateful, I didn’t raise you to be so cruel!” Her mother would respond, and Frankie would sit on the top of the carpeted stairs and watch it all unravel below her.

Truth is, Frankie didn’t know why their dad left. She was too young to remember what life was like with him around, but Mary always told her that it was their mother who drove him away with her incessant rules and authoritative outlook on life.

“I’m never going to end up like her, Frankie,” Mary would say after their fight, squeezed beside her little sister in her twin bed. Frankie would just hold her hand tightly and agree, even though she didn’t really think her mother was all that bad.

A few weeks later when Mary announces that she’s leaving Santa Monica and going to San Francisco to become a stewardess, Frankie isn’t all that surprised. It was only a matter of time until Mary left. Their mother didn’t take this well, of course. She wanted Mary to go to college and find a nice boy to start a family with. She didn’t want her running off to San Francisco with Greg to travel a world so far from what she had known.

Before the Chevrolet Nova skids out of the driveway and Frankie never sees her sister again, Mary runs up to her and gives her the tightest hug she could muster. Frankie holds her with all of her grip, wishing that she didn’t feel that she had to run away in order to be her own person. But it was out of Frankie’s control, so she could only wish the best for her older sister.

“Frankie,” Mary whispers in her ear, “look under my bed. That suitcase is yours. Everything you’ve ever wanted to know, every question you have, the answers are there. I love you. I always have.”

After Mary is long gone and her mother has cried out all of her tears, Frankie slips into her sister’s room and lifts up the ruffled bedskirt to find an old brown leather suitcase. She opens it and inside is Mary’s secret cache of rock albums spanning decades. Frankie heaves it into her room and plucks Tommy by The Who on her record player and plays it softly, and in that moment she feels as if her life is finally starting.

***

May 1973 - entry no. 2

Frankie was sitting in her bedroom listening to

Exile on Main St.

by the Rolling Stones trying to clear her head. She was suffering from a bit of writer’s block, and she was feeling a bit uninspired at the moment.

During the middle of “Torn and Frayed,” Frankie hears the landline start ringing from the kitchen downstairs. Her mother was currently in the shower, and deeming the call to be rather important as it was after dinner time, Frankie trudges downstairs to answer before the ringing has ceased.

“Hello?”

“Hi, Lester Bangs here. Is this Frankie Goodhart?” A deep voice says on the other line.

Frankie pauses, scrolling through the rolodex in her brain trying to remember if she knew anybody with that name. Suddenly, Frankie sucks in a breath, realization dawning on her.

“Hello? Do I have the wrong number or something?” The voice repeated, clearly losing patience. Frankie was currently speaking to the Lester Bangs, top music editor at Rolling Stone magazine. Also known as, the name she had scribbled on the past fifteen manilla envelopes she sent out to the magazine up in San Francisco.

“Er, yes. Hi, this is she,” Frankie mutters, trying to sound sophisticated.

“Awesome. I work at Rolling Stone and we just came across your review for Bowie’s Aladdin Sane record. Ace work,” Lester says quickly, and Frankie can feel her heartbeat in her throat.

“Oh cool. Thank you,” Frankie replies, quietly jumping up and down on the tile flooring of her kitchen.

“Are you currently writing for any other publication? Please don’t tell me those bastards over at Creem snatched you up,” Lester asks.

“No, uh, nothing like that. Just freelancing, at the, er, current moment,” Frankie says. She lowers her voice an octave so she doesn’t sound like the eighteen year old high school graduate she clearly was. She was sure that Rolling Stone would want nothing to do with her if they knew the truth.

“Good to hear. On the envelope in front of me it says you're based out in Santa Monica. Tonight there’s a show at The Troubadour. The Nocturnals are performing and if you’re up for it, we’ll give you fifty dollars to write a review on it. Eight hundred words.” Lester spoke so quickly that Frankie couldn’t even discern what he was actually saying to her.

The Troubadour. A live show. The Nocturnals. Fifty dollars.

The words replayed over and over in her mind like a broken record. She had no idea that this could even happen to her. Before she could reply, Lester spoke again.

“Fine. Seventy dollars, but I can’t go any higher,” he sounded exasperated with a hint of desperation laced in between.

Just as Frankie was about to respond with a resonant yes, she hears her mother’s voice on the other telephone from her bedroom through the tinny speakers.

“Francine? Who on earth are you speaking to at this time?”

Frankie’s heart drops.

“Uh… Hello?” Lester asks, completely confused as to why there were two voices on the line. Before her mother could blow her cover, Frankie drops the receiver onto the kitchen counter and sprints upstairs to her mother’s bedroom, slamming her fingers on the lever to end the call.

“It’s a friend from school. Sorry it’s a late call, I’ll get off the phone in a minute,” Frankie rushes out, before turning back on her heel and grabbing the other telephone in the kitchen.

“Hi Lester, sorry, that was my, uh, assistant. Yeah. She’s sort of new at answering the phones and such,” Frankie shoots out quickly, lying straight through her teeth.

She needed this phone call to end immediately.

“No worries. I’ll expect a review mailed over by tomorrow so it’s on my desk by Monday morning. Any questions?” Lester asks in a way that sounded like he really didn’t have the time to answer.

“Nope. Sounds good,” Frankie says sounding completely out of breath.

“Expect to hear from me on Monday. Good luck,” Lester says, hanging up before Frankie could even consider responding.

Frankie’s first reaction was to start squealing in excitement. The second was, shit, what am I supposed to say to my mother?

***

Somehow, Frankie convinces her mother to drive her down Sunset Strip towards The Troubadour for the live show. If there’s one thing Frankie Goodhart could never do in this world, it would be to hurt her mother. Granted, she knows her rules are a bit obscene and that she can be a bit overbearing at times, but at the end of the day, she was her mother. And that was the main difference between Frankie and Mary—Mary thought running away was the answer to everything whereas Frankie believed honesty was most important.

Which is why Frankie was currently sitting in the front seat of her mother’s baby blue Lincoln Continental parked illegally across the street from the concert venue. She had spilled the beans about her writing cohorts to Rolling Stone, and even though her mother didn’t like the idea of it, she appreciated the fact that Frankie was trying to make something of herself. And there’s no denying that seventy dollars was a lot of money for any eighteen-year-old.

“Please make good choices. I’ll be here to pick you up at ten on the dot,” her mother says, staring at Frankie sharply.

“I will, mom.” Frankie makes a move for the door handle, watching as the crowd of teenagers and twenty-somethings huddle towards the front entrance. It’s loud and she can smell cigarette smoke and marijuana in the air. She knows her mother can too, and she knows that she’s about two minutes away from a full-blown heart attack, so before she can escape the confines of the car, she gives her mother a gentle reassuring squeeze.

With her tape recorder in one hand and her pocket-sized notebook in the other, Frankie starts walking towards the front entrance. Before she can get too far, she hears her mother bark out one last order.

“And Francine? NO DRUGS!”

Frankie feels her cheeks burn up as the people in front of her turn around and snicker at her mother’s frame hanging out of the Continental. They jokingly repeat her mother’s warning, with some even holding up a lit joint at her, cackling away.

If there was a hole in the pavement, Frankie would admittedly jump into it.

She makes her way to the front entrance with no luck. The show was sold out, and she didn’t have a ticket. Before Frankie can start to panic, she reassess the venue and sees that around the back there was some sort of loading dock. She turns the corner and is situated at the top of a ramp, with a group of three girls at the bottom giggling to themselves near a steel door.

“Are you new?” Frankie hears a voice from behind her.

She turns and is face to face with one of the most beautiful girls she’s ever seen in her life. Her blonde hair is long and curly, cascading over her shoulders and down her back effortlessly, ending just above two hollow dimples. The girl towers over Frankie, and when she looks down at her glittery go-go boots she understands why. Her long legs are toned and smooth underneath her leather mini skirt. She’s wearing a silver halter top that is so sheer Frankie can see her nipples through the thin layer of material. Over top is a pink velvet trench coat with frills on the lining, a garment completely inappropriate for the California heat in the beginning of summer.

That doesn’t matter though, because this girl emits confidence that is almost palpable. Frankie compares her own outfit to this girl’s, her long ivory legs and knobby knees hidden beneath her flared denim bell bottoms, her pointed boots with the small heel making her seem taller than she actually was. Her white cropped t-shirt is almost childlike compared to this girl’s daring choice, and when Frankie looks up she’s a bit embarrassed to be seen with her.

“Uh, I guess. I’m supposed to be writing an article about The Nocturnals for Rolling Stone, but I found out a bit late and I don’t have a ticket,” Frankie explains, holding up her tape recorder lamely. She really wishes she thought this entire thing through.

“Ooh, a journalist,” the girl echoes, reaching into her translucent plastic purse to grab a cigarette. She’s effortlessly cool in a way that should be intimidating to Frankie, but for some unknown reason she emits warmth.

“Cherry!” Frankie hears from down below the ramp. Suddenly the squealing trio starts running up the pavement and Frankie watches as the curly blonde skips down to meet them in a group hug. They’re all wearing some sort of sequinned ensemble, and Frankie can only assume that they’re groupies.

“Who’s this, Cherry?” A girl with jet-black hair and deep brown eyes asks, pointing at Frankie. Her long fingers are covered in jeweled rings and she has a fair amount of kohl liner surrounding her eyes. She’s wearing leather and is not as warm as the blonde girl.

“I’m not sure. I think she’s new, girls,” the blonde girl, presumably Cherry, says. She sounds much older than she looks and it’s almost obvious that she’s the ring leader of this troupe of glittery girls.

“I’m a journalist. I’m not a, uh, grou…” the words fall out of Frankie’s lips before she can finish the sentence. The girls in front of her hang their mouths open in shock, and Frankie feels as if she has said the wrong thing. The blonde girl has a hint of a smile on her face, as if the whole interaction is amusing to her.

“Don’t you dare say groupie!” The black-haired girl shrieks, practically jumping out of her skin.

Frankie feels bad, suddenly.

“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that, I mean I just—”

“—Assumed?” Cherry finishes for her.

Frankie shrugs her shoulders because she isn’t sure what to say. She feels bad for assuming the worst out of these girls, but she really couldn’t blame herself considering they were standing at a back entrance wearing far too much eye makeup than they should be. Frankie hated to judge people, because she didn’t deem it fair. But, she genuinely didn’t know any better. And she really didn’t think that these girls would be offended.

“You’re talking to Cherry Bomb here. She changed the groupie way of life forever. Before Cherry, girls were just throwing themselves at rockstars and sleeping with them just for the hell of it. Cherry here inspires people, man. They write songs about her! It’s much deeper than just sex, honey,” the girl with black hair says, pointing at Cherry as if she was a fine painting in a museum that you weren’t allowed to touch.

In some ways, she sort of was like that.

Cherry just smiles. “It’s about the connection. You’ll see,” she says.

Before Frankie could apologize again and leave, the large steel door opens and another pretty girl with brown hair and shiny pants comes out, holding a bottle of champagne in one hand and a cluster of backstage passes in the other. The girls all start running towards the door, and Frankie is about to turn around in defeat before she feels a small hand latch onto her forearm.

“Aren’t you coming?” Cherry asks with a grin.

Before she could respond, Cherry tugs on her arm and the two girls are running through the steel door into the large venue. The other four girls start walking ahead, sharing sips from the large bottle of champagne, but Cherry hangs back, slowing her strides so she’s matching Frankie’s slow gait.

“So, what do I call you?” Cherry asks as they continue walking down a long hallway.

“Frankie,” she responds, looking up into Cherry’s silver eyes. “What do I call you?”

Cherry laughs. “Cherry should be fine,” she says, her words twisting as if they were a riddle.

Before Frankie could respond, they’re suddenly being thrust into a much smaller room. The air is stale with cigarette smoke and the effervescent scent of boy. Inside the makeshift dressing room, Frankie recognizes the girls from outside lounging around men of different ages. They’re laughing and drinking straight liquor from the bottle and Frankie tries her hardest to conceal her uneasiness.

Because in front of her were The Nocturnals, and she had a job to do.

She notices the drummer and the bassist, Jett and Rod, sitting on a torn up leather couch sharing a joint between the two all while entertaining Cherry’s friends. A girl with hair as dark as coals sits in front of a mirror applying red lipstick and Frankie recognizes her as the keyboardist and backing vocalist, Veronica—the only female in the band. A man with dark green eyes and long brown hair looks up and smiles when Cherry walks into the room, and Frankie realizes that he is Eddie, the lead guitarist.

Frankie did her research.

Before she could start conducting her interviews, a husky voice from the other side of the room calls out, stopping Frankie dead in her tracks.

“Cher, who’s your friend?” he asks.

Frankie’s head snaps up and immediately her blue eyes latch onto a pair of green. They’re much lighter than Eddie’s, and if Frankie was standing closer, she would be able to see the turquoise ring that outlined his pupil. His hair is shorter than the rest of the men in the band, albeit still curling around the tops of his ears. He’s the only member of The Nocturnals with a bare face, sans facial hair, and Frankie is taken aback by his youthful features. He’s wearing white wide-legged trousers and a bright pink shirt tucked under the waistband, barely buttoned up, showcasing his toned stomach and chest. His sleeves are rolled up and Frankie can almost make out the shapes of his tattoos, but before she can inspect them further, she’s completely aware that she’s been staring at him far too long.

Him, also known as Harry Styles, the lead singer of The Nocturnals.

Cherry hasn’t said anything, but with one look in her silver eyes, she’s said an entire string of words to Frankie without even opening her mouth.

Frankie suddenly feels a fire start to grow in her stomach.

“Harry, this is my friend Frankie. She’s a journalist,” Cherry announces loud enough for the rest of the room to hear over the beginning riffs of the opening band’s first song.

“A journalist?! Who let her in? She’s the enemy!” Eddie yells over from the couch. It’s clear that the rest of the band feel the same way about having a reporter around, and Frankie’s confidence suddenly starts wavering.

“Oi, calm down Eddie. She looks harmless enough,” Harry says slowly, suddenly appearing right in front of her. His voice is low and his eyes have a twinkle to them and Frankie’s throat has become increasingly dry.

“Hi Frankie, I’m Harry. Nice to meet you,” he says, towering above her from his stance.

Frankie shoots her arm out for a handshake. “Hi Harry. Nice to meet you, too.” His hands feel warm in her grasp and she’s shaking his so hard that the bangles on her wrists clang together like tambourines.

“If you have the time, I’d love to ask you a few questions before you—”

“—Five minutes!” A voice interrupts. Instantly, the band starts standing up and running around the room, grabbing various instruments and beginning to tune them accordingly. Roadies come in to grab amplifiers and microphone stands, and everything starts twirling together like a whirlwind and Frankie is losing grasp on what she’s supposed to be doing here in the first place.

The band starts walking towards the stage and Cherry grabs Frankie’s arm again, giggling a bit to herself. They catch up to Jett, and Frankie can see through his red-rimmed eyes and his glazed over stare that he’s stoned out of his mind, but he smiles at her and gives her a small nod, and Frankie feels a bit more welcomed.

“So who do you write for?” he asks, grabbing his drumsticks from the back pocket of his blue jeans and running his fingers over the shiny wood.

“Rolling Stone,” Frankie replies quickly.

He stops walking for a moment and looks up with wide eyes. “No shit? I’ll come find you after the show. Give ya a real interview,” he says excitedly, before giving her one last parting nod and approaching the rest of the band.

Frankie feels a bit out of sorts, but Cherry is still standing by her side and she feels an odd sense of comfort in that. The band is doing some sort of pre-show ritual and Frankie starts scribbling it all down in her notebook because it seems like the right thing to do. She watches the huddle break apart in front of her, and the band starts walking out onto the dimly lit stage.

She can hear the roars of the crowd, can practically feel them vibrating through the thick leather of her boots. And just before Harry steps on stage, he looks over his shoulder and gives her a wink, and the fire inside Frankie’s stomach turns into a full-blown blaze.

***

The show is everything and more. Frankie started by lingering in the background, letting the rest of the friends of the band stand closer to the side stage viewing area. After their first song was over and the crowd was cheering louder than anything Frankie had ever heard before, she feels Cherry drag her towards the front where she can get a better view of the band.

“How are you supposed to write an article standing all the way back there?” Cherry asks with a grin. They’re standing so close together that Frankie can feel the frills on her jacket tickling her cheekbones, but she doesn’t mind.

“Good evening, everybody,” Harry says after they’ve finished their first song of the night. He’s nothing but confident up there, a true frontman, and Frankie is a little bit in awe of him. “We’re The Nocturnals. I hope you like this next one,” he says and the crowd cheers. He looks over towards Eddie with a nod and he starts picking at the fret, playing a loud solo before the drums crash in and the second song starts.

It’s the third single off of their album and Frankie isn’t ashamed that she knows all the words. She would be lying if she didn’t think it was a good album. She remembers running to the other end of the boulevard into Tower Records before they closed to purchase it. Frankie must have played it for a week straight on the record player in her room.

Frankie starts scribbling in her journal, balancing on one foot while her knee is raised in a ninety degree angle acting as a makeshift desk. Her head is darting up, down, making sure not to miss a moment, but also making sure she’s capturing it all for the article.

“Enough of that, Frankie. Just watch,” Cherry says, whispering in her ear. Her small hands put pressure on the notebook over Frankie’s thigh, pressing down so her boot-clad feet touch the ground again.

“But I have to—”

“—Just watch. It’s the best way to experience the music.”

And Frankie does just that.

***

The show finishes with an encore of their number one hit single, “Too Much.” It’s electrifying and Frankie is glad that she listened to Cherry’s advice and watched the entire thing with wide eyes, remembering every moment of it. She could feel everything—the thumping of the bass, the rattling of the cymbals, the zing of the keyboards. But Harry’s voice—that was something she couldn’t wait to write about.

Frankie’s raking through the thesaurus in her mind trying to think of other words to describe his voice. She scribbles down guttural and gravelly, grating and gruff, throaty and raspy before she’s hearing it right in front of her.

“Did you enjoy the show?” he asks, and Frankie is trying her best not to stare at the sweat dripping down the sides of his forehead, past his cheekbone, and pooling at his deep collarbones.

She blinks.

“It was amazing. Perfect, almost,” she replies.

“Almost?” Harry repeats, tilting his head downwards. Frankie watches as a bead of sweat travels down the bridge of his nose and she feels the warmest she’s ever felt this entire night.

Frankie reaches out to grab her tape recorder. Just as her finger is hovering over the record button, Harry shakes his head, tutting in disapproval.

“Not now.” And with that he walks away.

Frankie searches around for Jett, remembering that he promised her an interview after the show. Surprisingly, it goes a lot better than her attempt with Harry, and not long after, Rod decides to pitch in and add some remarks about the performance. Reapplying her makeup from the vanity behind the group, Veronica agrees to speak to Frankie and somehow she’s surprised that this group of people who once called her the enemy suddenly have an inkling to speak to her.

Harry reemerges suddenly, swapping out his pink dress shirt for a black one. It still isn’t buttoned appropriately, and he’s still looking at her with a twinkle in his emerald eyes that Frankie has never seen before. She watches as one of Cherry’s friends tries to give him attention, but his eyes are locked on Frankie’s, and she knows that this is the moment she needs to get his interview before the clock strikes ten.

“Do you have time to talk?” Frankie asks, approaching the pair cautiously.

The auburn haired girl rolls her eyes, but Harry just nods, shooing her away. Frankie feels bad.

They sit in the farthest corner of the room, her notepad and pen at the ready, her finger hovering over the record button. Harry’s watching her intently, inspecting her close enough that he can see the nervous shake of her hand, the small quiver of her lip.

“So, what has inspired you to make music?” Frankie asks, wasting no time.

Harry blows out a breath. “That’s the first question you ask me?” He reaches his hand out for the bottle of whiskey on the table, slugging it without pouring it into a glass.

“Well, on your debut album your song ‘1969’ clearly comes from personal—”

“—What inspired you to write?” Harry asks, completely ignoring Frankie’s question.

“Excuse me?” She says, completely thrown off guard.

Harry just shrugs his shoulders, smirking at her from his position on the leather seat. He takes another swig from the bottle and Frankie tries not to stare at his bottom lip that has become shinier from the liquor.

“I’m the one meant to be interviewing you, Harry,” Frankie says shyly.

“What if I want to know more about you, Franks?” His gaze is unwavering and Frankie is sure he can see the flush working its way up her neck, before settling over her freckled cheeks.

Before she could respond or even begin to pry into the mysterious mind of the frontman of The Nocturnals, Frankie chances a glance over at the clock and sees that it’s 9:58.

Shit. Her mother.

“What?” Harry asks with a chuckle.

Shit. Frankie said that outloud.

“Nothing. I just have to go,” she says quickly, closing her notebook and tucking her pencil behind her right ear. She presses the pause button on her tape recorder, holding it tightly in her hand until her knuckles turn white.

“You have to leave? Already?” Harry’s eyes are wide at Frankie’s fumbling, and for once he’s actually confused that a girl who looks like her isn’t throwing herself at him.

“Yeah. Thanks for the interview, even though I can probably only quote a few words,” Frankie says offhandedly. She stands up and Harry follows suit. She’s not sure what type of parting she should give him, so she settles with an awkward wave, before running out of the dressing room and back through the steel door.

She can hear the honking of the Continental from the same illegal parking spot, and Frankie sighs as she starts picking up her speed on the loading dock, knowing that the longer she takes to reach her mother, the more frantic the honking will become.

“Frankie! Wait up!”

Frankie turns around and sees that Cherry and her wild blonde hair are running up to her. Frankie looks at Cherry’s hands, wondering if she had left something backstage. But when she’s standing in front of her, she is empty handed. Cherry reaches a small hand out and grabs the pencil behind Frankie’s ear, before stealing her notebook from her hand and flipping open to an empty page.

“You need to call me,” Cherry announces once she’s done scribbling her phone number down. She returns all of Frankie’s items back to their original place.

“Really?” Frankie asks, completely shocked. She couldn’t picture a world where a girl like Cherry would ever even consider being her friend.

“I need a new crowd,” Cherry says with a shrug.

Frankie just smiles, nodding her head with a promise to call her. She hears the Continental honking again but chooses to ignore it. Instead she watches Cherry walk backwards down the loading dock, giving Frankie the most infectious smile she’s ever seen.

“Can’t you feel it, Frankie?! It’s all happening!” Cherry’s arms are outstretched and she starts twirling around, before giving one last wink and walking through the steel door once again.

Frankie can feel it. It’s all happening.

***

June 1973 - entry no. 3

On Monday morning Frankie receives a call from Lester Bangs praising her for her review about The Nocturnals show. It went so well that Lester and the other music editors at Rolling Stone wanted to send Frankie on their West Coast tour for a month. They wanted her to follow the band on the road and write a featured article piece about the mysterious new British rock band that was taking over the industry by storm. It was scheduled to be printed in the middle of the magazine, spanning over three pages.

And they wanted Frankie to write it.

“How are you going to pay for it? Who will you stay with? Is it even safe?” Her mother asks after Frankie gets off the phone with Lester. He still didn’t know that she was an eighteen-year-old girl living with her mother. And her mother didn’t know that Lester offered to pay an eighteen-year-old girl still living with her mother a lot of money to write this piece.

It was just easier that way.

“The magazine will cover my hotel expenses. I’d obviously stay with the band, but in my own room. It’ll be safe, you know me—I stay out of trouble,” Frankie says, answering each of her mother’s questions one by one.

“But, Francine, how will you—”

“—It’s my dream, mom.” Cynthia Goodhart purses her lips. She’s thinking so hard that Frankie can practically hear the wheels turning in her head. After a few moments, her mother walks over and hugs her tight.

“You better call me every night. I want to know where you are and know that you’re safe. And for the love of god please—”

“—No drugs,” Frankie finishes for her mother. She hugs her back even tighter.

Three days later, Frankie’s mother has just dropped her off at Long Beach Arena in Los Angeles. Her duffle bag is swung over her shoulder, and for the first time in her eighteen years of living, Frankie Goodhart is alone.

And she’s shocked at how excited she is.

The Nocturnals are scheduled to play a gig at the arena tonight, and Frankie remembers her instructions. She’s meant to seek out their manager, Bryan Greenberg, and retrieve her all access pass for the next month. Then, he’ll show her the hotel accommodations, give her a room key, and she’s off to start her assignment.

The band has been informed of her role. She remembers Lester telling her that a few of them were not keen on the idea of having a journalist follow them around for a month, but after hearing that they were going to be featured in the next publication of the magazine, their outlook immediately changed.

“Rockstars,” Lester said over the phone, “They’ll do anything for some decent fuckin’ press.”

On her way into the arena, Frankie bypasses a behemoth of a vehicle. It’s monstrous and gunmetal grey and looks like it’s about to fall apart at any moment, and when she squints she can make out the lettering spelling BERNIE on the side near the door. It reeks of marijuana and booze and she can only assume that this is their tour bus.

Before she can continue to walk by, she hears her voice.

“Frankie!” It’s Cherry and Frankie is surprised that she’s actually happy to see the tall blonde girl. She’s wearing another outrageous assortment of clothing, full of frilly layers and white patent leather. Her lips are stained red and she’s wearing opaque pink sunglasses and when she wraps her thin arms around Frankie’s neck, she instantly hugs her back.

“I’m so glad you’re here,” Cherry says, and Frankie’s glad too.

When they untangle themselves, Cherry grabs onto Frankie’s arm and drags her towards the arena, mumbling something about the lingering smell of sex inside of Bernie. Frankie doesn’t bother to ask her what she means, instead allows Cherry to drag her inside the venue.

Frankie tells her that she has to find Bryan and Cherry just shakes her head, explaining to her that Bryan isn’t any fun before five o’clock. Frankie takes her word for it, and not long after have the two entered a backstage area filled with tables and chairs and an assortment of food. Various crew members lounge about eating craft services, and as her eyes sweep over the room, she sees the band in the far corner.

“The enemy is approaching,” Frankie hears Eddie call out ominously from the table. Veronica and Rod snicker beside him, and Frankie tries not to let their words affect her.

She has a job to do.

Cherry shushes them before sitting next to Rod, running her fingers through his long blonde hair that falls past his shoulders. Frankie watches them, fully aware that the only reason Cherry is here is because she’s sleeping with the bassist. But then she remembers her conversation with Cherry’s friends outside of The Troubadour, and she pushes those feelings deep down, only hoping for Cherry’s sake that Rod cares about her the same way she cares about him, even though he has a rumored fiancée back home.

Frankie is trying not to judge.

Before she can say anything, she hears shuffling behind her. She feels the hairs on the back of her neck stand up because in front of her is four-fifths of the band, so that only leaves Harry, who has suddenly appeared behind her. Frankie hates that she can feel his presence before she can actually see him, and when he gives her a throaty hello, she can practically see the goosebumps prickling her skin.

“Heard you were comin’. Glad you’re here, Franks.” Frankie is fully aware that Cherry’s eyes are on her, and all she can do is stare at her new friend, completely out of her own element.

“Hi, Harry,” Frankie offers shyly, finally allowing him to enter her frame.

Before she could examine him fully, another man approaches the table. He’s shorter than Harry, a stocky little man with a permanent frown etched onto his face. His hair is thinning, practically balding in some spots, and he looks utterly exhausted.

“You the journalist?” He asks Frankie. His accent is high-pitched and squeaky, and Frankie blinks once, twice, before realizing that he’s actually addressing her.

“Yeah, hi. Frankie Goodhart.” She extends her arm even though he makes no effort to try and shake it. Frankie suddenly feels small, even though she’s taller than the man in front of her. His eyes are raking up and down her body, and Frankie squirms under his gaze.

“Christ, Rolling Stone hires kids now?” He chuckles to himself and Frankie really wishes the ground would swallow her up right then and there.

“Enough Bryan. They wouldn’t have sent her if she wasn’t good, right?” Harry comments, finally taking the spotlight off of Frankie. She’s grateful that the attention is off of her now. All she wants to do is start gathering quotes for her piece.

If only things could be that easy.

***

The show was once again incredible. Frankie watched from backstage, standing on Cherry’s side. She followed her advice again, only jotting down pivotal moments in her notebook. Most of the show, she spent mouthing along to the lyrics.

She didn’t want to admit that she was a fan.

“You can’t let them know you’re into their stuff,” Lester told her on the phone three days earlier. “They’re gonna want to buy you shit, be your friend. All of that. You can’t let that happen. Once they’ve got you, you’re fucked.”

After the show is over, the backstage area of the arena is buzzing with people. Cherry’s friends showed up right after the opening act was finished, and currently they were traipsing around the green room as if they owned the place. Jett sat sandwiched between two of them, sharing a joint and sips of champagne right from the bottle. Frankie had just finished talking to Veronica, who surprisingly was a vessel of knowledge. Before she could finish making her rounds, Rod storms in angrily, with an annoyed Harry trailing behind him.

“You really had to stay out on stage the longest when we were giving our bows, Harry?” Rod asks, and suddenly the entire room begins to grow quiet.

“What’s going on?” Bryan asks.

“Fuckin’ Harry’s out here craving all the attention, that’s what’s going on! And you’re so far up his ass you can’t even see it!” Rod’s full on screaming now, and all Frankie can do is just sit and watch.

“Everybody says ‘oh look, it’s Harry’s band! Look how talented Harry’s band is! As if we’re not a fuckin’ unit!” Frankie watches as Harry’s eyes grow darker. Bryan is trying to calm Rod down, but it’s no use. He’s completely uncaged.

Before he can say anything else, his eyes suddenly fall onto Frankie’s.

“I’m not sayin’ anything else with the enemy around.” It’s final, absolute. The words resonate in her brain and for the first time since arriving, Frankie’s second-guessing taking this job in the first place.

Rod storms out after that, and Frankie tries to ignore the green eyes trying to search for hers. She doesn't want the attention right now. What she wants is to retreat back into her hotel room and reevaluate how the next month of her life will go.

While everybody else heads back to the hotel, Frankie notices that Harry stays back, choosing to spend the night in the bus.

***

June 1973 - entry no. 4

The entire bus ride to Tempe, Arizona is uncomfortable.

Tensions are still high from Rod and Harry’s fight after the show in Long Beach last night, and Frankie watches as they sit on opposite sides of the bus, eyes covered in sunglasses facing the windows.

Eddie sits close to Harry, automatically taking his side because he’s his older brother. It makes sense, and Frankie watches it all unravel in her seat beside Cherry. She’s thankful that the blonde girl has decided to sit with her instead of Rod, because Frankie is still struggling with fitting in. This whole enemy ordeal is really starting to make things difficult for her.

Once they hit a rest stop, Jett offers Frankie some of his potato chips and for the rest of the ride he talks to her about music and the process of recording their first album. Veronica joins in, recounting the story of how she joined the band after watching them play a show in Phoenix.

“They were decent,” she tells Frankie, her American accent standing out.

“She makes us better,” Jett says, nodding at Veronica appreciatively.

In the dressing room before the Tempe show, battle lines are drawn up. Harry and Eddie stand on one side, chain-smoking cigarettes and keeping to themselves. Rod and Cherry sit on the other side, and Frankie watches as Cherry soothes Rod’s anger by running her small fingers down his back. Veronica and Jett play the roles of peacemakers, alternating between each side, trying to get everybody in the mindset for a great show.

And as Frankie watches from the sidelines, she’s shocked that it is in fact a great show.

During their last song, Frankie watches Harry grab the water bottle resting on the riser where Jett’s drum set was. She almost misses the dramatic eye roll Rod gives him, seemingly annoyed at whatever Harry was planning on doing. As the lights are dimmed low and Eddie starts playing a riff, Frankie watches Harry fill his cheeks with water.

He can feel her gaze on him. As soon as Jett starts hitting the kick drum, Harry’s green eyes meet Frankie’s. He gives her a quick wink before turning over towards the crowd, leaning back on his legs and spitting the water up into the air as the instruments all clash together.

Frankie tries to ignore the tingling beneath her skin.

After the post-show adrenaline rush has worn off, The Nocturnals retreat back to their pre-show state. Eddie tries to entertain Harry while the rest of the band keep Rod as far away from him as possible. Frankie just observes, scribbling notes down in her journal, before Cherry approaches her cautiously.

“Do you think you could do me a favor, Frankie?” Cherry asks. Her voice is soft and her eyes show a little bit of apprehension, and Frankie immediately snaps her journal shut.

“Of course. Everything okay, Cherry?” Frankie is concerned because for the first time since being introduced to Cherry, she’s asking Frankie for help.

“Could you talk to Harry, maybe? He seems to be fond of you. Maybe you can get through to him about the whole Rod situation.” Frankie suddenly understands that the only reason Cherry is concerned about Harry is because Rod is involved.

“Uh, I don’t know if I’m really the best person—”

“—The thing is, they’re both alphas. Harry takes control and Rod doesn’t know how to function without it. They need each other, Frankie. The band needs them. Sometimes it’s tough getting through to Harry, but do you think you could try it just this time? For me?”

Frankie doesn’t know how to say no to people. Which is why she finds herself approaching Harry outside of the hotel while the rest of the band grab beers from Bryan’s cooler and stretch out around the pool outside of the building.

“I don’t want to do the interview right now, Franks,” Harry says quietly once he realizes that Frankie has stayed back to chat with him.

“We can just talk. Completely off the record,” Frankie says, throwing her journal and tape recorder deep into the depths of her messenger bag around her body.

Harry looks at her with his eyebrows raised. “Oh yeah? So what, we’re just gonna talk as friends?” He’s teasing her now and Frankie just rolls her eyes.

“If that’s what you’d like, sure. Friends,” Frankie agrees, surprisingly meaning every word.

“Alright. Come with me.” Harry leads them to a quieter area away from the pool. It’s a makeshift smoking area, and when Harry reaches into his denim pocket for his pack of Winstons and offers one to Frankie, she shakes her head no. Harry gives her another long look before shrugging his shoulders and lighting the stick between his cherry lips.

“Are you here to try and make me feel better?” Harry asks smugly.

Frankie shakes her head, growing annoyed. “No. Cherry just asked if I could—”

“—Oh so Cher put you up to this?” Harry interrupts, and Frankie has decided that this is just something she has to get used to around him. The constant interrupting, constant avoidance of questions, constant staring.

Frankie just sighs. She’s not quite sure why Cherry thinks Harry is fond of her, considering they can barely get through a conversation without him ignoring her questions and directing them towards Frankie instead.

They’re quiet for a few minutes. Harry finishes his cigarette, stubbing it out with the sole of his boots before Frankie opens her mouth.

“Why do you put up with it?” It’s quiet and she’s not sure if she should have even asked him that in the first place, but she’s curious.

“I thought this wasn’t an interview?”

“It’s not. Off the record, strictly.”

Harry stands up straighter, no longer leaning on the fence surrounding the smoking area. His shoulders turn so he’s standing directly in front of Frankie, eyes falling past her uncovered shoulders to her thin yellow tank top, before falling down the lengths of her ivory legs under her jean shorts. She screams of innocence and Harry suddenly feels like he can drop his rockstar façade and finally be truthful for once in his life.

“I do it because I have to,” Harry says slowly.

“You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to, Harry,” Frankie replies, blue eyes staring deep into green.

Harry just laughs to himself quietly, shaking his head.

“Sometimes you have to do things because they’re expected of you. Like love, for instance.” He’s speaking as if he has all of the answers in the world and Frankie can’t quite fathom how that could possibly be true.

”What do you mean?”

“Well. You’re expected to love your boyfriend, right?” Harry’s asking her in a way that doesn’t come across as fishing for information. Frankie suddenly wonders if he thought she was the type of girl that would have a boyfriend. That she was capable of enthralling the other sex.

“I don’t have a boyfriend.” Frankie’s suddenly shy, and Harry looks at her as if he’s seeing her for the first time.

“Well, any of your boyfriends. You were expected to love them.” Harry doesn’t need Frankie to tell her that she actually has never had a boyfriend in her entire life. Her silence tells him more than he needs to know, and Frankie hopes he can’t see her fidgeting under the moonlight.

“I wouldn’t know.” Frankie says it so quietly that Harry almost missed the words leaving her lips. He suddenly feels his age for the first time—twenty-three and hyperaware of the pretty girl with freckles on her face who has never been in love before.

“You’ve never been in love?” He sounds shocked, and Frankie starts wondering if there’s something wrong with that. Sure, she’s had a few opportunities to try and fall in love, and sure, she was almost close to it with her prom date a few months prior, but the truth still stands. It’s a feeling that Frankie’s heard endless times play over in the songs on her record player.

It’s the one question that she’s never found the answer to in Mary’s collection.

“Not truly, no. I mean, every song I’ve ever heard has talked about love as if it’s supposed to be this monumental explosion of feelings. It’s supposed to be all-encompassing. We’re supposed to crave it, chase after it, live for it. So when you say that you’re expected to love another person, I don’t know what you mean. Because you shouldn’t be expected to do something that’s supposed to consume you.”

Frankie chances a look over towards Harry and finds that his eyes aren’t set on hers. Instead, they’re looking over her head, fixated on the trees behind her. He has a distant look in his eyes as if he understands exactly what Frankie is telling him.

Suddenly, his eyes lock back on hers. But this time, the glint is gone. Instead he looks sad almost, nodding absently at whatever Frankie had just said.

Frankie has another sleepless night.

***

June 1973 - entry no. 5

Frankie began to grow quite fond of Bernie on the drive from Tempe to Las Vegas.

Somehow, The Nocturnals had a strong affinity for the nearly broken down grey touring bus they’ve been sequestered to for the past few months. Jett proclaimed that Bernadette had magical powers, and they preferred to travel to each venue by bus because they performed much better after sitting in the bristling heat for hours on end.

Frankie thinks that Jett needs to lay off the weed.

Each band member had their own little corner of the bus. Eddie always preferred the middle so he could jump from conversation to conversation wherever he was needed. He didn’t like feeling left out. Veronica was happy towards the front as long as she always had a window. She always said her lack of a penis allowed her prime window seating. Nobody disagreed.

Rod liked the back of the bus because that was where he could sneak off and make out with Cherry without anybody else watching. Sometimes he would sneak his hand down her skirt and Cherry would giggle as if he was telling her the funniest joke in the world. Harry on the other hand always chose to sit in the front seat behind Bryan who was always driving. It was an unwritten rule that nobody else could sit there. It was also an unwritten rule that Harry always needed to be close to Bryan.

That is where Frankie finds him when they’re about twenty minutes away from the Las Vegas Convention Center. His long body is taking up two seats with his head leaning against the glass window. He has his black sunglasses on but Frankie can see that his eyes are open through the tinted frames.

“Starin’ is impolite, Franks,” Harry says after a few moments.

Frankie blushes, looking down at the floor. “I’m still waiting for your interview, Harry.”

He shuffles a bit while he’s mulling this over. In the two week span of Frankie’s time on tour with the band, she’s gotten one on one interviews with everybody but Harry. Whenever she attempts to reach out to him, he always wanders off. Lately, he’s been switching the roles and asking her questions instead.

She doesn’t like feeling vulnerable around him.

And with her deadline approaching soon and the final three shows looming in the distance, Frankie was starting to grow impatient.

“After the show. I promise,” Harry says, before turning his attention back out towards the window.

Frankie ignores Cherry’s gaze as she slinks into the seat in the back left of the bus. But Cherry is anything but adamant, and not even ten seconds later, Frankie can feel the tips of her blonde curly hair grazing Frankie’s exposed shoulders.

“He’s making this extremely difficult,” Frankie admits, slumping down further into the seat.

Cherry nods. “Give him time, Frankie. He’ll come around eventually.”

Frankie only wishes that were true.

***

The show in Vegas is nothing short of a disaster.

Frankie notices the mistakes more so than the audience members mainly because she’s been watching The Nocturnals perform the same show for two weeks now. From the second they walked onto the stage, there was a disconnect amongst the band members. Jett and Veronica did the best they could trying to appease both Harry and Rod, but it began to crumble halfway through their set. Rod began to overdue his solos, throwing the timing off for Harry. The worst part was when he started oversinging the backing vocals, almost making Harry sing the wrong lyrics.

The dressing room was quiet after the show. And for the first time since touring with the band, Frankie had no desire to ask anybody questions.

“Well guys, that was—”

“—A fuckin’ shitshow,” Harry says, interrupting Bryan.

Eddie stands closer to Harry, trying to calm his little brother down. Everybody knows that it was bound to happen, because Eddie always puts Harry first. But this seemed to spur Rod on, because immediately after Eddie puts an arm around Harry, Rod flies out of his seat and points an accusatory finger at the both of them.

“I’m so fuckin’ sick of you two. Every time there’s a disagreement, Harry is never at fault in your eyes, Ed. It’s about fuckin’ time you realize that your brother is singlehandedly ruining this band.” Rod’s words are venomous and Frankie practically flinches with each syllable.

“Well, maybe if you stopped being so jealous of H, we wouldn’t have this problem!” Eddie retorts, stepping in front of Harry and squaring his shoulders towards Rod.

“Jealous?! Of that prick? That’s fuckin’ rich.”

The rest of the argument seems to blow up in front of Frankie, but for some unknown reason, she chooses not to stare at Rod and Eddie yelling at each other in the middle of the room. Instead, her blue eyes fall onto Harry, who hasn’t said a word throughout this entire exchange. He looks as if he wants to be anywhere but here, and as if he can feel the heat of Frankie’s gaze on him, he tilts his head towards her and stares right back.

“If you don’t get your ego in line, Harry, I’m fuckin’ walking,” Rod says. Frankie watches Harry’s eyes snap back towards the bassist, and instead of responding, he just shakes his head slowly. Suddenly, Harry starts careening towards the exit, a bottle of whiskey in one hand and Frankie in the other.

“Harry…” Frankie says, but it’s useless. He’s walking so quickly and swallowing back whiskey so fiercely that Frankie has no choice but to hold onto his hand tighter and allow him to lead her out of the arena, past Bernie, and down a few roads until the flashing lights are fading into the distance and the honking of vehicles has practically ceased.

Frankie isn’t sure what to say because up until this point she hadn’t really considered her and Harry friends. Their conversation in Tempe only made Frankie more confused, and every time Cherry tells her of Harry’s fondness of her, she thinks that her friend is seeing things.

But now, standing hand in hand with him, Frankie begins to think differently.

His hands are shaking when he drops hers, and instead of speaking, he just takes another swig of the bottle. His cheeks are flushed and Frankie isn’t sure if it’s from the alcohol or something else, and then before she can dissect him any further, he stops abruptly and turns to face her.

“Do you ever feel like you need to get away? Like things are just happenin’ too quickly?” He’s back to asking her questions again, and Frankie isn’t sure how to respond.

“Shit, I shouldn’t be tellin’ you any of this.” He suddenly runs the hand that used to hold hers through his curly hair out of frustration. Harry starts pacing back and forth in front of Frankie, and she’s very aware that they are far from the venue.

“It’s fine, I won’t—” Frankie cuts herself off because she isn’t quite sure what she’s trying to tell him. She already promised to talk to him off the record back in Tempe, and deep down she really wants to tell him this again. But she’s losing focus on her assignment, and she’s doing everything that Lester Bangs told her not to do.

Harry’s green eyes are back on hers and he’s suddenly a lot closer to her than he was previously. But before he could say anything, a car pulls up and his eyes shift from blue to the approaching vehicle.

“Whoa, you’re Harry Styles!” A boy with straight blonde hair says. He’s driving a car and looks to be a few years younger than Frankie, and the rest of his friends seem to be as shell-shocked as the driver.

“Just Harry, s’fine,” Harry replies, stepping away from Frankie and smiling at the group of boys.

“Would you wanna come to a party? My parents are out of town and my house is down the street,” the blonde kid offers. Immediately, Frankie starts to shake her head, expecting Harry to follow suit. Instead, she bafflingly watches as Harry grins at the group before jumping into the backseat of the car.

“Harry!” Frankie shoots out, beginning to chastise him.

“C’mon Franks, let’s have some fun,” Harry says, grabbing her from the sidewalk and pulling her into the van. The group of boys cheer and begin asking Harry a million questions, but it might as well be white noise because Frankie’s eyes are looking into green and she finds herself agreeing to this ridiculous plan because she’s found that she can’t say no to Harry no matter how hard she tries.

And when he hands her the whiskey bottle and promises that she’ll like it, she drinks it without even thinking, smiling back at Harry when his eyes go wide.

***

A few hours later, Frankie finds that Harry is impossibly drunk. He’s stumbling throughout a high school party, fluttering from the living room to the kitchen and back. The teenagers are handing him plastic cups filled with a concoction of various liquors, and while Frankie has only had one cup, it was enough to make her feel warm and light, so she stopped after that.

She has just walked out of the bathroom when she realizes that Harry is not where she had left him. Nervously, Frankie begins checking each room in the house, praying that she didn’t just lose the frontman of The Nocturnals at a high school party in Las Vegas. Once she rounds the stairs, she hears his laugh from the first door to her left, and when she walks in she finds him sitting on a desk chair surrounded by a group of kids with glazed eyes and a bong sitting in the middle of a circle.

“And that is why you shouldn’t mix acid with vodka. It’s just—Franks! There you are! Thought I lost ya.” Harry blindly reaches out for Frankie’s hand, pulling her towards the group. She stumbles until she’s sitting right beside him, and he’s grinning at her with a mischievous look in his eyes.

“I made new friends,” he says softly, gesturing towards the group of stoned teenagers on the floor below him.

“I can see that,” Frankie responds, seemingly unaware of their close proximity. Harry’s arm is resting lightly around her shoulders, and if she leans in just an inch more, she could smell the whiskey on his lips.

“Maybe I’ll start a band with them. What d’ya think? They’d probably be more fun, anyways,” he mumbles, his slurred words meshing together.

Frankie isn’t sure what to say, so instead she just drunkenly laughs, standing up when Harry grabs her arm and leads her out of the room and into the backyard.

They walk further until they’re sitting at the top of a hill under a mesquite tree. The party is barrelling on below them, and when Frankie looks up at the sky and notices that the inky night has turned into a deep blue, she can assume that it’s the early morning.

Harry sighs contentedly beside her, sitting down close enough that their sides are touching. Frankie can feel his hip rest with hers, her shoulder pressed against his bicep, their thighs touching. The warmth from the alcohol flowing through her body suddenly becomes warmer, and Frankie can feel the flush on her neck begin to creep upwards.

“I never get to do this,” Harry says after a few minutes of silence.

“Do what?” Frankie asks.

“Act like a kid. Drink with my mates in our parents house. Be young, I guess.” Frankie cocks her head to the side and acknowledges the sadness on his features. She’s suddenly aware of the fact that Harry is the youngest in the band but never gets to feel like it because he’s constantly on the road, working with people much older than him, arguing about ridiculous things that shouldn’t matter in the long run.

She begins to feel bad for the rockstar who she believed had everything.

“You really didn’t miss much,” Frankie says, nodding her head towards the group of high school students surrounding a keg.

“No? Isn’t high school supposed to be the best years of your life or summat?” Harry asks, genuine curiosity dripping from his mouth.

Frankie just shrugs. “I sure hope not.”

Harry shifts his position and Frankie misses the warmth when she can no longer feel his body pressed against hers. His big hands reach out towards her forearms and pull so that she twists to the side, their knees knocking together. Harry’s sitting in front of her and his eyes are twinkling brighter than the stars and Frankie isn’t sure where else to look.

“Why are you so different from every other girl I’ve met?” Harry asks. Frankie tilts her head down, trying to hide the blush forming on her cheeks. She feels Harry squeeze her forearms, and she’s suddenly aware that his hands haven’t left hers.

“I don’t know how to answer that,” Frankie says shyly.

His hand reaches out towards her chin, tilting it up so that she’s no longer hiding from him. Frankie watches his heels dig into the grass, allowing him to heave himself forward so that their legs are slotting, his knees surrounding hers. They’re much closer now, and she can see the glint in his eyes has turned into adoration and she suddenly feels frozen.

“Frankie Goodhart,” he whispers, “That would make for a good song.”

His fingers drop from her chin and Frankie can feel him getting closer. He’s angling his torso towards her and his shiny lips are getting closer to hers and she’s instantly panicking because shit, she thinks, this shouldn’t be happening.

And just before his mouth can close around hers, she backs away, and the look in Harry’s eyes fades. Instead, he’s staring at her, dull green eyes and all, and she suddenly feels empty inside. He stands up abruptly and begins walking down the hill back towards the street. Even in his drunken stupor, Harry somehow remembers how to get back to the carpark where Bernie is waiting with the rest of the band. They’re silent as they walk into the bus, the yellows and purples of sunrise filtering through the windows.

Harry chooses to sit near Rod, a sign of a truce. Frankie sits in the back, ignoring the looks Cherry gives her. For once, she just wants to be alone.

***

July 1973 - entry no. 6

Everybody besides Frankie seemed to be in high spirits on the journey to the San Jose Civic Center. The feud between Harry and Rod seemed to be an anecdote, something they could joke about during the long drive. Frankie watches from the back of the bus, a permanent scowl on her face, completely confused at the last ten hours of her life.

She was confused by the almost kiss, for starters. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to kiss Harry, because of course she wanted to. But when his mouth was inching closer towards hers and his irises were so wide all she could see was mossy green, the only thing running through her mind were Lester’s warnings.

“Don’t get lost in the madness of it all. They’re gonna eat you alive if they know that you’re a fan. They’re gonna want to be your friend, lure you into their world. Stand your ground. The second they hear you write for Rolling Stone they’re gonna shit their pants. Don’t let us down.”

So she panicked. And when Frankie saw the frown on his face, she could feel her heart fall towards her feet inside her body. Frankie was never the type of girl that boys chased after, especially boys that have the world at their fingertips with blonde/auburn/black haired beauties throwing themselves at him. What would Harry want with a freckled-face eighteen year old high school graduate who had little to no experience with the opposite sex? It would be utterly laughable for the two of them to end up together.

But she would be lying if she hadn’t been kicking herself the entire journey to San Jose, regretting ever pulling away from him.

“Why are you so pouty?” Cherry asks from beside her. She opted to sit with Frankie mainly because Rod and Harry were rekindling their friendship with inside jokes and bottles of beer, and Frankie wasn’t all that mad that she was a second option.

“I’m not,” Frankie lies, sinking her head against the cool window. She needed her brain to stop replaying this morning's events over and over whenever her eyelids closed.

Cherry just hums beside her, knowing fully well that Frankie is lying. “I’m assuming it has something to do with Harry. He’s been looking at you like a lost puppy ever since we turned onto the freeway hours ago.”

Frankie ignores her friend the same way she’s been ignoring the warm heat of Harry’s gaze from the front of the bus.

She needs the silence to remember why she was even here in the first place. But there’s no denying that she’s so close to losing the point in the first place—feet dangling at the edge of the mountain, practically about to freefall below.

***

The San Jose show was the best one Frankie had seen yet, even better than the first night at The Troubadour three weeks earlier. The energy radiating from the stage was tangible, a thrumming of excitement Frankie could feel from the tips of her toes all the way up to the roots of her light brown hair. If she reached out to touch the handle of the steel door leading to the green room, she was convinced she would feel a zap of electricity from what The Nocturnals left out on the stage.

Harry was the best she had seen him yet. His voice was unmatchable, a perfect concoction of rasp and grit with a beautiful falsetto. Frankie was in awe, to be fair. Normally she takes turns watching each member of the band, but tonight, her blue eyes refused to move from his body.

Harry could feel her gaze. With Frankie’s eyes locked on him, he knew that he had to put on the best show of his life. He made sure to interact with the crowd, singing in a different octave so he could hear the gasps from the audience, leaning against Rod and Eddie with his head thrown back, shaking his hips to the pounding of Jett’s kick drum. Frankie’s hot gaze on Harry gave him a newfound sense of confidence, and it was palpable throughout the entire arena.

“What a fuckin’ show!” Bryan hollers from the doorway of the green room. Frankie watches as he interacts with each member of the band, even offering to take a hit of the joint Jett extends towards him. Rod even gives him a hug, and Frankie is just as confused as ever.

“Let’s celebrate!” Rod agrees, grabbing Cherry by her hips and bringing her towards his front. He drowns her giggles with a bottle of whiskey.

The band convenes in the middle of the green room, passing around a whiskey bottle and planning on throwing an after party in their hotel rooms. Eddie asks Bryan to upgrade their rooms so they can fit more people, and Jett agrees, telling Cherry’s friends to invite anybody in the area they know. Frankie ultimately feels like an outsider, having no desire to go out and drink with people who barely even wanted her around in the first place.

As she begins to gather her belongings and throw them into her tattered messenger bag to retreat to her own hotel room for the night, Frankie sees the tips of black leather shoes touch her white sneakers. She looks up slowly, her breath practically catching in her throat when she notices Harry peering down at her, a faint trace of a smile on his lips.

“Fancy that interview, Franks?” Harry says softly, and Frankie suddenly is at a loss for words. She’s unsure if it’s from his close proximity to her face, or the fact that he actually is ready to allow her to interview him, but she just nods slowly.

“You don’t want to party? I think you earned it,” Frankie mutters back, offering him an out.

Harry doesn’t take it though. “Nah, let’s get out of here,” and with that, he loops her messenger bag around his broad shoulder and places a large hand at the small of her back, tracing her out the door.

Frankie offers to conduct the interview inside Bernie, but Harry just shakes his head, “I’m sick of sittin’ on the bus.” When she mentions her hotel room being on a different floor than the rest of the band’s, Harry just wiggles his eyebrows suggestively, “Tryin’ to take me to bed already?” Frankie just rolls her eyes, wishing her skin was a darker shade so her blush wasn’t so prominent. Harry smiles, enamored that he can get her riled up so quickly, and drags her towards a small staircase on the top floor, a sign reading NO ENTRY in bright red letters.

Frankie pauses and Harry just laughs, opening the door with his hip and grabbing her wrists with his long fingers. “Live a little, Franks,” he whispers, dragging her up the staircase and onto the roof of the hotel.

The dark sky looks so vast from the roof, and Frankie cranes her neck back to take in all of the glittering stars above. She never gets to see the constellations through the LA smog, so from this vantage point, Frankie doesn’t hesitate to take it all in, her hair shining in the moonlight.

Harry doesn’t hesitate to take Frankie in, either.

“Ready, Franks?” Harry’s voice bursts Frankie’s imaginary bubble, and she fumbles around trying to grab her notebook and recorder before sitting across from Harry over a skylight. She doesn’t meet his eyes because she’s scared that if she does, she’ll forget everything she wanted to ask him.

“So, Harry. Why music?”

And it’s as if a dam has broken, split completely in half, and Harry’s words are the water that flows from the cracks. He tells Frankie that he started the band with his brother in small town Manchester, England, and they were shit at first. Tells her how the idea of a band came from the 1961 Ice Blue Fender Musicmaster their dad left behind when he left his mother when Harry was a boy. How the first few songs he wrote were about his fear of abandonment, and when he lost his virginity, all he could write about were girls and hearts and lips and feelings. He tells her things that Frankie didn’t even need to pry from him, instead, he willingly tells her how he was nervous to have five members in a band, nervous to leave England, nervous to be the frontman of a group when he was the youngest one. And when they were sat on the forty-fifth floor of a high-rise building with walls of windows in New York City, signing their recording contracts, Harry never felt more out of control in his life.

“You seem to be so confident on stage though, so in control. I mean, you just look so cool up there,” Frankie mumbles, realizing that she isn’t asking a question anymore. Instead she’s prodding for more information that she isn’t sure Harry feels comfortable doting out to her.

“I promise you, I’m entirely uncool. It’s all an act. I’m far too in my head most of the time,” Harry says with a chuckle, shifting his body closer to Frankie’s. “Sometimes, I think you’re the only person in this world who’s seen me properly. I’m just as uncool as you.”

Frankie feels herself shifting closer, too. Her finger unknowingly hovering over the STOP button on her tape recorder.

Harry notices just like he notices everything about her. He can feel the shift in their conversation, and he turns his body closer towards Frankie, asking her the question that’s been on the tip of his tongue the entire day.

“Why didn’t you let me kiss you?”

His voice is uncharacteristically shy. Frankie’s never seen this version of him—so quiet, so unsure. It startles her.

“Um,” she pauses, pressing her finger down on the button, her mind suddenly confuddled. “I’m technically not supposed to.”

“Franks,” Harry shakes his head, his mouth practically inches from hers. “When are you gonna realize life is more fun when you do the things you aren’t supposed to?”

With his mouth so close to hers, Frankie feels like she can’t breathe. His eyes are sincere and she can feel her heart beating so loudly she’s sure her ribs are bruised. And for the first time in forever, Frankie doesn’t want to follow the rules anymore.

She wants to break them.

Specifically, she wants to break them with Harry.

Frankie brazenly drops the tape recorder into her messenger bag at her feet and wraps her hands around Harry’s neck, bringing his lips to hers. He stills at first, not entirely sure if this is actually happening or he’s just imagining her kissing him. But then she starts to nibble at his lower lip and he finally reacts, wrapping one hand into her brown hair and another around her stomach, fingers spread over the ivory skin uncovered by her cropped shirt.

Frankie shudders when Harry whines at the contact, and when he feels like he needs more more more, he drags her legs and hoists them over his thighs so she’s straddling his lap. Their teeth knock together hungrily and it’s literally better than anything Harry’s ever had, and he’s had almost everything there is. Harry feels dehydrated, and Frankie’s lips are the only thing quenching his thirst. He’s never been so enraptured by another person before, and just having her body wrapped around his is practically careening him towards the edge.

When Harry’s hand in her hair pulls back exposing her neck towards him, she moans when his lips lick a thick strip from her sternum towards her chin. She tries to think of love songs that explain how she’s feeling, and when her mind becomes blank, she figures that they can write their own song, fuelled by pink lips and hungry bites and satisfied breaths.

“Jesus, Franks. You’re everything,” Harry mumbles against her lips. Frankie just nods, her hands pushing open his unbuttoned shirt and fanning against his chest. When his head falls back in a blissful sigh, Frankie marks the part of his skin where his shoulder meets his neck, and she can feel it too. That this is everything.

When Harry tries to take her shirt off and lower his hands into the waistband of her jeans, she stops, fully aware that this is her first time ever having somebody this close to her. Of having somebody want to get this close to her, to feel her, to have her in every sense of the word. And she’s terrified.

“Shit, I’m sorry, Franks. I blacked out, I forgot. You’re just—fuck. Can’t fuckin’ think straight when you’re lookin’ at me like that with your mouth all pouty and your hair all messed up. I’m losin’ it,” Harry says hurriedly, his forehead falling against her clavicle. He’s completely breathless and Frankie is in awe that she brought him to this point.

When she feels his hands running a comforting line down her back, she’s fully aware that she wants nothing more than to feel closer to Harry. It’s inevitable at this point—all of the lingering gazes, the interrupting questions, the way he can feel her gaze on him when he’s performing, the way she doesn’t want to look anywhere else. He wants to tell her his secrets. And she wants to keep them, hidden away from the world, just for her to hold.

So she reaches down and places her hand over Harry’s, dragging it down her chest and stomach, over her stomach, against the button of her pants. Harry sucks in a breath and Frankie can feel it against her neck, his lips pursing in shock.

“Frankie, it’s okay, we don’t—”

He’s silenced by her popping the button open and unzipping her jeans. His head shoots up, eyes latched onto hers, arms wrapped around her hips protectively.

Frankie shushes him with a gentle kiss. “It’s okay. You’re everything.”

And with that, Harry reaches inside of her pants, and the both of them fall apart, seeing stars that rival the constellations twinkling above them.

***

July 1973 - entry no. 7

Frankie spends the next day trying to quell the butterflies fluttering in her stomach.

After her night with Harry on the rooftop, she feels as if she’s floating through thin air. She can’t stop the grin growing on her face whenever Harry is in a five foot radius of her, and she can practically feel his smirk from a distance. When they leave San Jose and travel to Palo Alto, Frankie practically forces her body to the back of the bus, trying to put as much space between them as possible.

Because if he was any closer, she wasn’t sure if she could keep her hands to herself.

Frankie has never felt like this. She feels as if Harry is her newest addiction, and no matter how hard she tries, she just can’t fucking stop thinking about him. It’s infuriating and infatuating at the same time, incredible and unknown and so new that she’s practically shaking in her seat from the excitement whenever his green eyes find hers.

Harry feels like he’s sixteen again. He feels so light and bubbly and giggly and the whole thing is reminiscent of a first crush, that he doesn’t even recognize who he is anymore. The most surprising aspect of it all is that he actually likes it. He feels his heart swell with every longing gaze, every secret smile, every phantom touch. He can’t get enough of her. Just one taste of Frankie wasn’t enough to soothe his ever-growing appetite, and he’s not sure if he can contain himself any longer.

After an entire day of almost touching her skin, Harry feels like he’s about to burst. Twenty minutes before the show, while the rest of the band is warming up, Harry finds himself sneaking off to find Frankie. She’s on her way back from the bathroom and when he sees her he practically jumps out of his skin, wrapping his arms around her waist and dragging her into a utility closet across the hallway.

Harry quiets her shrieks with a mouth-watering kiss, and he practically implodes at the feeling of it. He’s been waiting for this moment all day, and he would be lying if he didn’t admit that it was the best kiss of his life.

His hands are everywhere and Frankie feels overwhelmed, but in the best possible way. She’s breathing him in and feeling every inch of his skin on hers and it’s crazy to think that in her eighteen years of life she waited this long to experience this feeling.

She’s just so happy she’s experiencing it with Harry.

When they hear Bryan give the five minute call, Frankie breaks away breathlessly, laughing when Harry whines at the loss of her lips on his.

“Just one more kiss please Franks,” Harry begs, wrapping his hands through her hair and pulling her closer to his mouth.

She obliges but only momentarily, before pushing him back towards the door.

“Go,” she whispers, biting her lower lip to conceal her giggles.

Harry just groans, holding onto her for dear life. “You’re gonna be the death of me, Franks.”

She watches him walk away, blowing him a kiss and laughing when he catches it and tucks it into the pocket of his trousers.

When Frankie goes to claim her spot sidestage, she’s interrupted by Cherry grabbing onto her shoulders. She can see the band rustling around in the background, grabbing their instruments and getting mic'd up, but Frankie can’t focus. Because Cherry’s eyes are blown out and she’s holding onto her so tightly and Frankie knows that whatever is about to come out of Cherry’s lips next is either going to be monumental or devastating.

“Frankie! I need to tell you something,” Cherry whispers through her brightening grin.

“What is it Cherry? Are you okay?” Frankie is worried.

“I’m amazing. Better than amazing, actually. I’m gonna tell Rod that I love him after the show. I’m gonna jump into his arms, tell him that he’s the only one for me, and that I’m so far in love with him that I can’t even breathe.”

Frankie sighs. It’s devastating.

“But… Cherry. What about his fiancée? Kids? Did you think this through?” Frankie asks, watching as her friend’s eyes fall and her mouth form a straight line. Frankie hasn’t seen this look on Cherry’s face since the night she almost called her a groupie. Immediately, Frankie feels the twisting feeling of guilt in her gut.

“He’s leaving them for me. He told me last night.” Cherry’s voice is so low that Frankie isn’t sure if she’s trying to convince her, or herself.

Frankie just shakes her head. “Cherry, you can’t think like that. How could he promise you something like that? You can’t just—”

“—I can’t just what, Frankie? What are you even trying to say? I love him! That should be enough! It’s always been enough!” Before Frankie could even get another word in, Cherry just shakes her head, stepping away from her. “I don’t even know why I bothered telling you. You wouldn’t even know what love is if it slapped you right in the face.”

Frankie pauses, mouth falling slack. “What are you even talking about?”

Cherry laughs, and for the first time, Frankie hates the sound of it. “Because you don’t even give it a chance. I see the way Harry looks at you, and all you do is keep your head down, ignoring the entire thing. All you care about is your stupid article. Well ya know what? At least I let Rod close enough to give love a chance.”

Frankie isn’t sure what to say. Part of her wants to tell Cherry about the night she had with Harry on the rooftop, or the words he spoke to her, or the way he grabbed her no less than five minutes ago. But she doesn’t. Because saying them in an argument makes it less genuine.

“Cherry, I’m just trying to help. You deserve better than Rod,” Frankie says, reaching for Cherry’s hands to squeeze in reassurance.

But Cherry just jumps back as if Frankie’s hands are scorching. “You know what, maybe you and Harry are perfect for each other. Both lonely and selfish.”

And with that, Cherry walks away, and Frankie hangs behind the crowd sidestage, feeling her chest constrict in anger. Cherry couldn’t be more wrong about Harry. He let her in, he told her things he promised he would never tell anybody else. Frankie would never let him near her if he acted the way Cherry just described.

So when the show is over and Frankie feels herself retreating back into the hotel without a word to anybody else, she practically combusts when Harry shows up at her room. His eyes are blown wide and he has concern written all across his face, because all he wanted to see after the show was her. Just as he’s about to ask if she was okay, Frankie grabs him by the back of his neck and drags him through the doorway, crashing her lips onto his.

“Franks, wait, babe, what’s goin’ on?” Harry asks between kisses, and Frankie just sighs, noticing the way her head clears and her heart feels lighter whenever he is close to her.

“I just don’t want to think right now. I need you,” Frankie says, and Harry practically drops through the floor when she utters those last three words.

I need you is the closest thing to I love you Harry has ever felt. Love to him always felt compulsory, a feeling that was expected between two people. He never had to work for it, and whenever he said the words, they never meant anything to him before.

So when he hears I need you fall from Frankie’s chapped lips, he’s floored at the way those words feel inside his chest. If words were tangible, they would be pumping the blood through his chest cavity, propelling his heart up up up until it was lodged into his throat.

He never thought I need you would mean more to him than I love you.

Not until now.

“I need you all the time,” Harry responds, grabbing Frankie and pulling her onto the bed. They kiss until they’re both only wearing their undergarments, Harry clad in tight white boxer briefs and Frankie wearing a boring nude bra and matching cheeky panties. They make her feel childlike, and she wishes that she owned something black and lacy and sexy.

But Harry could care less what she’s wearing. Just the fact that she’s laying next to him, completely opening him up until he could feel like he was properly breathing for the first time in three years is enough for him. And when they kiss until their lips feel bruised, Frankie just lays her head on his chest, revelling in the feeling of his warmth.

“Thank you,” Frankie whispers against his skin.

“For what?” Harry asks, running a finger absentmindedly through her hair. Just one touch is never enough for him.

“Being here. Being you.” It’s trivial and shouldn’t really mean much, but to Harry it means everything, and he sighs blissfully at the thought that just being himself was more than enough for this beautiful girl.

“God, Franks,” Harry says slowly, resting his chin against the top of Frankie’s head. “I feel like I’ve known you my entire life.”

And when she’s wrapped around Harry in every sense of the word, she can’t help but think that if this is how she were to spend the rest of her nights, she wouldn’t want it any other way.

***

July 1973 - entry no. 8

The term bittersweet comes to mind when Bernie rolls into the Fillmore in San Francisco.

Bitter because it’s her last show with The Nocturnals. Bitter because Cherry hasn’t looked at her in two hours, and she doesn’t want to leave with her friendship falling to pieces in front of her. Bitter because she feels like she’s truly found herself, and she doesn’t want this feeling to escape when she arrives back in Santa Monica. Bitter because she won’t be spending her nights wrapped with Harry anymore.

The sweet part is all Harry, Frankie hates to admit. His sweet smile, the taste of his sweet lips, the way his hands feel sweetly wrapped around Frankie’s middle, the way she won’t hear him say her sweet nickname Franks.

Frankie looks over towards her right and smiles at his sleeping frame tucked next to hers. Her heart practically stilled when he chose to sit near her in the back of the bus instead of his usual spot behind Bryan in the front. If anybody felt a certain way about it, nobody mentioned it, which made Frankie relax into the ripped leather seat. When Harry’s warm hand latched onto her thigh, Frankie’s heart almost stopped beating.

“Franks, ‘m tired. Can I use you as a pillow?” Harry asks, his voice thick with sleep.

Before Frankie could reply, Harry’s head was already resting in the crook of her neck, his chestnut curls ticking the underside of her chin. Frankie just smiles, knowing that this would probably be the last spare moment they have together before she has to leave after the show to write her piece for Rolling Stone.

“So soft. You’re the sweetest, Franks,” Harry mumbles before drifting off into sleep.

The hotel is conveniently across the street from the Fillmore, so while the band unloads their instruments, Frankie slinks into her hotel room to deposit her duffle bag and sort through the endless notes she had taken during her summer with the band. Most of them are scribbled in her notebook that was practically ripping from overuse, but the most important tidbits, the ones that Frankie didn’t want to forget, were written on bar napkins and setlist pages. On room service menus and gas station receipts. Frankie makes sure to stuff those into her folder, making sure they stay with her forever.

On her way back to the concert venue, Frankie hears screaming from the room Cherry and Rod share. Part of her wants to knock and make sure that her friend is okay, but after their last conversation, Frankie’s convinced that she’s probably the last person Cherry wants to see anyways. So she saunters back to the Fillmore, rushing to try and find Harry to lift her spirits once again.

But what she sees does the complete opposite.

Bleach blonde hair. Pretty red dress. Deep hazel eyes. Brand new patent leather pumps. A handbag that definitely cost more than the entire ensemble. Matching red lips.

Red lips that were attached to Harry’s.

Frankie freezes. She can feel her heart burst, but not in the way that it has been used to doing the past few days. Instead, it’s a painful burst. She can feel shards slice through her beating flesh, ripping her open and spluttering on the concrete flooring.

Suddenly green eyes are latched onto hers.

And suddenly, they’re the last thing she wants to see.

“Oh, hello! You must be the reporter everybody has been telling me about. Frankie, right? It’s so great to meet you! This is such a great opportunity for everybody,” the pretty girl is saying, but Frankie isn’t registering anything.

All she’s registering is Harry’s hands jumping away from the girl’s waist. His green eyes wide and pleading. His uncomfortable shuffling behind her.

Frankie snaps her mouth shut, trying her hardest to pull herself together. “Hi, yes. I’m Frankie. Nice to meet you, er…”

“Roslyn. I’m Harry’s girlfriend.”

Frankie tries her hardest to keep a straight face, but she’s practically breaking at the seams. She doesn’t even register two sets of feet stopping short behind her, doesn’t even acknowledge her shaky hand slipping into Roslyn’s, doesn’t even feel the heat of Harry’s eyes on hers, of everybody’s eyes on hers.

She feels like the biggest idiot in the world.

Before she could sink into the floor, Frankie feels a small hand settle on her back, blonde ringlets falling onto her bare shoulder. She shuffles back, feeling the warmth of Cherry’s embrace behind her. She knows that Cherry’s heard everything, and with one look into Frankie’s eyes, Cherry can see her reflection through the tears that threaten to fall.

“Frankie, did you bring the necklace you borrowed from me last night?” Cherry asks. It’s an out, an excuse to drag her away from the absolute nightmare unfolding in front of her. Frankie can barely shake her head back, instead she’s gripping onto her friend for dear life, feeling that if she wasn’t anchoring her into the cement flooring she’d be sinking.

“Wait, Cher! Franks, I—”

“—Don’t. We’ll see you after the show,” Cherry says. And for the first time since knowing her, Frankie shivers at the coldness dripping from her mouth.

The two girls don’t bother to hear a response. Instead, Cherry whips through the exit door of the venue and drags Frankie back into the comfort of her hotel room. Once she’s sitting on her flimsy mattress and the door is deadbolted, Frankie finally cries, painful sobs ripping through her chest. She hunches over, feeling her chest constrict at the lack of oxygen rushing through her respiratory system. But she doesn’t care. The hurt she felt watching Harry kiss another girl feels worse than this.

“Frankie, shush, it’s going to be okay,” Cherry says sadly, wrapping a thin arm around Frankie’s shoulders.

“It’s not going to be okay. Cherry, I can’t breathe. Oh my God, I’m so sorry. Wait, I should be apologizing, Cherry I—” Frankie’s rambles are cut off by Cherry kneeling in front of her, holding her glistening face in the small palms of her hands. Cherry smiles, and when Frankie looks hard enough, she can see that it doesn’t meet her eyes. And she instantly knows that something is wrong.

“Wait, Cherry what’s wrong. Did something happen?” Frankie whimpers, holding her hands on top of Cherry’s, trying to squeeze the truth out of her friend.

“I think we should get out of here. What do you think? Let’s get away from it all,” Cherry says, gesturing at the front door where Frankie’s duffle lays untouched. Frankie feels herself nodding, grabbing Cherry in one hand and her bag in the other, walking outside of the hotel with a shattered heart.

Before they can get too far, she hears his voice. And that’s all it takes for her to feel the shards rip through her skin again.

“Franks! Please you’ve got to listen to me, please!” He’s pleading and Frankie feels disgusted that he’s calling out for her when his beautiful blonde-haired girlfriend is waiting for him inside just as she’s been waiting for him at home while he’s been wasting his time with Frankie.

“Cher, please let me talk to her, I’ve gotta—”

“—Goodbye Harry,” Frankie says softly. It’s final. Absolute.

She’s not sure who’s heart is breaking more, and honestly, she can’t bring herself to care. All she knows is that she feels as if Harry had shown her a world unlike any other—bright and unknowing and enticing and full of new wonders and surprises. But at the same time, he introduced her to heartbreak and pain and suffering and emptiness.

Frankie doesn’t look back as Cherry drags her towards the street, hailing a taxi and shoving them both into it. She doesn’t look out the window when the tires peel from the pavement, falling into traffic on the motorway. If she did, she would see Harry’s heart crumpling into the ground, his chest heaving in pain, his eyes watering.

Because they were both the closest to love they had ever felt in their lives. And Harry had ruined it. And the worst part of it all?

Frankie should have known better.

***

Inside the departures terminal in San Francisco Airport, Frankie finally wipes all of the water from her eyes. She’s pretty convinced that she’s cried all of the tears her body could produce, so with one last shaky inhale, she lifts her head from the crook of Cherry’s neck, wiping her nose with the back of her hand.

“Thank you, Cherry,” Frankie whispers to a girl she never thought she would ever call a friend.

“I should be the one thanking you, Frankie,” Cherry admits, laughing softly to herself. It isn’t genuine, and Frankie can see the pain hidden behind her silver eyes.

“What happened?”

“You were right.” Cherry doesn’t need to explain more, but Frankie feels her heart aching for her friend. She feels horrible about their fight, but she feels even worse at the fact that Rod hurt Cherry.

“Why doesn’t he love me?” Cherry asks, and Frankie wonders how the two of them had gotten to this point. Both broken and scarred over two men who couldn’t love them the way that they needed to.

“I don’t know the answer to that, Cherry. But I do know that you never needed his love. Because love doesn’t feel like this. Love is supposed to be the thing that people write songs about, and you’ll find it one day. We’ll both find it one day.”

Cherry just nods at her brown-haired friend she’s grown to love in the span of three weeks. She hugs her tightly, hoping that this embrace will help heal their shattered hearts. Because even though they didn’t find love with Rod and Harry, they found love between each other. And that’s something worth remembering.

“Thank you,” Cherry mumbles against Frankie’s hair.

“Of course. I’ll always be here for you, Cherry,” Frankie replies, squeezing her friend a little tighter.

“I know that, and I will too.” Cherry stands up, grabbing Frankie’s hand one last time. Her suitcase is in the other, and she has a distant look in her silver eyes. “I just can’t do it here.”

Frankie smiles, knowing all along that Cherry was too good for this place. “I know. I hope you find what you’re looking for,” she says with a promise.

Before Cherry runs off to purchase a one-way ticket to a city far away from California, she turns back around, her eyes glistening. She reaches down to grab Frankie’s hand one last time.

“Aubrey Lennox,” she whispers.

“What?”

“My name,” Cherry replies with her infamous grin. “Is Aubrey Lennox. I’ll call you when I’ve found a place.” And with that, Aubrey walks off, giving Frankie one last parting glance.

An hour later when the hollowness inside Frankie seems to slowly start dissipating, she sees Mary in her stewardess outfit, a million questions at the tip of her tongue. With one look at her little sister, Mary knows something is wrong, and when she tells her that she’ll take her anywhere she wants to go, Frankie only has one place in mind.

She wants to go home.

***

August 1973 - entry no. 9

Frankie writes the Rolling Stone article the night Mary finds her in the airport in San Francisco. After promising her little sister that she’ll bring her home after she checks in with Greg and feeds their cat, Frankie stays up all night, clacking away on her sister’s old Smith Corona Classic 12 typewriter, writing three thousand words about her time with The Nocturnals.

She writes about their origin. She writes about their dazzling stage presence, the way they build off of each other, the way they trust each other wholeheartedly throughout each show. She writes about their growing tension. She writes about their poor management. She writes about how they’re debut album was incredible, chart-stopping, and the main reason why they’ve been successful. She writes about the promise of their second album being better than the first, and how she couldn’t imagine them breaking up any time soon, and how their music is for all the uncool people in the world.

It’s amazing and honest and truthful, void of spite or hatred or bias. She tells their story the way it should be told—open and honest and real. When she delivers it to Rolling Stone, they tell Frankie it’s going to be on the front page. They love the way she portrays The Nocturnals as normal people, chasing the high they provide for those who pay to watch their show.

But when they make out the call to fact check her piece, they deny everything.

“Did you talk to Harry Styles?” Frankie asks, growing frantic. She figured the least he owed her was to be honest and allow her to write their story.

“He was the one who denied everything.”

After that phone call, Frankie returns home with Mary. Once she’s opened the door and said hello to her mother, she locks herself in her room for three days and doesn’t leave.

Frankie didn’t think her heart could withstand any more pain, but she was wrong. She feels a bone-aching tiredness shiver through her body, the hollowness making her feel as if she was just barely there on most days. She can’t sleep because her pillow isn’t the rising and falling of Harry’s bare chest, the soft snoring from his mouth, the gentle caress of his hands over her arms.

Her anger overrides her feeling of emptiness in regards to her heart. She’s crushed at the fact that Harry lied to her about Roslyn, but even more so, he continued to lie when he denied her story from Rolling Stone. She hates him in these days, wishing she could tell him how much of a coward he was to his face.

And when she can’t sleep at night, she hears Lester’s words reverberating through her brain, don’t get too close, don’t get too close, don’t get too close.

Frankie wishes she just fucking listened.

***

The next morning, Frankie is lathering a thin layer of butter over her charred toast when the doorbell rings. She doesn’t make a move to answer it, and when Mary approaches the kitchen with a twinkle in her eyes, Frankie knows that whoever is at the door is waiting for her.

“Mary, no—”

“—Go answer it, Frankie.”

Frankie gulps her dry toast down her throat, letting it fall onto a paper towel with a soft thud. She walks slowly to the front door, hoping that whoever it is could see the state of disarray she was in and would presumptively leave her alone.

Once she reaches the foyer, she hears a gruff laugh, a noise she’s never heard before.

“Holy shit, you’re a fuckin’ kid.”

When she looks up, it’s no other than Lester Bangs in the doorway. His long hair is parted to one side, brown eyes covered in black wayfarer sunglasses. His brown leather jacket hangs off his arms, and she’s shocked that he would come all the way from San Francisco to talk to her.

“Cat’s out the bag,” Frankie shrugs, realizing that she’s too tired and too hurt to keep up her adult façade. She’s fully aware that her plaid pajama bottoms and high school t-shirt give away the fact that she is actually eighteen years old.

But somehow, Lester doesn’t seem to mind.

“Had a feeling. You write like you’re experiencing shit for the first time in your life.” Frankie tries to ignore the truthfulness to his words.

“Yeah, well… What are you exactly doing here, Lester?” Frankie asks.

Lester holds up his left hand and clutched inside is the August edition of Rolling Stone’s magazine. On the front cover is a picture of The Nocturnals: Harry, Eddie, Veronica, Jett, and Rod, posing in front of a red backdrop. On the left hand column reads THE NOCTURNALS: Sex, Drugs, and Life on the Road. And right under that, in glossy red print, reads Written by: Frankie Goodhart.

Frankie starts to feel the hollowness inside of her fill up.

“Harry Styles called and told us that everything you said was true. And that he’s sorry, for some reason,” Lester says, holding out the publication for her to keep. She runs her fingers over the words, smiling for the first time in a week.

“Wow, uh, I don’t know what to say,” Frankie says, floored.

Lester laughs and produces a second copy, holding out a Sharpie in the other. “Mind if you sign mine? Figured it’ll be worth a lot once you make it big, kid.”

Frankie laughs, before shakily reaching out and signing her name in big swoopy letters. Before Lester leaves, he tells her to keep sending him her album reviews, and that whenever she figures out what she wants to do with her life, he’ll always be waiting for her call.

A few days later, the hollowness doesn’t feel as painful anymore. Frankie distracts herself by hanging out with her sister, spending time with her mother, listening to new records, telling Mary the in’s and out’s of her time on the road. She leaves out a certain curly-haired boy with green eyes that broke her heart, but Mary knows that Frankie will tell her over time, once she’s finished mending the scars he left her with.

When Mary announces that she’s heading back to San Francisco, her departure isn’t as sad as the first time. Cynthia and her daughter seemed to have found common ground with Mary’s outlook on life, and with a promise to be back for Thanksgiving, Frankie starts to feel like the ground isn’t as shaky as it was a month earlier.

“Want to go to Tower Records with me? One last time before I go, for old time’s sake,” Mary whispers in her sister’s ear when their mother is busy making lunch.

Frankie nods, and the two girls set off across the boardwalk.

The sun warms Frankie to her core, and she suddenly starts to feel the weight being lifted from her shoulders. She feels more in control of her life now than ever before, and walking side by side with her sister, she no longer feels hollow. Instead, she feels excited. Excited for her future. Excited for the idea of endless possibilities and newness.

“You should come with me to San Francisco, Frankie! I can get you a stewardess position and we can travel the world together. Live like we never have before. What do you say, kiddo?” Mary asks, rifling through the “M” section of the new releases in the record store.

Before, Frankie would have done anything to be closer to her sister. But now, in the after, she feels a new sense of home in Santa Monica.

“I think I’m gonna stay here. Go to college at UCLA. Probably study English, if they’ll let me,” Frankie announces. And for once, she actually means what she’s saying.

Mary smiles at her sister, her thumbs crossing over towards the “N” category.

“Whatever you end up doing Frankie, just remember that you’re doing it for yourself. And that no matter what, I’m in your corner. Always have, always will.”

Frankie reaches an arm around her sister, holding her close. She hopes that Mary can feel the love she has for her through her embrace, and when Mary smiles, she knows she can feel it.

“Oh, I haven’t seen this before,” Mary says, coming to a stop on a record in the middle of the “N” bin.

Frankie watches as her sister pulls out a black vinyl wrapped in a pink and blue sleeve. The band she spent weeks on the road with is written on the top, with the picture from the Rolling Stone cover in the middle. When Frankie’s eyes scroll towards the bottom of the record, she can feel her breath catch in her throat when she reads the name of the title.

GOOD HEART.

[sweetwritertanya]

Take Care

Summary: You are incredibly stressed due to exam season, but your boyfriend Namjoon comes over with plans to help you through it.

Warnings: None, just fluff! There is a bit of body touching, but nothing major.

Requested: YES! I am SO SORRY it took this long to write it. I went through a few days of feeling uninspired and then I had writer’s block. I struggled for a bit, but I managed to write this today. I truly, honestly hope you enjoy it and forgive me for making you wait!

Word Count: 1671

Your index finger flipped through the remaining pages on the book you were studying, insistently and rhythmically, unconsciously making your anxiety rise at the amount of pages still left to read. And the exam was in less than two days.

The twist at the top of your stomach pulled tighter and you swallowed hard, feeling as if you were about to throw up. Exam season always took your anxiety levels to the extreme, it was the absolute worst time of your life. The hours upon hours of studying, the feeling that nothing really stuck to your brain, that you were completely unprepared, the tight constant squeeze of your heart during this time, the lack of sleep due to the stress.

You screamed and felt like crying when you realize that you have been reading the same paragraph for about fifteen minutes now. Rubbing your eyes with the back of your hand, you take deep breaths and allow yourself some time to pull yourself together.

“Maybe you should take a break.”

The sudden unexpected voice makes you jump in your chair that squeals under your weight when you turn and see your boyfriend casually laying in your bed, one of your books in his hand and phone on top of the sheets next to him.

“Namjoon! What…? When did you get here?” Your tired brain was foggy and it was an effort to even talk, but his mere presence raised up your spirits just a bit.

“About half an hour ago. I tried ringing you, but you didn’t pick up. I used the key you gave me for emergencies, hope you don’t mind.” He actually looked guilty about that, his strong eyebrows pulling with concern on his tall forehead. You immediately shook your head to reassure him.

“Not at all. I turned my phone to silent so I could study, sorry… But I thought you were busy preparing for a big project next month?”

“Ended it today. I have a few days off so I came here.” He sat up straight in your bed, feet coming down to the floor and a big smile spreading on his thick lips, cute dimples showing up. “Wanted to spend some time with you. Can I stay over the next few days? I really missed you.”

Your eyes glassed over and you hid them behind your fingers as the tears overlapped and eventually cascaded down your cheeks. A heavy weight pushed down on your heart and your face and neck heated up as you sniffled.

“W-Why now?” you complained in between sobs, more to yourself than anyone else. “W-Why do y-you have time off now? I’m in the m-middle of my exams…”

“Hey, hey, Y/N, shh…” You feel your chair being pulled and the wheels roll across the floor until it ends up against the bed, in between Namjoon’s long legs as he pulls your wrists down and he himself cleans the tears staining your blushing puffy cheeks. “I actually think this is the perfect time. That way I can take care of you. Your mom told me you often get too caught up with your studies and forget to eat properly.”

You frown and look up at his small eyes at that, confused.

“You talk with my mom?” you question, surprised.

“Of course. Now, how about you take a break? I’ll make you dinner!” he excitedly proposes.

“You don’t know how to cook, Joon” you remind him.

He seems to ponder that and nods his head in agreement.

“True. I’ll buy you something good for dinner! What do you want to eat?”

“I’m not really hungry…”

He hisses and pinches your cheeks harshly at that, making you scrunch up your face at the slight pain. You irritably stare at him, but he is staring back a lot more vexed.

“You have to eat. You always lose weight during this time” he seriously accuses.

“I could use losing some pounds, actually…” you jokingly counter back, but Namjoon was not even the slightest amused.

“Y/N, stop it” he warns. Having had a conversation regarding your insecurities when it came to your physical appearance before, and he insisting that you were beautiful and size was just a number, not related with beauty at all, he did not take lightly your self-deprecating jokes at all, contrary to most of your friends.

“I have to study, Namjoon” you pouted, sounding reluctant even to your own ears.

“Forcing yourself to continue when you’re this tired won’t help. Your brain won’t assimilate anything, you’re just wasting energy” he explained, hands falling down to encircle your own on top of your lap, dark chocolate eyes focused on yours.

“I feel guilty if I don’t study. All my classmates study up until late hours in the night.”

“That’s what they say. And who cares? Everyone works different. You’ve been studying since early morning right? It’s time for a break.”

You huff and lean back in your chair, defeated.

“Fine. But I still don’t feel hungry yet” you inform.

“We’ll buy some time until you do, then” he smirks as he says.

And before you could ask how, his strong arms are wrapping around your waist and you are pulled out of your chair and into his lap. Your bulgy legs automatically move to either side of his waist, knees landing on the soft mattress, as your arms fall around his shoulders. A soft sigh escapes you at the first contact of his mouth on yours.

The slowest of frictions melts away the tension of your muscles. Thick silky lips rub unhurried yours, languid movements that steal your breath away with the care and love behind them. Namjoon’s hands are spread against the flesh at your lower back as he keeps you in place, respirations mingling together as he leans his head to the other side and his nose rubs against yours before pressing down your cheek when the kiss deepens.

Mouths parting to taste one another, the knot in your stomach disappears to give place to the feeling of butterflies flapping around inside, heavy stressed heart lifting with exciting flutters that have it singing happily in your chest. Your brain shuts off any worries, any input unrelated to the man holding your firmly against his chest, the lovely musky scent of him, the prickling of your skin as his hands squeezed lovingly at your love handles.

Suddenly, Namjoon grasps the back of your neck to keep your lips on top of his as he leans back in the single bed and rests his head on your pillow, your scrumptious body now fully fledged on top of his.

“Nam-Namjoon” you try to call even as he eats your words away. “I’m heavy.”

“You’re perfect” he simply debuted, persistent lips firmly tugging at yours.

Then, the hand that was still holding your meaty midriff slowly makes its way down and you yelp at the strong squeeze of your right butt cheek.

“Namjoon!” you admonish, raising your head to escape his distracting kisses.

“You love it” he accuses with a dimple smirk, doing it again at the same time his mouth now attaches itself to your neck, leaving small butterfly kisses that tickle your skin.

You giggle at the sensation and give in, because he was right. The sound of your laughing invigorates Namjoon and he proudly tickles you for the next few minutes, until you are out of breath and begging him to stop. You had switched positions in the middle of playing, you now laying on the small bed with Namjoon hovering above you, not really enough space for his tall frame to lay next to you comfortably. You look up at his smiling eyes and pull him down by the neck for one last short kiss.

“You really wanna stay here the next few days? I need to study and can’t give you my full attention. Plus, this bed is really small for both of us.”

“Yes, I told you, I want take care of you. Maybe I can help with your studies? I can ask you questions if you want. And this bed is the perfect size. We’ll have to sleep like this.”

To demonstrate, he pulls you into an embrace, one arm around your shoulder and another around your middle, as his back is against the wall and your body his tightly wrapped in his arms, legs tangled together. It was the only position in which both could stay in bed. You smile and look up at him.

“Namjoon?”

“Yeah, babe?”

“Let’s order Chinese.”

True to his words, Namjoon stays over the few days he has available and helps you the best he can. He brings you water and reminds you to keep hydrated, orders food for lunch and dinner, not tolerating you skipping any meals. When you asked, he helps you the day before the exam by making you questions that you thought could come up, allowing you to answer them out loud without aid from your notes. Every three consecutive hours of studying or so, he would pull you away from your books and distract you for twenty or thirty minutes at a time, kissing away your pent-up stress and worries.

It honestly amazes you how the time flew by and soon it was the day of your last exam. Namjoon had to go back to work the day before, but his words kept ringing in your ears and reminded you to take care of yourself. Your hands freeze as you write down the last word and the crushing weight that has been with you since the first exam lifts. Turning in your exam, you felt like flying.

Leaving the room, you sigh with relief and smile despite of yourself. It was finally over. And now, Namjoon was the one locked up in the studio working.

“Time to return the favor” you whisper to yourself.

You almost skip down the sidewalk as you make your way to take care of your boyfriend, just like he had taken care of you.

[qhostqizmo]

Little Slice of Heaven

“I would like to be left alone, Theophilus.”

“Come now Lord Amon, no one likes to be left alone.”

A quiet growl rumbled in the nobleman’s throat. His head whipped around, turning a piercing gaze towards the statesman. The corner of his lip peeled back in a snarl nearly feral in nature, prompting the gentleman to hastily take a step back.

“Well I do,” he opposed in a thick tone.

The mousy broad-bellied man shifted sheepishly before him, trying to shrink their figure inward. “P-Please m’lord- you will be rejoining after recess, won’t you?”

“I will need a moment to consider if I shall; or if your wingbagged alias has the ability to be silent and allow someone else to speak at these proceedings, before I pass judgment on that matter.”

“You’re being fatuous, m’lord-”

Amon exhaled sharply. His nostrils flared, the shape of his shoulders growing broader as his spine stiffened. The nobleman peered down at the politician as he spoke in an ominous whisper: “I am being sensible, Master Theophilus. If I waste my time any longer in a room full of arrogant rambling administrators, then I am wasting the time of my territory and those who seek my authority and guidance to protect and serve it. I do not have the hour to sit and be spoken over by the likes of Roulf Boude or Claudia Fulvianus, or any of the like with their hubris and tactless greed. I have other obligations that demand my attention, and when everyone has finally settled into peaceful discussion and respectably appropriate delegations, I would be happy to seek audience again.”

“But for now,” he rumbled, taking a step forward, “I suggest that you go, Theo. I need space to think, and I have responsibilities to attend to and contracts to review and sign. So if you do not mind getting off of my property, and allowing me to go undisturbed into my home-”

Nodding vigorously, the short and stout Theo began to retreat in a backwards scuttle off the Briarton Estate’s pathway. “Yes sir, of course sir, I hope we’ll see you s-soon sir-”

Amon grunted to himself, turning away with a dramatic flick of his cloak. Unlikely.

Bricks laid out the foundation of the walkway to the manor. Within the cracks along some of the blocks; squeezing with determination between slots, a few common wild violets had taken root. He took care not to step on any of them as the tenacious little flowers guided him to the threshold. A strong scent from the house-hugging flora greeted him as he breathed in deeply, opening the heavy oak door. The geranium’s and hydrangea were in bloom, competing each other for dominance in the landscape. They also had a delightful calming effect before stepping in; taking in the range of colors and relaxing scents they provided in the mellow summer breeze.

“Lord Amon?”

“Yes, it’s me,” he called out, shutting the door softly behind.

A young maid stepped around the corner, offering a bow. “Would you like an afternoon snack, my lord?”

“Not at the moment, thank you.”

She curtsied. “Very well milord. Call if you need anything.”

He nodded shortly, sliding the dense mantle from his shoulders to drape over his arm. The nobleman watched the young woman retreat as he stepped further into the foyer, the sound of claws scrambling hastily coming from the east side of the house.

Sighing, he anchored his boots to the floor just as Caesar came barreling from the gallery room. The great mastiff skidded into his knees, letting out one of his tremendous bellowing barks that filled the entire space with his eagerness. He gave a butt wiggle that shook in tandem with his tail, leaving Amon to chuckle as he reached down to scratch the hunting dog’s ears.

“A very dignified entry Caesar,” he reported as the pooch groaned with pleasure. “How’s my good boy?”

“Arf.”

“Excellent. Have you been out recently?”

The hairy beast of a creature gave a mighty shake, sitting upon his hunches. He tilted his head, panting heavily up at his master.

“Outside?” Amon asked, patting his head.

A simple whine answered him as Caesar stood up, circling his legs eagerly.

He pat his thigh, signaling for the mastiff to follow. The duo made their way into the gallery room; no longer a dull space of gray stone with only the taxidermy stuffed game to bare their teeth in greeting. Paintings lined the wall; and the new throw rug added a splash of color and pattern to the otherwise uninspiring space. A few seating arrangements had been added, along with a card table and sculptures. There were still a few bare spaces, particularly near the south-side of the room, but that was Part D of a rather extensive project to liven various areas of the house.

Crossing through the identified ‘man cave’ of the lower level, Amon entered the kitchen with Caesar fast at his heels. He propped open the door to the backyard with his foot, allowing the dog to bolt through with a delighted series of yelps as he chased off the closest songbirds rooting the grass for insects.

“Afternoon, milord.”

“Afternoon-” he barely managed to utter, catching just a glimpse of the houseaid before she disappeared into the extended pantry. He cleared his throat: “Would you mind listening to let Caesar in? I’m going to head upstairs.”

“Certainly milord; not a problem.”

“Thank you Carla.”

He took the way back in which he came, passing through the dark-lit interior of the ‘men’s sanctuary’ and into the gallery. His gaze passed the portrait of Fontane to his right; no longer lonely with canvas work added of loved one’s now passed. It was a small memorial space; with pressed lily flowers in frames and a few plaques quoting heartfelt quotes. A large branch had been recently anchored to the wall, with hollow holes allowing small metal dishes to sit sustaining candles. There were even some recent additions he hadn’t seen until this moment: peace lilies added to the vase at the corner nook table, and a new ivy plant along the bottom of the branch.

A twinge of pain radiated through his chest. Pressing his fingers to his lips, Amon blew a kiss to the beaming expression of Marie looking back at him before he moved on.

The Illiad heir hopped up the stairs with a spring in his step, meeting the second landing. Sunlight cascaded past the curtains, the smell of the central courtyard garden entering the open windows. He picked up on the rustling coming from the sitting room just ahead before he saw a figure moving quickly into the doorway.

“M’lord- Oh… Do you want to talk about what happened? You look stressed my love.”

Amon absorbed her appearance; soaking her in like flora to sunshine. The smile that graced her face upon first glance faded quickly with a knit of her worried brow. Shadows fell over her golden eyes like clouds blocking rays of the sun. She fiddled her fingers in front of the pale blush off-the-shoulder shirt she wore; cinched at the waist, with ruffled short-length sleeves. It was a pleasant rosy hue, making the shade of her skintone appear deeper, more a rich brown.

She was a breath of fresh air, deep in the depths of his lungs. He slid his feet forward slowly, finding her arms instantly open to welcome him into her embrace.

He inhaled the faded aroma of soap in her loose black curls, pulling her in close to rock from side to side. The shape of her was a familiarity to him; warm and soft, curving into his frame with the same shade of longing he felt beneath his ribcage.

His wife pressed her lips to the ticklish skin below his ear, and he chuckled.

“Rough day, beloved?”

“Vexing,” he agreed heavily, “but it’s already feeling a bit better.”

“Well I’m happy to hear that,” she hummed. “Can I get you anything? Was the summit dreadful?”

“A mockery Essie; truly. I’ve rarely dealt with such immature individuals. Would you care to join me when we reconvene? I could use your sharp tongue.”

Essätha pulled her head back to arch her brow, a playful smile on her face. “That depends; am I kissing you with it or spearing someone else?”

Amon’s eyes widened with surprise. “Quite the spirited tease today, darling.”

“I do enjoy a good game,” she admitted, reaching back around to pat his chest. “While you were out I went ahead and assessed the contracts Edger sent us; triple-checked them a few times. Our ledges and estimates all seemed in order and correct, but I didn’t sign anything until you oversaw it just in case.”

“You could have, you know I trust you.”

“I know, but I love hearing you read contracts aloud in that sexy deep droning voice of yours.” She winked at him as he chuckled, venturing onward, “besides, it’s a team effort. I would rather you catch my mistakes now than later down the road.”

The nobleman grinned, staring down into her smiling face. He leaned forward, basking in the glory of the way her breath hitched expectedly, and how her lashes fluttered low. She slid her arms around his neck to dig her fingers through his air as his lips brushed hers. A shaky exhale escaped her, waiting patiently, until he pressed closer for a more earnest kiss.

They separated slowly, with her eyes peering up at him beneath dark lashes. The sorcereress dropped her hands from around him, and grabbed gently at his bicep.

“Come, sit with me.”

Amon let go of his noblewoman, allowing her to take his hands instead. She guided him back into the sitting area where she had come from, walking at an angle so her eyes could remain holding his. It was a holy experience, following someone cut from the heart of divinity. He would follow her blindly anywhere, anywhere at all. She was in his blood, in his heart, the sun in his eyes glistening so brilliantly; she was everywhere he wanted to be, the only longing he could not live without.

“You’ve had a long enough day already,” Essie urged sweetly, taking a seat upon the sofa. She pat the spot beside her with her free hand. “Rest.”

He obeyed her willingly, obliging by sinking gently into the cushion beside hers.

She carefully detangled her hand from his. Her fingers brushed against the side of his face and up, pushing stray hairs away from his forehead. His eyes darted over her, watching as she indicated a sweeping gesture over her lap. An invitation.

Once more, loyal and willing, he began to drift towards her. Bunching his knees in, Amon kept his boots mostly off the clean couch by dangling his ankles off to the side as he rolled inward. Scooting and wriggling, he steadied himself to flat on his back, head in her lap, looking up into the vibrant joyful expression peaking down at him. Her smile was stunning; making an already beautiful woman ethereal in ways that slackened his jaw. It was a small gesture, but it softened around her eyes as the edges of her cheeks rounded.

“Wow,” he cooed, “you look incredible from every view.”

Essätha scoofed at him, the bridge of her nose wrinkling in disagreement. “Hussssshh…”

Leaning forward, she grazed her fingertips through his locks. She combed hair back from his forehead, stroked along his eyes, and rubbed the pads of her fingers near his temples.

A groan rose up in his throat, his eyelids falling to half-mast in bliss.

Softly, Essie began to hum. It almost felt as though it was filling his chest; radiating into his ribcage and bouncing around like an orchestra in a cathedral. Amon sighed heavily, allowing the heaviness in his body to drift away as he succumbed to her touch more and more.

She began to whisper slowly a hymn. He understood none of it, but he didn’t have to. Whatever the lyrics were, they were words of an angel, and of love. The words fell into a melody as her voice higher; louder, sweeter. It was not just the celestial tongue that had him so smitten, or the nature of the words. It was her body language that captivated him; the tenderness that poured out of her, the enormity of her compassion and unbridled will of strength.

Gods themselves would weep, hearing something so precious.

He melted; enamored and adoringly staring up into the halo of the sun that was wreathing her head. It was all so dreamy; so beyond what mortals could be capable of. Her touch was a saint’s blessing, carding through mane of fading-black. Her nails scrapped against his hairline; her palms rubbed metric gestures that seemed to coordinate with the rise and fall of her chorus against the side of his head. He imagined he could close his eyes and drift away to sleep; the most comfortable slumber he’d ever have, if he wasn’t so stubbornly enticed to being aware and there in the waking world with her. No fantasy’s ever did justice on the fascination and depth that resided in her soul. Nothing compared to the reality that was being beside her.

Clearing his throat, he reached up to cup the side of her face, sweeping his thumb against her jawline. “I’m in awe of you a little more every day,” he mouthed, breathing deeply.

Essie laughed shyly. “People are going to think I’m charming you with talk like that,” she teased.

“You are quite charming.”

“M’lord Amon.”

“Even when you say my name with disapproval, it’s still the most enchanting thing I’ve ever heard.”

“You’re love-drunk,” the sorceress murmured, ghosting her lips intimately along his palm, and down to his wrist.

“I have been,” he agreed in a lulled hush. “I have been for a long time, and I couldn’t be happier.”

“Do you not want a cure?” she mused, massaging her fingertips from behind his ears down to his neck.

A shiver rushed over him. “You are my cure. I love being intoxicated by you. You relax me, and you challenge me. You make me stronger, and you bring me to my knees. Your wit and charm make me feel invincible and intelligent, while also humbling me that I still can always learn more from you. I am in a constant state of balance and bliss, when you are by my side.”

Her eyelids dropped a little lower as he spoke, while her smile grew broader. Essie skimmed her touch from his forehead through his hair and back, making his groan again.

“I love you.”

“I love you too Essie, so much.”

“I love you just as much,” she whispered, huddling over to give him a peck on the cheek.

Amon tilted his head a few degrees, allowing her hands to comb through a different section of his hair. His eyelids drifted a bit lower as she began to pick up the tune to the song she had been singing, the angelic lines floating through the air, giving harmony to his heartbeat.

Sighing, the nobleman nuzzled his face into her thighs, reaching around to wrap an arm around her waist. She half-giggled, continuing to sing as he peaked up at her from her abdomen, admiring the most gorgeous woman in all of the world. His home, his heart, the entire pillar of his contentment hindered on that soft, private smile made just for him. This moment alone with her reminded him of the true meaning of life: at the end of the day, love was all that mattered, and it would conquer all else… Even if all it had to overcome was the brief stormcloud of his sour mood. It never stood a chance against Essätha Illiad; vanquisher of darkness, and keeper of his heart.

[aetm-malereaderimagines]

Hey! How about a male reader scenario where the reader has an intense crush on Sawamura Daichi and finally confesses to him ( after a LOT of struggling) only to find out Daichi was also about to confess to him on the same day. Also i love your effort to make male reader scenarios. It really makes it easy for queer males to also have the same experience as straight female fans. Keep it up!!

Firstof all, thank you for your request! Second of all, duh XD I’m a gayguy myself so ofc I write gay fanfiction! Mymain reason to start this blog was actually my frustration caused bybeing unable to find decent HQ!! reader inserts where the reader islegitimately gender-neutral. Yes, even gender-neutral. There are some nicemale reader inserts out there but they’re few and far between.So I usually end up looking for gender-neutral insterts, headcanons, and scenarios but… Some of them areblatantly meant for female readers. Some of them claim to be gender-neutral but you can clearly see they’re actually not or just employ male and female gender stereotypes I’m definitely not comfortable with. And some ofthem are female reader inserts that are tagged as x male reader… SoI decided to say “fuck it” and create some content myself that myfellow queer readers can actually enjoy! LGBT people are alreadydenied the same experience regarding love and sexuality that straight people get so if I can somehow contribute to making this world ofours a little less fucked up for my fellow queer folks, that’s all I could ever wish for!

Okay, but enough of myinconsistent rambling and let’s get into the actual scenario!Although I probably have a crush on every and each HQ!! character(well, maybe except some of the older guys lol), Daichi is actuallyone of those I’d probably consider the best boyfriend material soI’m really glad you requested a scenario for him! Justfyi, I made the readerKarasuno’s 2ndyear manager so that Ihave something to start from, hopefully you don’t mind. Ireally hope you’ll like it! enjoy!

Also let me apologize that it took me so long to write this but for some reason, I’ve been feeling utterly uninspired lately :/ It took the first episode of S4 and a volleyball match I watched yesterday for me to finally get some inspiration to finish this scenario XD

Pairing: Sawamura Daichi x Male Reader

Word count: 1659

告り告られ — A Double Confession

“Oh come on, just confess tohim!”

“You know I can’t!”

“You can and you will!”Yachi’s eyes bored into you and you turned your gaze away, feelingas though those two goldenorbs were penetrating your very soul. “Why do you have to make itharder than it actually is? You like him, you confess, you gettogether. Simple!”

“Like hell it would go thatsmoothly,” you scoffed. “I don’t even know if he’s gay.”

“Oh come on, have you not seenhow close he is with Sugawara-san?”

“But that’s precisely theproblem!” You looked Yachi in the eye confrontingly. “If he’snot gay, I don’t even have a chance, and even if he is, I stilldon’t have a chance since he’s probably already inlove with Suga-san.”

“…you will confess to himeventually anyways,” Yachi cut the conversation, pouting.

You looked away. You knew she wasright. You were going to confess to him eventually. It’s just… Itwas so fucking hard to work up the courage. You’dhad a crush on Daichi since your first year, since a while afteryou’djoined the volleyball club.

Atfirst, it was all fun and games. Youjoined the club simply because you liked volleyball but getting towatch pretty boys get all worked up and sweaty while playing was anice bonus for you. Once you realized you liked Daichi, it got evenmore fun… for a while. Howmany people could say they get to see their crash shirtless on adaily basis?

But the longer you watched, thecloser you got to him, the more painful it got. Daichicould look scary at first, especially during practice sessions whenhe had to rein in first and second years, but asalways, appearances couldbe deceptive. Youmanaged to befriend him, also getting closer with Suga and Asahi inthe process, but soon yourealized that being just friends was hardly enough for you. Youstill couldn’t forget that one time when Daichi said you were “likea younger brother to him” and how much it hurt.

“All right!”

What snapped you out of yourcontemplation was Daichi’s voice. Whileyou were bickering with Yachi standing on the side of the court, theboys were actually training. Shimizu was in charge of taking notestoday so you and Yachi didn’t have much to do at the moment.

You turnedyour eyes in the direction Daichi’svoice had come from. Andthere he was, looking asgood as always, with that damn smile of his he always had on his faceafter a good receive, just a few feet away from you.

So close yet so far.

It was the day. It was the dayyou were going to confess to Daichi.

It had been a month since yourargument with Yachi. Over the last 30 daysand even more late-night phone calls with Yachi, you decided toconfess your feelings to Daichi. Even if he didn’t like you back,you wanted him to know what you feel. The days were growing longerand Spring High wasgetting closer and closer. Regardless of whether you won or lost, thethird-years were going to quit the club once the tournament was over.And once that happened,you were bound to grow more distant with Daichi, let alone having achance to confess to him. If you were going to do it, you had to doit now.

The morning sun was shininggently upon you as you walked through the schoolyard withyour heart pounding in your chest andyou still had like half a day to go before the actual confession. Youreally hoped your teachers wouldn’t quiz you today. You’dprobably fail it miserably since you couldn’t focus on anythingelse but the dreadful perspective of what was going to happen thisevening.

Yourplan was simple. You were going to take alittle longer cleaningup after practice so that you end up staying alone in the storageroom. Then, Yachi was going to “notice” that you’re missing andask Daichi to go and look for you because she had “somethingimportant to talk to you about.” If everything went smoothly, youwere going to end up alone with Daichi in the storage room. That wasgoing to be your chance.

When you were going overthe plan in your head walking down the hallway, your phone rang. Youpulled your phone out of your bag to find out you had a new text fromYachi.

“I’m sorry m(_ _)m”

You tilted your head. That wasall she wrote.

“What do you mean?” youtexted back as you entered your classroom.

You spent the first periodstressing over Yachi’s message. Whatever she was sorry about, itwas bound to be nothing good.

Turnedout Yachiwas sick.

Accordingto Yachi herself, he had suddenly felt really unwell last night whichhadturned out to beonly the beginning of a long, feverish night. Whenher mom had taken her to the doctor this morning, she’d beendiagnosed with a bad case of influenza. Shewould probably be staying at home for at least a week.

Yourplan was ruined, which of course made you very upset… but somewheredeep in your heart, you also felt kind of relieved that the momentyou were going to confess to Daichi was put off by at least a week,and you hated yourself for it.

Youlet out a deep sigh as you leaned against a mop you held in yourhands. Youended up being the last one left in the gym anyways, no matter yourplan. You’dlied to Shimizu and the guys about needing to clean up the storageroom—you needed some time foryourself.

“Needsome help?”

Youturned your face up to find the source of the voice only to be facesby Daichi leaning against the door frame, looking at you.

You gulped.

You didn’t even need your planto be left alone with Daichi.

If this wasn’t the heavenstelling you it was high time you’d confessed then what was.

“Yeah,actually, I’m really glad you’re here,” you said, lookingstraight at Daichi. “There’s something I need to tell you.” Yougulped. “I like you.”

Youfinally said it.

Daichi stood in front of yousilently, as though processing what you had just said, and you justwaited. You weren’t going anywhere until you got an answer,especially given that Daichi was standing in the doorway, blockingyour way. You had quite a spectacle to watch anyways.

Thefirst few seconds, Daichi’s face just… froze, as he stared at youunblinkingly. Then came a slight blush which gradually turned moreand more red eventually taking on the color of an especially ripebeet. Hecovered hismouth with both of his hands, as though he was in an utter shock.Which he probably was. It took him like half a minute to calm down.Once his blush subsided a little bit, he lowered his hands andfinally let himself blink.

“I… I like you, too,” hesaid quietly, turning his eyes away from you.

“No, I don’t mean it likethat.” You smiled sadly. “I mean it, like, in a romantic way.”

“That’s what I mean, too.”

This time it was you that foundyourself shook to the bone.

“What…wait, what?!”

“I actually came here toconfess to you,” Daichi explained, his blush growing brighteragain. “Shimizu told me you’d said you’d stay in the gym alittle longer and everyone else has already left so I thought it wasmy chance…”

You stared at each otherwordlessly for a few seconds. You were the one to start laughing.

“Whatthe hell is this?! Whathave I even been worried about this past year?!”

“Iknow, right?” Daichi giggled as well. “Wait,you’ve had a crush on me fora yearalready?!”

“Over a year, I’d say,” youresponded. “You?”

“You beat me on that one.”Daichi’s smile was really the most beautiful thing you’d everseen. “I’d say since the previous Spring High? You remember howyou cheered me up after we lost? That’s when I realized.”

“Isee.” You couldn’t stop grinning. “So I guess we’reboyfriends now?”

“I guess so.” Daichi grabbedyour hand and pulled you toward the door. “Let’s go hometogether.

“That’s so amazing!!!!!!I’m so happy for you two!!!!!!!!! And I’m so so sorry I couldn’thelp you today T_T”

You smiled at your phone. Yachiwas really the sweetest.

“If you hadn’t supportedme this whole time, I wouldn’t have confessed to him in the firstplace!”

“Sorry you had to wait.”

You put your phone back into yourpocket as you turned your eyes to Daichi. He had to grab hiss stufffrom the club room and you’d been waiting for him downstairs.

“No problem,” you responded,readjusting the strap of your bag on your shoulder. “Shall we gothen?”

“Let’s.”

You walked down the streetleading up to the school. You were talking and laughing, enjoyingeach other’s presence. It was late and there was nobody around.Daichi grabbed your hand and you squeezed it back.

“Hey,” Daichi started, hisvoice sounding a little anxious. “Don’t you wanna come over? Myparents are at home but I’m sure my mom will be happy to have youover for dinner. We could watch some movies or something.”

“Sure thing,” you respondedwith a smile. “I’d love that.”

Daichi smiled at you again andyou couldn’t hold yourself back any longer. You leaned in placing agentle kiss on his lips.

A clap of distant thunder rumbled throughthe skies. You couldn’t know that yet but it was just the beginningof a thunderstorm that was going to force you to stay the night atDaichi’s house.

Not that you minded.

[bensakindofmagic]

Chapter Eighteen

A/N: look at how fucking soft he is in this pic, i'm weeping, imagine opening facetime and seeing that face

Warnings: none, just fluff

w/c: 3.1k+

Chapter Eighteen 

Filming was tough. The light was sparse in Scotland at that time of year, so everything had to be ready to go the second the sun came up in order to maximise productivity. It was cold and windy, and often raining, and if it weren’t for a delightful cast and crew you would have been thoroughly miserable. You weren’t nearly so close with them as the Borhap boys, but they kept you in decent spirits. The real hardship, however, was being away from Ben. For as long as you’d known each other you hadn’t spent more than two days apart — even when you were barely on speaking terms you still saw him everyday. Your colleagues noticed how often you were on your phone during breaks (and you were sure there were some people who resented what they perceived to be anti-social behaviour), but it was because every time you looked Ben had sent you a dozen messages: pictures of Frankie, a link to a video that he thought you’d find funny, news articles that he thought would interest you, pictures he found on the internet, but more often than not just a message to say he missed you. You guessed that the separation was probably harder for Ben, given that he was the remaining party. You left for a new environment that he had never been in, and while you ached for him often, work kept you busy and there were plenty of people round to distract you. Ben was left with a hole where you used to be, an empty place on the sofa or at the table, and a sudden lack of company (though you noticed on social media that he was suddenly spending a lot more time meeting up with old friends, which made you happy). But at certain moments, like when you were standing in the pouring rain and shivering as the sunlight began to dwindle, you were desperate for him to wrap his strong arms around you and carry you to bed, where he would proceed to hold you tightly until all the chill had been chased from your bones. You felt a buzz in your pocket, somewhere in the great depths of your coat. It was a message from Ben asking when you were due to wrap for the day. 

Y/N: about 5.30pm. can’t wait to have a shower i’m freezing my bollocks off

Ben: You don’t have any bollocks 

Y/N: well not anymore obviously!! 

Ben: Facetime at 6?

Y/N: better make it 6.30, it’s going to take a while to warm me up

Ben: Wish I was there to help ;)

You were relieved when the director declared that there wasn’t enough light and you’d have to wrap it up for the day. Performing your duties as swiftly and efficiently as possible, you raced back to your hotel room and peeled off layers of clothing that had seemingly frozen onto your skin and jumped in the shower. You stood under the water for a long while, letting it hit your head and trickle down your body, warming you up little by little. You thought back to times when Ben would be in that shower with you, and your whole body would feel as thought it was on fire, though it had nothing to do with the scalding water. But the smile that adorned your face at the memory was melancholic, and soon you longed to be out of the shower and on your laptop to talk to him. You made a cup of tea, put on your fluffiest pyjamas, and sat down on the bed to call Ben just in time. His name popped up on your screen with a now familiar ringtone. 

“Hey, Benny!” you delighted as you saw his face on your screen, as close as he could feel in the present circumstances. 

“Hi gorgeous!” he smiled brightly and held Frankie up to the screen to wave hello with her little paw, “I’ve missed you.” 

“What, since we facetimed last night and texted two hours ago?”

“Yes. I’ve missed your cuddles.” 

You sighed, you’d missed his too. The long distance would have been okay if it weren’t for how much you ached to hold each other. Day-to-day, Ben expressed most of his affection through touch and you could see more and more how tough he was finding being denied that. 

“I was thinking about you in the shower today,” you mused. 

He smirked, “Is that so? What were you doing while you were thinking about me?”

You rolled your eyes and laughed, “That’s not really what I meant,” — though the question was certainly warranted, Ben didn’t need to know the answer just yet — “I was thinking about how much I miss you holding me. Not to get too soppy or anything.”

“Well you know how soppy I am, love,” he assured. That made you smile. 

“I just miss touching you — not in a sexy way! Although that too — it’s the feel of you, you know?” 

He nodded, reassuring you that he knew exactly what you meant. It hadn’t even been a month and you were both struggling more than you cared to admit. You’d missed your first Valentine’s Day together, and even though Ben had sent you flowers and you’d had a long and eventful video chat, part of you felt like you were missing out. You’d spent much of the early part of your relationship hiding it from those around you, and though you had those three precious weeks to be unashamedly in love, you now felt bitterly as though you would miss the best part of the honeymoon phase. 

“So tell me about your day, love.” 

You related all the gossip that the day had brought, jokes shared with your colleagues, how someone had to go running off through the highlands chasing a false beard that had been torn off by the wind. He laughed in all the right places and asked all the right questions. He, in turn, told you that he’d gone to the gym (which he’d been doing more often since you’d been gone), and met with a director for lunch to talk over a possible job. He was excited about it: you could see how much he wanted it, despite trying to convince you (as much as himself) that it was early days and he wasn’t getting his hopes up. He remarked how’d he’d sneezed five times in a row which he was sure was some kind of record — you laughed but noticed how he looked a little paler than usual and how he kept sniffing, and predicted that he was about to get a cold.

You accepted the call to receive an image of Ben wrapped in a duvet cocoon with a steaming mug in hand and tissues strewn about the place. 

“How’re you doing, darling?” you cooed. 

“I’m sick.” His nose, red and sore, was clearly blocked. He was pale and clammy, and his hair, damp with sweat, hung limply over his forehead. 

“Mm, I can see that.”

“See? I told you I couldn’t cope without you!” he whined. 

“It’s just a cold, Benny, you’ll live. Just drink lots of fluids and get plenty of sleep, okay?”

He frowned, looking remarkably like a toddler who’d just been denied an ice cream, “I was looking for sympathy, not instructions.”

You laughed and soothed him as best you could. As much as you opted for the ‘tough love’ approach, you wished you could be there to make him cups of hot water with honey and lemon, and bring him a new box of tissues when he finished the last one, and cuddle on the sofa with him watching old Disney movies. You wanted to stroke his hair and tuck him into bed. 

Apparently he wanted the same because after chatting for a little while, when his eyelids started to droop and his head got heavy, he quietly asked, “Will you sing for me?”

“Sing? What do you want me to sing for?” 

He shrugged, an embarrassed smile lacing his lips, “I’ve missed it. You sing all the time when you’re here, the place feels empty without it. I’ve been playing music a lot but it’s not the same.”

You chuckled, and went quiet. You allowed the silence to seep into your soul, to expand inside you and push all the noise for your mind. In its place a melody began softly and it danced off your lips.

‘Looking out on the morning rain, I used to feel uninspired, 

And when I knew I’d have to face another day, Lord it made me feel so tired.

Before the day I met you, life was so unkind.

Your love was the key to my peace of mind.’

The tiredness abated from Ben’s face, instantly soothed. Frown lines evaporated and his skin was left velvety smooth. His eyes fluttered closed, calmed. Even in the slightly pixellated image of him on your computer screen you could see how he ached for you, and how your voice helped to soothe that pain.

‘When my soul was in the lost-and-found, you came along to claim it.

I didn't know just what was wrong with me till your kiss helped me name it.

Now I'm no longer doubtful of what I'm living for, 

’Cause if I make you happy I don't need to do more.’

It seemed the more Ben was dulcified, the more your own agony grew. The softness of him was intoxicating, and it exposed how much he needed you. Guilt flared in you at not being there to look after him, and your own selfish desire to be near him added a sharp longing to your cocktail of grief.

‘Oh, baby, what you've done to me,

You make me feel so good inside.

And I just want to be close to you,

You make me feel so alive.’

His head got heavy, his shoulders relaxed as he leaned back on the sofa, and slowly you saw sleep settling weightily over his features. You indulged yourself by watching him for a few moments, chest rising and falling steadily as he began to snore, but soon the pang in your chest became too intense to bear. You whispered, “I love you,” into the boundless space between you before ending the call and quickly opening a new window on your laptop. 

———

Ben had been feeling particularly sorry for himself. He never coped very well when he was ill (being a frequent sufferer of man flu), but this was worse than usual. For starters, he didn’t get sick very often anymore so when he did it felt all the worse, and he hadn’t been this unwell in a while, and to top it all off, Y/N wasn’t there to look after him. Every morning he’d wake up in an empty bed, hardly able to breathe and feeling like his whole face had been plugged up. He’d drag himself to the kitchen, cocooned in his duvet, get himself some hot water and a piece of toast because that was all he could bring himself to make, before collapsing on the sofa, drifting in and out of sleep, some crappy movie on in the background, and ordering food when he couldn’t be bothered to get it himself. He was pretty sure that you would have been horrified had you seen the state of him — he didn’t like to look in the mirror because it frightened him how much he looked like a ghost of himself — but really he just wanted you there to look after him. He kept finding himself daydreaming about you, whispering soothing words to him as he slept, holding him close against your body. Sometimes he got so lost in his imagination that he could almost feel the touch of you, and for a moment convinced himself that you were there, that you would sit down next to him any second with two cups of tea and some sassy remark. To be honest, he had been like that most of the time you’d been away; he had felt the void of you more acutely than he had anticipated. But this constant state of semi-waking delirium had amplified it. So when he heard a knock at the door, thinking that he must have ordered take-away and forgotten but opened it to find you there with an armful of groceries and a grin, he assumed he was dreaming. 

He sighed melancholically, “Y/N.” 

“Oh Benny, are you okay?” 

Your tone didn’t seem right. You never sounded worried in his imagination, only gentle and calm. His heart started to beat faster. 

In a voice that sounded far away, like he was underwater, he heard you say, “Darling, let’s get you into bed. You don’t look good.”

“Wait, you’re really here?”

“Of course I’m here,” you said, ushering yourself inside and laying your things down before placing your palm against his forehead. He closed his eyes, falling gratefully into your touch. Your hand felt cool against his burning skin, and he almost collapsed with relief to have you beside him again. He could see you were worried, your movements suddenly infected with a slightly frenetic urgency, but all he felt was elation. He let you shepherd him into bed without resistance, and drank eagerly from the glass of chilled water you placed in his hands. 

You tucked him under the covers, and knelt beside the bed, stroking your fingers with the most delicate touch over his cheek. It made him shiver. His eyelids slipped closed and he felt the heaviness of the past few days evaporate into weightlessness. In those few hazy moments before sleep overtook him, still sceptical of the veracity of his own senses, he mumbled, “Will you still be here when I wake up?”

You smiled tenderly, “Of course I will, love. I’m going to look after you,”

You knew Ben was pretty unwell but hadn’t anticipated quite the extent of it. He seemed to be delirious, and the glassy look in his eyes made you wonder if he ever knew you were there. He was burning up when you tested his temperature, so you got him some water and sent him to bed. It broke your heart a little to shut him off in the bedroom as soon as you had reunited with him after missing him so deeply, but it broke your heart more to see him so sick, reduced to a shadow of himself. You kept yourself busy while he slept, walking Frankie, cleaning the apartment which had unsurprisingly fallen into a state of neglect, and getting a stew on to be ready by the time he woke. Your mind wandered back to him often, the thought of him curled up under the covers like a child. It took all your strength not to climb in next to him and cuddle him until he felt better. But you knew that would do nothing for his fever. 

He woke up a few hours later and trudged back into the kitchen where you were sat quietly entertaining yourself on your phone. He’d thrown a hoodie on, pulled up over his head with his hands stuffed in his pockets. 

“Hi gorgeous,” you beamed, standing to meet him. He looked better already; his eyes were less puffy and some of the colour was returning to his face. 

“Hey,” he said hoarsely, “I wasn’t sure you’d be here when I woke up. I thought I’d dreamt you.” 

You opened your arms and he shuffled gratefully into them, letting his head fall against your shoulder. He exhaled, relaxed, while your fingertips trailed gently across the back of his neck. 

“I’m here, and I’m not going anywhere until you’re better.” 

He pulled back to meet your eyes, searching them for the truth, “Really? Won’t you have to go back soon?”

“They’ll just have to cope without me, because clearly you can’t.”

He shook his head before burying it in your neck again. 

“Come on, I’ve made dinner.” 

Ben ate hungrily, glad of a proper, hearty meal. You sat at the table for hours, surreptitiously filling up Ben’s glass to make sure he was drinking plenty of water, revelling in being in each other’s company again. It was bittersweet. Despite your assurance that you’d stay as long as he needed, you both knew that come Monday — Tuesday at the latest — you’d have to head back to Scotland. But for the moment you talked and laughed, and nursed Ben back to health. You decided to go back to your own apartment overnight to make sure Ben got a good night’s rest, as well as reduce the risk of you getting his cold. He made you promise him that you’d come back first thing in the morning, which of course you readily did. And when you did return, already making breakfast by the time Ben surfaced, he was looking healthier still. 

“‘Morning cherub,” you cooed. “How’re you feeling today?” 

“All the better for seeing you,” he smiled and hugged you from behind. You kissed his cheek and he detached himself, allowing you to hand him a hot mug of honey and lemon. 

By the end of the weekend Ben was almost completely better. He had even managed to go out for a walk with you and Frankie. He could speak properly again, without his ‘m’s turning into ‘b’s, and his spirits where infinitely raised — until he saw your packed bag, ready to go again, as you sat side-by-side on the sofa.

“When’s your flight?” he sighed, disconsolate. 

“First thing in the morning, taxi’s picking me up at 6.” 

His shoulders slumped. “You can’t go yet, I’m still sick,” and he coughed lamely, pouting like a toddler. 

“Considering you’re a professional actor, that was thoroughly unconvincing,” you deadpanned and swiped your thumb over his cheek. “I’ll come visit again soon.” 

“I don’t want you to come visit,” he lamented, leaning into your hand, “I want you to come home.” 

“What do you mean, love?” you faltered, frowning. 

He sidled closer to you, resting a hand on your knee. He was quiet, eyes fixed on your lap, but when he looked up he was absolutely focused, intent. 

“Move in with me.” It wasn’t a question. 

You were overwhelmed with green. All you could see was his eyes and the determination in them, their confidence in you. The love and the warmth and the longing made them sparkle. 

Your voice was hushed but firm as you replied, “Okay.” 

The next thing you knew he was kissing you and your world was revolving. Everything you felt and heard and tasted was him and that was all you wanted for the rest of your life. 

taglist: @anikatcmh @queen-turtle-boiii @orchideax @rogerspoison @my5secondsofneverland @mrsmazzello @ixchel-9275 @radiob-l-a-hblah @devin-marie @rogmeddows @mercurycrowley @spaghetittiesbcimgay @valeriecarolinaw @saint-hardy @caborhapch @stephanie-everlasting @coldmuffinpartycloud​ @drowse13 @shhhs3cret @blind-melon-taylor @ohsososophisticatedd​ @malfoybaby​ @littlepanda-love @leezie @shesakillerquueennn​ @borhapgrande​ @stfxlou​ @vangogh-groupie @dep-thx​ @hardzzellos​ @imjustboredso​ (just ask if you want to be added to the tag list! sorry if tumblr won’t let me tag you)

[cheemerthelizard]

Crusader of Life (Kakyoin x Reader) Chapter 8

Ah, finally a break! Varanasi is a beautiful city, and the day is all yours! No Stand user would possibly decide to ruin you and Kakyoin’s first date... right?

You and the others had finally arrived at Varanasi, and it looked even better than what Avdol described. Beautiful designs, bright colors, and sparkling jewels, it was all so amazing! The best part: no Stand user in sight.

“Say, Mr. Joestar, your arm looks a little weird,” you commented, pointing at it. “Looks like a huge pimple or something. Maybe you should see a doctor.”

“Hm,” Joseph stared at it. “Maybe you’re right.”

“I can go with you, if you’d like,” Polnareff offered.

“No, no, I’ll be fine. You four go enjoy the city.”

And that you certainly would. After all, there was no way you’d miss an opportunity like this to get some sweet, sweet time off from a Stand attack. Granted, you probably shouldn’t jinx it.

“Oh, (Y/N), I need to ask you something,” Kakyoin said, interrupting your thoughts. “I’ve been thinking, we haven’t really had a proper date. The most we’ve had together is walking around looking for Polnareff. Would you mind if-“

“No, I wouldn’t mind,” you answered, smiling. “I would love to go on a date.”

“Oh, good,” Kakyoin sighed. “Well, I don’t really know this place very well, so perhaps we could explore a bit?”

“That sounds nice,” you replied. “In fact, I haven’t really gone on a date with someone until now, so I don’t know what to do.”

“Nor have I. We’ll wing it. Avdol! Jotaro!” Kakyoin tossed a walkie talkie to both of them. “We’ll be exploring the city a bit. Call us on there if there’s danger.”

“Understood,” Avdol nodded.

“Alright,” Jotaro agreed.

“Good. Well, we’re off!” Kakyoin waved to the two.

“Have fun! Tell me how it goes!”

“Don’t get caught by an enemy Stand.”

If you thought the city was beautiful from a distance, you hadn’t seen anything yet. The view from the streets was a whole new version of eye candy. Everywhere you turned, there were vendors selling something appealing. Trinkets, exotic foods, colorful clothing, and just about anything you could think of. Oh, you just wanted one of those things, just one. Taking your own piece of India home would be wonderful. Alas, you had no money with you.

“I can buy something, if you really want it.”

“Hm?”

Kakyoin laughed. “You’re not good at hiding your expressions. Even Ace is looking at everything in awe. I can buy something small, if you really want it.”

“No, I can’t do that,” you protested. “You’re my boyfriend, not my sugar daddy.”

“If it makes you feel better, you can pay me back.”

“But I won’t remember, I won’t.”

“I’ll help you remember, if it means that much to you.”

You stared at the ground and muttered, “Fine.” You knew, somehow, Kakyoin wasn’t really going to remind you. He just said that so you wouldn’t feel guilty about taking money out of his pocket. Still, you picked out a cute little elephant necklace, but checked the price without Kakyoin knowing. Good. It’s fairly cheap.

As you continued down the streets, Kakyoin whispered something to you. “I didn’t bring any money, either. Mr. Joestar was kind enough to lend me some. He said to ‘use it as I deemed fit,’ then winked.”

“So it won’t affect you if I get something expensive?”

“He didn’t give me that much, come on.” Kakyoin chuckled. “But he did give me enough for lunch, dinner, and two small souvenirs.”

“How convenient,” you laughed. “It’s almost as if it was planned for something.”

Kakyoin laughed, too. “I didn’t tell you at first because I didn’t know how you’d react to me leaving all my money at home.”

“Hey, like I said, you’re my boyfriend, not my sugar daddy.”

Those words seemed to lift a weight off of Kakyoin’s shoulders. “Well speaking of lunch, I’m starving. Let’s find somewhere to eat.”

“Yeah...” your mind had drifted elsewhere. You had just seen someone in a cloak, you were sure of it. But, suddenly, he was gone. It couldn’t be an enemy Stand, could it? You prayed that it wasn’t.

“You okay?”

You snapped back to reality. “Oh, yeah, I’m fine. I just felt like someone was watching us. I’m probably just paranoid from the past few days, with all of the Stand users attacking us.”

“Yeah, I’m sure that’s what it was.”

The two of you searched for a while for a good place to eat, until you stumbled upon a little cafe that had a wonderful smell to it. You both eagerly went inside to check out the menu, since both of your stomachs were growling. Each of you chose what you wanted, and sat down to wait for it to be ready.

“Actually, your Stand was the first one I’ve seen besides mine,” you laughed. “I thought I was the only one to have an ability like that.”

“Well, yours was technically the second for me,” Kakyoin said, “since I had to see Jotaro’s first, but it was special, since I hadn’t seen Star Platinum in action yet.”

“Do you believe in fate?” you asked. “Like how the Joestars have fought to keep away Dio. Do you believe that us meeting there was fate?”

Kakyoin looked, and thought about it. “Maybe,” he finally said. “I don’t really think about fate all that much. However, I don’t think someone’s life is completely controlled by fate, only certain bits. Us meeting? I think it was, but we chose to make something out of it.”

However, you weren’t listening to him. That same cloaked guy from before was back, and definitely looking right at you two.

“Kakyoin,” you nudged him. “I think I’ve seen that guy before.”

Unfortunately, as soon as Kakyoin turned, the man caught drift of what was happening, and quickly dashed back into the crowd of people.

“Darn. He’s gone again.”

“No, no, I saw him, even if it was for a split second,” Kakyoin reassured you.

“You did?”

“I did. And he did look suspicious.”

You grumbled. “I hoped nothing would ruin this day. It was supposed to be special.”

Kakyoin got up from his chair. “I think it was special, even if it was interrupted by an enemy. But for now, we need to go after that cloaked man. He could be dangerous.”

“Yeah,” you sighed. You took Kakyoin’s hand as he lifted you up from your chair, and you both ran after the supposed enemy Stand user. It wasn’t long before you found him, though, running through the crowd. The two of you dashed through the streets, bumping into lots of people on the way, but determined to not lose sight of that man.  Eventually, he had made his way out of the dense crowd, and catching his breath. He thought he had lost you! Before you ran to take the opportunity, Kakyoin stopped you. He looked right at you, summoned Hierophant, let his Stand slither its way right towards the cloaked man, and grabbed onto his shoulder. The man let out a confused yelp, and you and Kakyoin emerged from the crowd. Now that you had actually seen the man, he looked very different than you expected, with a long, black beard, thick eyebrows, and bushy hair.

“Alright, bud, start talking!” You tried sounding as tough as possible. “Name, Stand’s name, and Stand’s ability.”

“Alright, fine!” The man was still trying to grab on to Hierophant, who had a firm grip on his shoulder. “My name is Fredrick Jones, but that’s all the information I can give!”

Kakyoin tightened the grip on his shoulder, earning another loud yelp from Fredrick.

“Hierophant’s grip will only get tighter, so you better start talking, Fredrick.” Yes! Nailed it!

“The reason I can’t tell you the other information is because I don’t know what they are!” He cried, and Hierophant tightened his grip again.

“Don’t play dumb with us! If you don’t have a Stand, why were you following us?”

“Y-you got me,” Fredrick’s voice strained. “I was following you to take pictures.”

“Pictures, huh?” you asked him. “What does Dio need with pictures?”

“Who’s Dio?” Another cry of pain as Hierophant squeezed harder.

“Let me ask again. What does Dio need the pictures for?”

“Look, I was taking the pictures for myself, I promise!” Fredrick was practically crying at this point. “You see, I’m an artist, and I’ve recently entered a big art contest, and the theme was love. I’ve been uninspired for weeks, but seeing you and him together... an artist can’t help but feel inspired!”

Frantically, Fredrick got out the pictures he had taken, and showed you. You nodded. “Yup, these are all of us just being together. Nothing that would be useful to the enemies.” You turned to Kakyoin. “I think he’s telling the truth.”

“Do you want me to release Hierophant’s grip?”

“I think it’s safe.”

Hesitantly, Kakyoin called back Hierophant, and Fredrick fell to the floor, massaging his hurt shoulder. “Thank you, oh thank you!” he cried with relief. “I don’t know what was going on, but I’m sure it’s what you were talking about with ‘Stands’ and ‘Dio’.”

“Oh, sir, I’m so sorry,” you put your hands up to your mouth. “What was happening did have to do with Stands. We’re on this journey to stop an evil man named Dio, and he’s been sending out his minions to do the work for him. We had mistaken you for one of his followers. How can we make it up to you?”

Fredrick scratched his beard. “Well, there is one thing. Make romantic poses for me to use for my art piece. Artist’s block is the hardest thing to overcome.”

“Romantic poses?” Kakyoin asked. “Like this?”

Without warning, Kakyoin had grabbed your head and pulled you close, so that you had to kiss him. The kiss lasted for a while, about ten seconds this time, until you heard Fredrick say, “Okay, that’s the perfect picture!”

Kakyoin lifted his lips from yours, and you noticed your face heating up.

“Is that all you’ll be needing?” Kakyoin asked your new friend.

“Yes, thank you very much!” Fredrick answered happily. “In fact, this is going to be the winner, for sure!”

“Glad to help!” you called. “See you around!”

You and Kakyoin left Fredrick, and returned to the group.

“You wouldn’t believe what happened with us!” you called. “We got almost attacked by an almost enemy almost Stand!”

“Kakyoin, translate,” Jotaro said.

“We met someone who was stalking us, but not for Dio. He was an artist who wanted pictures of us to paint later.”

“Well, I had an actual Stand attack me,” Joseph muttered. “And it forced us to not stay at any hotels tonight.”

“Yikes,” you said. “What happened?”

“I’ll tell you when we’re in the car. For now, let’s get a move on. I’m wanted here.”

Once everyone was in the car, Joseph started the engine, and you were off.

“Hey, Kakyoin, did you use all of the money I lent you?”

“No, I don’t believe I have. Here’s the money back.”

Joseph chuckled. “You didn’t have dinner, did you?”

“Didn’t have time.”

“It’s okay, I have snacks.”

Joseph tossed some cookies and crackers to the back, and you ate them quickly. “Wow,” you said with food still in your mouth. “I’m hungrier than I thought.” Just then, you yawned. “And sleepier, too.” It wasn’t a surprise when you felt Kakyoin pull your head to his shoulder.

“Goodnight,” you said sleepily, before letting yourself drift off to sleep.

“Goodnight, (Y/N).”

[strwbrryeos]

Hiraeth (M)

SUMMARY; More than anything, Jungkook just wants to be loved. Alternatively, an intense feeling of longing for a home that never was.

Genre : smut, angst, whole lotta angst

Pairing : OT7 member x member

Contains : lotta angst, jungkook is sad, and alone, I'm sorry, member x member, gay sex, blow job (giving and receiving), rimming, fingering, anal sex, polyamory, moresome, orgy, creampie, cum play, rough sex, general roughness, Namjoon is a Dom lmao, hand job, cum eating, sorry if I forgot anything whoops

Links removed due to Tumblr’s algorithm issues. Please visit my blog for the Master List!

When BTS debuted, Jungkook was young. So young. All he knew was that he was entering a new world, one that would effectively take away his childhood. His hyungs knew that too, and they were eager to help him and guide him.

Jungkook was shy, so getting through to him, at first, was hard. There were days when the other members thought they would never know anything beyond that quiet exterior. But as days turned into weeks and weeks into months, he slowly but surely learned to trust them, and together they grew.

The group grew in other ways too―without Jungkook. A year or two in such close quarters, and the progression of their relationship seemed only natural, really, beginning with Namjoon and Jin. They became fast friends, and after a few drinks and one dare, they found themselves lip-locked and desperate for more. Yoongi and Namjoon spent so much time cooped up in the studio together, so none of the members were really surprised when they came back, and without a word the three of them seemed to have agreed that this would be a thing. After Yoongi it came Jimin, then Hoseok and Taehyung. The six of them in one weird, but one happy relationship.

One without Jungkook.

At first, the youngest thought it was simply because he wasn’t legal yet. That as he got older his hyungs would show him more of their love. That he’d become their baby.

But Taehyung remained their baby. Doted on and cared for in the ways that Jungkook wanted. His eighteenth birthday came and went. Then his nineteenth. And they just kept coming. And he kept being alone.

So he presents himself as the Golden Maknae, as the world expects, but beyond that he’s confused and sad and afraid.

Jungkook’s growling stomach wakes him up as the scent of Jin’s cooking wafts into the room. He rolls over, shaking the sleep off him as he puts on a shirt. Jungkook’s room is fairly large, and he wishes it weren’t so. It just feels so empty. He sighs, remembering that today is a new day, and he wants to have a good one.

There is already a commotion going on in the kitchen when Jungkook steps out. The loud sound of laughter and banter ring in his ears, and despite everything he feels, he smiles, happy that his hyungs are having such a good time.

“I did not do that!” Jimin laughs in embarrassment, hiding himself behind Namjoon.

“You totally did!” Taehyung shouts back. “And you liked it!”

The rest of the boys erupt in laughter. Jungkook has no idea what’s going on.

“What are you guys talking about?” he asks, his soft voice barely making it over the deepness of Taehyung’s.

The laughter dies down a bit. “Oh, nothing,” Jin replies with a smile. “Just something Jimin did a while ago.”

“Three years ago, might I add,” Jimin chirped.

“Still makes for a good story.”

“Please don’t ever tell that to people,” Jimin whines.

“What if I do?”

“What if I convince you otherwise?”

Taehyung lets out a low growl and grabs Jimin’s waist, pulling him close. “Is that a promise?”

When Jimin buries his blushing face in Taehyung’s chest, the group again doubles over. Jungkook’s ears are ringing with Jin laughing right next to him. All he can do is awkwardly poke his food until they all settle down to eat.

―

When Jungkook wakes up this time, it’s not to the smell of food or the light pouring in from the window; it’s to the sound of someone moaning. Jungkook groans, smothering his pillow over his face in an effort to block the sound out. It doesn’t work very well.

As Taehyung shouts, “Namjoon!”, Jungkook suddenly regrets not making his presence known when he got back. They don’t normally do anything if they know Jungkook is there (which he can’t decide is better or worse), but Jungkook had told them he’d be working late in the studio tonight. He came back early, feeling tired and uninspired. He should’ve stayed.

Now Jimin is whining, desperate for whoever’s touching him. “P-Please, hyung,” he whimpers, and the sound goes straight to Jungkook’s crotch.

“You want it, baby? You’re gonna have to beg.”

“I want it, I want it so badly―fuck!”

Jungkook curls in on himself, trying to ignore the screaming urge to touch himself, and trying more to ignore the sound of Jin fucking the life out of Yoongi. He’s also pretty sure Jimin is riding Hoseok right now, and he’s this close to losing his mind.

He does lose his mind―and his self control―when he hears Taehyung say, “Fuck my mouth. Please. Hyung, choke me. I want your cock.”

He rolls on his back, reaching for his hard dick, imagining that it’s him that Taehyung’s so eager for. Him that Taehyung wants and needs.

“Fuck, Taehyungie,” he growls as he fucks his hand, “You’re gonna have to do better than that.”

“Please!”

Jungkook whines, his own fantasy spurred and clearer in his mind. Taehyung is choking on his dick while being fucked mercilessly from behind―it’s Hoseok in his head. Taehyung’s moans are muffled through the walls and Jungkook can’t help but lose it completely, white pleasure searing his body as he cums into his hand.

His breathing slows down and he gradually comes back to earth, annoyed to hear his hyungs still going at it. He stands, making his way to the bathroom to clean himself off. He makes himself comfortable in the living room, thinking that a movie will be good to drown out the sound of...whatever is happening in there.

He can hear them finish, can hear them begin their routine of after-care. Jin walks out with Namjoon, both a little startled by Jungkook’s presence.

“Shit, Kook,” Namjoon says, hair tousled and cheeks flushed. “When did you get back?”

“Been back for a while,” Jungkook replies nonchalantly, never taking his eyes off the screen.

“How long is ‘a while’?” asks Jin, but he doesn’t really need an answer to know that Jungkook heard everything.

“Long enough,” he says simply, and that’s enough for both guilt and embarrassment to take hold on Namjoon and Jin.

“Shit, sorry, if we had known―”

“It’s fine.” He finally peels his eyes away from the TV to look at them. “Aren’t they waiting for you?”

“Oh, um, right I guess―”

“Joonie?” comes Hoseok’s voice from the bedroom.

“Yeah, yeah we’re coming!” Namjoon shouts back. He and Jin make their way into the kitchen, collecting water and a couple of snacks before retreating.

Jungkook ignores them, ignores the uncomfortable settling of his heart in his stomach, ignores how cold he is despite being wrapped under two blankets. He falls asleep like that. Alone.

―

“Jungkookie! Jungkook, wake up!” someone yells in his ear, violently shaking him awake.

“What…”

He sits up, suddenly very aware of the sharp pain in his neck. The couch is not a good substitute for a bed.

“We have dance practice. We’re gonna be late.”

“Yeah, okay, I’m coming,” he replies, standing even as his eyes have yet to open. The group files out of the doors, Jin waiting for each of them before following them out. Well, all except Jungkook. He’s the last to leave, but he shakes it off. Jin didn’t mean anything by it. Today is a new day. Today will be a good day.

At practice, Jungkook pours himself into the choreography, making sure not to miss a beat. His body moves without a second thought, doing exactly as he commands. His frustration is in the rhythm; his anger is in the steps; his pain is in the expression. Their choreographer even singles him out at the end of the session, impressed with his hard-work today. Hoseok praises him too, and he can’t help the pride that bubbles up inside him.

But when the session is finally over, Jungkook’s body is nearly screaming at him. He overworked himself, he knows he did, but he got so engrossed in it that he didn’t even notice. Now he can barely hold himself up. He stumbles once, twice, but he smiles through it as if nothing’s wrong, grabbing himself a quick sip of water before getting right back to it. It goes unnoticed by everyone but Jimin.

“Jungkookie?” he calls out from the table where everyone but him is resting. “Why don’t you take a break?”

“No thanks, hyung,” he says in-between steps, concentrated on his reflection in the mirror.

“C’mon, you’re gonna overwork yourself like that. You did fine today.”

“Fine isn’t good enough,” he hisses, hitting the floor on the next beat a bit harder than he intends to. His shin complains in pain. He ignores it.

“Yah, Jiminie is right, JK,” Hoseok pipes up, urging the youngest to rest. “You did really well. Just take five minutes. Grab a drink.”

“Already did.”

“Jungkoo―”

“I’m fine!” he snaps before falling at none other than the most inconvenient time. He groans, wincing when he tries to move his ankle. “Fuck,” he curses. He stands carefully, moving to stretch it out. He breathes heavily, doing his damndest to ignore the burning stares of his hyungs on his back. He can feel the, “I told you so.” Can feel the knock to the back of his head before and, “Are you okay?”

But it never comes. Just a couple of huffs and a water bottle from Jimin, and he’s dancing again, anguish and bitterness driving his movements.

By the end of the night, it’s just him and Hoseok left. They said they would only stay a little longer, the two of them eager to get that one move just right. It’s a moment in the choreography where the duo moves in time before locking together, and the rest of the group joins them, but Jungkook can’t seem to get the fifth count right. It’s always 1...2...3...4...5―and he messes up. He can’t tell if him or Hoseok is more frustrated right now.

It’s a pretty basic move, anyway. Jungkook knows he shouldn’t be messing this up. He knows he’s better than this. He knows he could do this in his fucking sleep. And yet, he’s messed it up...again.

“Aish, Jungkook,” Hoseok scolds, “What’s up with you today?”

“Sorry, hyung,” he mumbles before resetting. He messes up again.

“You were doing so well with literally every other move earlier. What’s wrong with this one?”

“I don’t know. Me, apparently.”

“C’mon, let’s just get this down so we can go home.”

They start again. Jungkook messes up again. Hoseok sighs, moving over to his bag to check his phone and get some water. “Geez, I missed like thirty calls from them. They’re gonna kill me.”

Jungkook checks his phone too. He has one text message from Taehyung: Are you still with Hoseok?

He could fucking scream. Without waiting, he turns the music back on and tries again. He nails it perfectly.

At that moment, five men walk into the room, concern and exasperation etched on each of their faces, but Jungkook knows it’s not for him, and he wants to throw up. He’s not even sure if Hoseok saw him finish because now he’s getting smothered with hugs and peppered with kisses, and he just wishes he weren’t here.

“Why are you guys working so late?” Yoongi chides, holding Hoseok tightly. “We should be asleep.”

“We were just trying to finish that one move,” Hoseok explains.

“And did you?”

“No.”

Jungkook freezes.

“Is Jungkook still having trouble?”

“Yeah.”

His heart is pounding, and he can’t feel his fingers. Everything feels so terribly wrong and he doesn’t even know why. It’s stupid. This entire situation is stupid. Yeah, he couldn’t get it right, but it’s no big deal. He should just say something now. Say he got the move, but Hoseok missed it. Apologize for keeping him so late. Move to get water. Move to go home with them. Do something.

But he doesn’t, and they’re already moving. Yoongi is ushering Hoseok outside, his voice laced with worry even as Hoseok laughs. Jungkook can only stare, dumbfounded, as they walk away. Each of them, one by one, not bothering with him because they don’t need to be bothered by him. Jin stops right before the door, his head over shoulder, saying, “You coming?” before disappearing down the hall.

When he hears their laughter die away, something inside Jungkook breaks. He falls on the ground in a heap, a crumpled mess of heartache. He sobs, wanting nothing more than to scream. Scream for them. Tell them to come back. Tell them he loves them and he wants to be loved back. He wants to be held. Wants to be doted on. Wants to be checked on. Wants to be cuddled and kissed and pampered. He just doesn’t want to be alone.

But he is, and no sound comes out. He cries until there are no more tears left in his body, and his body can’t feel a thing. He trudges back home, his eyes puffy and face a little blotchy, but other than that, he’s okay. It’s okay. He’s the last to leave, but he shakes it off. Jin didn’t mean anything by it. Tomorrow will be a new day. Tomorrow will be a good day.

He comes home to a silent house, everyone already fast asleep. He peeks into each room quietly; Hoseok and Yoongi are curled up in Yoongi’s bed; the other four are all quite unceremoniously passed out together on Namjoon’s bed. Jungkook smiles, happy to see his hyungs sleeping so soundly. He goes to his own room and falls asleep, his own warmth to keep him company.

―

Jungkook is the last to get up, but they have a free day and he got in late so it doesn’t really matter. He doesn’t notice it, but his eyes and face are still swollen since he fell asleep so quickly after crying. He simply ups and makes breakfast for himself, humming a slow song while completely oblivious to the several pairs of eyes that have now landed on him.

“Kookie?” Taehyung says softly as Jungkook stuffs a slice of toast in his mouth. The younger looks up, adorably confused and embarrassed as he quickly tries to swallow his food.

“Yeah?” He shifts awkwardly on his feet, not used to being the center of attention at home. All of a sudden he’s wishing he were back in the background.

“Are you okay?”

“Am I… Yeah? Why?”

“You just, um, you know. You slept in so late and your face looks tired and kind of puffy. Have you been crying?”

“Oh, that’s just my face,” he laughs, not really wanting to worry his hyungs.

“Kook, if there’s something wrong, you know you can talk to us, right?”

Jungkook falters. No, actually, he didn’t know that. “Yeah. Anyway, I’m gonna go for a walk or something. You know, since we have an off day.”

“Want some company?” Jimin pipes up.

“No, I’m good. I think I might go visit my brother.”

“Oh, okay.”

And so Jungkook leaves, unaware of the distressed talk that erupts behind him. Everything is just starting to feel wrong.

Jungkook doesn’t visit his brother. No, in fact, he meets with a real-estate agent about a nice apartment he saw an ad for. Later he visits with the company to talk about moving out. It’s a good idea, he thinks. They’ll have to live on their own soon anyway, and he won’t be in the way like this. Maybe he can finally get his mind off his members. Maybe he’ll even go on a date.

And later that day Jungkook does land a date. He talks up some cute ice-cream vendor and they agree to meet the next day for coffee. Even if it’s for a brief moment, Jungkook gets a glimpse of what it’d be like to live life like this―happily.

When Jungkook returns home, the other six men are cuddling in the living room while they watch a movie. All heads turn to the door.

“There you are!” Jin exclaims. “What took you so long?”

“I, uh―”

“Yah, you should at least tell us where you’re going! We called your brother and he said you didn’t visit him! Why did you lie?”

“I… didn’t think it was that big of a deal,” Jungkook answers, genuinely shocked by their concern.

“Why would it not be a big deal? You didn’t answer anyone’s calls or texts either.”

Jungkook looks down at his phone in his hand. Sure enough, there were several missed calls and texts. “Sorry… I guess I’m just not used to it. I didn’t realize.”

“Used to what? We were worried about you,” says Jimin in an exasperated tone.

“I’m not, uh, used to you guys worrying about me. I didn’t think anything of it. I’m sorry,” he says with a respectful bow. “It won’t happen again.”

“Yah, why are you so formal? We just wanted to know where you were.”

“I was fine. Just walking around the city.”

“What were you doing that was so important you couldn't bother to pick up your phone?” Yoongi asks, rolling his eyes.

“I had a couple of meetings and then I met up with a friend.”

“Meetings?” asks a confused Taehyung. “We didn’t have any meetings today.”

“No, I did. Just me.”

“With who?”

“Real-estate,” Jungkook says with a shrug, dropping his bag on the kitchen table. “And then the company.”

“Why?”

“What do you mean why?”

“Are you moving out?”

“I mean, yeah, eventually.”

“Who’s your friend?” asks Jin, trying to mask the hurt in his voice.

“Some guy I met on the street. He was selling ice-cream and we started talking so I asked him out. We’re gonna get coffee tomorrow.”

“O-Oh.”

The room is suddenly uncomfortably silent and Hoseok looks like he might cry. Jimin keeps clenching and unclenching his fists, and Namjoon has a hand on his thigh to calm him.

“I didn’t realize you wanted to leave,” Namjoon says calmly.

Jungkook clicks his tongue in annoyance. “Don’t know why you would.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” asks Jin, standing up in defense of his boyfriend.

“Nothing. Sorry,” Jungkook says, regretting his momentary loss of temper. “I’ll just be in my room.”

“Wait,” calls Hoseok, stopping him in his tracks. “Aren’t we going to talk about this?”

“Talk about what?”

“I―”

“It’s kind of sudden information to drop,” Yoongi says from his place on the armchair. His hair looks a little messed, like someone’s been running their fingers in it. That feelings gnaws again at Jungkook’s chest, and he really just wants to leave. This is probably the longest conversation he’s ever had with them.

“I didn’t think it would be that big of a deal.”

“Not that big of a deal?” Jimin replies, voice cracking. “You can’t just fucking leave and not expect it to be a big deal!”

“What’s the fucking problem?” Jungkook says, his voice growing louder as his emotions bubble to the surface.

“Kookie, we just want to talk it out is all,” Jin says sweetly, trying to deescalate the situation.

“Talk what out? There’s literally nothing to talk out!”

“So the fact that you just want to leave without telling us and the fact that you apparently have a boyfriend now are just things that we don’t get to know?”

“Why do you give a fuck where I live?” Jungkook sneers. “And I’m going on one date! So what?”

“So what?” pipes up Namjoon, who so far had been terribly harmonious. “Why are you acting like we don’t care about you?”

For a second, everything stops, and Jungkook can feel everything in his chest. Why are you acting like we don’t care about you? And then he starts to laugh. Everything that’s been building inside of him just erupts in laughter, simply because he doesn’t know what to do with himself at this point.

“Since when,” he says between breaths, “do you care about me?”

Jimin physically reels, and Taehyung can only look at him with the widest eyes. Namjoon looks like he’s been slapped.

“Kook, we’ve… we’ve always cared about you.”

“Yeah, well, you sure have got one hell of a way of showing it.”

A few tears fall down Jimin’s face. “Do you… Do we… You really think we don’t care about you?”

“Maybe. But not in the way you care about each other. You don’t love me. Aish, it’ll be easier when I move out anyway. No more sneaking around. You guys can all fuck each other on the fucking kitchen table without question!”

“Jungkook!” Hoseok yells.

“What?”

“How can you even say that? Do you fucking hear yourself?”

“Do you hear yourself?” Jungkook shouts back. “You guys don’t even fucking notice me unless it’s just us, one on one. Or apparently when I go missing for a day. Hell, even then that’s iffy.”

“What the fuck has gotten into you? We pay attention to you! Or is the only way for us to show our affection to suck your dick?”

“Are you kidding me? Are you kidding me?”

“I’m not hearing a defense!” Jin says.

“I fucking… God! You want a defense? You want evidence? You’ve all been ignoring me for so many fucking years you don’t even know who I am! I don’t even have to go back more than twenty-four fucking hours for evidence. You think I’m not so fucking angry all the time? Angry that you all love each other more than me? That I got the unfortunate pleasure of being around people who don’t want me around? Why do you think I danced so well yesterday, huh? Or the day before that? Or the day before that? It’s always easier to dance when you’ve got emotions to dance with. Yeah, maybe I fucking overworked myself during rehearsals yesterday, but at least it gave me something else to focus on other than the sound of Taehyung choking on someone’s dick!”

“Jungkook―”

“And I’m not even fucking finished! I stay and practice because, god, despite everything I can’t stand the idea of letting any one of you down, so Hoseok agrees to work with me until the ungodly hours of the night and you all are worried about him. Nobody gives a shit about me! You all left and I fucking cried. I sobbed. I sobbed like a kid because I constantly feel so alone. Right in the middle of the fucking studio. But none of you would know that because you already fucking left. Because you don’t care. I get home alone. Is anybody waiting for me? No. I go to sleep alone. Every minute of every day I’m alone. And you’re all too in love with each other to even notice it. So yeah, sorry. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you that I want to move out because I swear to god I’m going to lose what’s left of my mind if I keep living like this.”

And with that, Jungkook takes a deep breath, and then it all comes out. Everything. He can’t control it. His entire body is shaking, his mind is numb, and all he knows is that he’s sobbing right in the middle of the fucking floor but nobody cares. Nobody moves.

Hoseok feels sick to his stomach, and one look at the others says they feel the same. How could they let this happen? How could they have been so fucking blind? How could they have let Jungkook live feeling so unloved and so lonely? And why, after this big confession, were they still letting him feel that way?

Jungkook finally heaves a breath. He’s still shaking, but he’s not crying anymore. Without a word, he picks himself up, makes his way to his room, and shuts the door. The house remains quiet.

―

Inside his room, Jungkook is buried under his blankets. He’s cuddling his pillow, and though his chest hurts and his eyes sting, he feels relieved. At least he doesn’t have to walk around carrying that weight anymore. Somehow, he’s able to fall asleep.

Outside his room, everything has gone to hell. Jin’s trying to keep himself together for the sake of everyone else, but he’s damn near this close to breaking alongside everyone else. His mind is still reeling, and his body can’t seem to catch a good breath. Everything that Jungkook said is just echoing back and forth in his mind, and he doesn’t know what to do with himself.

“I can’t believe―” Jimin sobs into his hands while Yoongi rubs comforting circles on his back. “We’re so stupid.”

“We should’ve tried harder,” Namjoon says, his eyes glazed over as he stares at the ceiling. “Of course he would feel ignored. Who wouldn’t?”

“Can we… Do you think we can still make it up to him? Prove to him that we love him just as much?”

“Do you think he’d even accept it at this point?”

“I wanna at least try.”

“We should wait until he wakes up.”

“What if he’s awake right now and just sitting in bed? I wanna go.”

“Tae―”

“You can’t stop me, hyung.”

Jin nods. “I’ll cook dinner.”

Taehyung makes his way to Jungkook’s room, rapping lightly on the door before entering. It’s dark, and he can just barely make out Jungkook’s form on his bed. “Jungkook,” he whispers, crawling under the blankets.Taehyung knows him too well, and he knows he’s definitely feigning sleep.

Jungkook doesn’t move, hell, he barely breathes, but he’d be lying if he said Taehyung’s warmth wasn’t welcome. Taehyung wraps an arm around Jungkook and pulls him close, snuggling his face into his neck. “I’m sorry,” he says, his breath hot on Jungkook’s skin. “I should’ve known better.” He gently, very gently, presses a kiss to the back of his neck. “Please talk to me.”

The youngest breathes softly before saying, “It’s okay.”

“It’s not okay,” Taehyung replies, holding Jungkook tighter, if possible. “You should know how important you are to me.” He plants a firmer kiss on the back of his neck before moving up a bit and kissing his cheek.

“It’s okay, hyung,” Jungkook says through a breathy laugh. “You don’t have to make me feel better.”

“Shut up,” the older replies, rolling the younger on his back so he could see him better. Jungkook stares up at him, giving him a weak smile. “You’re so handsome Jungkookie.” He hovers over him, eyes flickering to his lips. “Can I kiss you?” Even in the dark, Taehyung can see the younger’s blush.

“Y-You don’t have to do that, hyung. I’m fine, really.”

“Please? I want to.”  

“Okay.”

Taehyung gives him his signature boxy smile before descending on the younger boy, his lips landing on him softly. Jungkook is timid, but when Taehyung puts his hand in his hair, he’s more eager to accept the kiss. Jungkook lets out a soft, barely audible moan, making Taehyung laugh lightly. He nips the younger’s bottom lip before pulling away.

“Jin’s making dinner,” he says softly, stroking his hair. “Do you want to come?”

Jungkook bites his lip and nods. “Okay.”  

Taehyung maneuvers off of him and holds out his hand. Jungkook takes it shyly, clinging to his arm, unsure exactly how to act in this new territory. “C’mon, baby,” the older says. “You’ll be fine.”

“Stay with me?”

“Of course.”

Taehyung leads Jungkook out of his room and down the hall where the other five men have put up the best presentation of their life. The table is set for all seven of them, candles alight on the table. Again, Jungkook blushes, knowing it’s all for him. “You seriously… You don’t have to do this,” he whispers. “I’m sorry for my outburst earlier.”

Hoseok approaches him, gently taking him from Taehyung’s arms. “We deserved it. And you deserve this. And more.”

“We’re gonna make it up to you.”

“We promise.”

Hoseok kisses his hand and leads him to a place at the head of the table. Jungkook hesitates, saying, “Joon-hyung normally sits here,” but his protests are quickly silenced.

“Just enjoy the food, baby,” he says, and Jungkook is blushing again.

―

At the end of the meal, Jungkook is smiling from ear to ear, his body vibrating with excitement from all the compliments he’s been receiving. He’s never gotten so much affection from them at once. He wants to feel like this all the time.

“Kookie, you wanna watch a movie?” Jin asks after he’s cleaned up. Jungkook agrees eagerly.

They let Jungkook choose the movie, and of course he picks a thriller, and that’s mostly just for kicks. Jimin ends up in his lap while Hoseok is desperately clinging to Yoongi. When the movie is finished, Jungkook is laughing his ass off, not feeling even a little bit bad for his hyungs.

Jin rolls his eyes, moving and making his way towards Jungkook. “Brat,” he says as he picks him up, throwing him over his shoulder and giving his ass a good slap.

“I am not!” Jungkook shouts defensively, squirming on his hyung’s shoulder knowing full well he wasn't going anywhere. The other members trail after the oldest, following them into Jin’s room―the largest room. Jin basically tosses Jungkook onto the bed, and he lands with a slight bounce.

“You are. You’re asking to be punished.”

“For what?”

“How about for your little outburst earlier, hm? Stormed off and everything. That’s not very nice,” he says as he grabs Jungkook’s thighs and pulls him close. “And then you go and kiss Taehyung but not the rest of us.”

“He did what? Taehyung, get over here right now,” Namjoon commands. Taehyung obeys, soon finding himself seated next to Jungkook. “Show us what you did.”

“We just kissed,” Taehyung says.

“Show us.”

Taehyung shrugs, looking at Jungkook for permission. Jungkook takes the initiative this time, reaching out for the older boy with little hesitation. Their lips meet with electricity, pent up emotions finally boiling over. Taehyung gets a bit more aggressive, pulling at Jungkook’s shirt to get him closer, closer until―

“Stop.”

The two of them ignore it, desperate to feel each other.

“I said stop.” Taehyung breaks away, breathing heavily, pouting at his elder. “Don’t give me that look.”

“Namjoonie-hyung,” says Jimin, “Can I get a turn with him?”

“Mm, I guess. You can take his clothes off for him. Is that okay, Kookie?”

Jungkook nods, swallowing thickly. He can’t believe this is actually happening. Makes him wish he had yelled at his hyungs sooner.

Jimin straddles Jungkook, smiling sweetly at him before kissing him hungrily. Jungkook’s mouth feels dry, but he never wants it to stop. Slowly, too slowly, Jimin works his way down, taking Jungkook’s shirt off first, the rest to follow. Soon enough he’s sitting there, naked, untouched, and painfully hard. Not to mention embarrassed at the fact that he’s the only one in here without clothes on.

“Aw, baby, are you embarrassed?” asks Hoseok, a hand reaching out to gently stroke his thick cock.

“No,” he replies, even though he’s trying to hide his face.

“You’re so cute,” he laughs. “Relax. I’m gonna make you feel good.”

Hoseok situates himself comfortably in front of Jungkook before engulfing his member with his mouth. Jungkook keens, never having felt so good before in his entire fucking life. His hands grab the sheets beneath him, twisting them beneath his fingers in a poor attempt to keep his head on his shoulders. Yoongi can’t help but smile and sit behind him, propping him up on his chest.

“So cute,” he mutters as he leaves soft kisses down the maknae’s neck.

“Y-Yoongi… hyung!” he shouts, hand reaching out the grab the elder’s thigh as Hoseok’s mouth works its magic on his dick. “Fuck…” he whines, and Yoongi loves the sound.

In fact, they all do. Taehyung is heavily making out with Namjoon, grinding into his leg in an effort to get some relief. Namjoon is rough with him, just the way Taehyung likes it, and he’s tossing him onto the bed beside Jungkook. Taehyung can’t tell if he’s getting off on the way Namjoon’s taking over or the pretty sounds that are falling from Jungkook’s mouth.

Jungkook whimpers, one hand reaching to grab for Hoseok. “Hyung… hyung I’m gonna―”

“It’s okay, baby. Let go,” Yoongi says from his place behind Jungkook, and the youngest holds him tightly, cumming right into Hoseok’s mouth. Hoseok doesn’t stop sucking even for a second, swallowing his cum and leaving Jungkook breathless. His head is spinning as he collapses on Yoongi, and though he thinks he’s done for the night, he can feel his dick twitch in interest when he sees Jimin sucking Jin’s cock.

It also helps that Taehyung is riding Namjoon like he was born for it. “N-Namjoon,” he whines. “I’m cumming… Fuck, fuck I’m cumming!”

Jungkook watches with rapt attention as Taehyung cums all over himself an Namjoon, and he groans as his dick gets hard again.

“Like watching Taehyung get fucked, baby,” Hoseok asks with a knowing smirk. Jungkook covers his face, ashamed at getting caught. Hoseok can only laugh as he moves to give the younger a heavy kiss, and if Jungkook weren’t so high on the atmosphere right now, he might think twice about tasting himself on Hoseok’s tongue.

Jin suddenly appears beside Jungkook, planting soft kisses across his bare abdomen. “Baby, why don’t you be a good boy and take care of Yoongi? He’s been holding you all night.”

“O-Okay, hyung,” Jungkook says, rolling over on his hands and knees. Yoongi gives him a quick peck before unzipping his pants, exposing his hard member to the maknae. Without a second thought, Jungkook takes him in his mouth. What he lacks in skill he makes up for in enthusiasm, bobbing on Yoongi’s cock with vigor.

“Fuck,” Yoongi moans quietly. “You’re such a good boy.”

Jungkook comes up for air briefly, saying, “I’ll be a good boy for you hyung,” before diving right back down again. Yoongi can only groan in response, his hands tangled in the younger’s hair as he gets the suck of his life.

Jin comes up behind Jungkook, careful not to scare him, massaging his ass. Jungkook can feel him leaving kisses along the skin as he makes his way towards the center. His tongue reaches its destination, causing Jungkook to yelp in surprise, momentarily slipping off Yoongi’s dick. But he learns to relax into the feeling, and he takes pleasure in it as Jin slowly fucks his ass with his tongue.

And then Jin inserts a finger. Jungkook gasps, nearly falling over in the newfound pleasure. His rests his forehead on Yoongi’s thigh, unsure of what to do with himself. “You can do it, baby,” Yoongi says, urging him to finish what he started.

Jungkook can only whine at him before taking him back in his mouth. He matches his pace with Jin’s, so when Jin slows down, he slows down, and when Jin speeds up, he speeds up. Yoongi twitches in his mouth, the tightening grip on his hair indicating that he’s close to cumming. Jungkook is still trying to decide whether or not he wants it in his mouth when Yoongi’s cumming anyway, and Jungkook takes it upon himself to swallow everything that the older gives. Yoongi falls backwards, staring at the ceiling in fucked out bliss.

“Mm, we should’ve done that sooner.”

Jungkook falls forward on his forearms, completely focusing on the feeling of Jin behind him now. He looks around him; watches Yoongi and Taehyung kiss passionately; watches Hoseok rail into Jimin while stuffed full of Namjoon’s cock, and his sense are so overwhelmed, especially when he feels the first dollop of cold lube on his ass.

He shakes, nearly falling over if it weren’t for Jin’s hands supporting him. “Don’t worry, baby boy, you’re doing so well.”

Jungkook whines, clinging to the sheets in desperation. He can hear the rising octaves of Hoseok’s voice as he gets closer to his high, and he’s suddenly hyperaware of how ridiculously untouched he is. Namjoon seems to notice this, leaving Hoseok and Jimin to place himself in front of Jungkook, rubbing soothing circles on his cheek.

“Hi, baby. How are you doing?”

“I’m― hyung!” he gasps.

“It’s okay, baby,” Jin says. “I’m just prepping you.”

“I-It… It feels good,” he cries.

“I know, baby. And it’s gonna feel better.”

“Please fuck me, hyung,” Jungkook whimpers desperately.

“Don’t worry, baby, we’re gonna take it slow.”

“No―no. I-I can’t,” he cries, grabbing at Namjoon urgently.

“Ssh, baby,” Namjoon says. “Jin-hyung will take care of you.”

When Jungkook feels the tip of Jin’s dick at his entrance, he doubles over, supporting himself on Namjoon. He kisses Jungkook’s back as he pushes himself inside, ever so slowly.

Jungkook’s going to lose his mind.

Jin stays there for a minute or two, letting Jungkook adjust before he gives him the go-ahead. Jin starts at a steady pace, not looking to rip the maknae in half so soon, but Jungkook wants it. He needs it.

“Hyung, hyung fuck me harder, please.”

“Baby―”

“Please!” he begs, rocking back on Jin’s dick to feel more of him. “I’m fine, I promise. I need you so bad.”

Jin nods, slowly but surely picking up his pace until the sound of skin-on-skin is echoing throughout the entire room. Jungkook feels completely and totally blissed out. Namjoon loves the sight, and he jerks himself off to it, getting off on Jungkook cries and moans and cute little whimpers.

Jin’s brows are furrowed in concentration as he fucks into the youngest; he can’t think of how long he’s been dreaming of this. And now he finally has it. The sweet boy who he knew wasn’t as sweet as they thought. And he feels so fucking good. Jin looks up, seeing his other lover moaning louder and louder as he jacks off to the sight of him and Jungkook.

“Fuck, Jungkookie, shit I’m gonna cum.”

“Cum on me, hyung,” Jungkook says, and Jin swears he might cum from that request alone.

Namjoon does, cumming fully all over Jungkook’s face and shoulders, painting his pretty skin white. Jungkook collects some in his hand and brings it down to his own dick, stroking himself to the pace of Jin.

“Shit, Jungkook,” Jimin says from his place on the bed, “are you really using hyung’s cum to get off?”

Jungkook’s face turns red and he whines, hiding himself in the sheets, but definitely not stopping. Jin leans over him, fucking into him harder as he gets closer.

“I’m getting close, Kookie,” Jin groans.

“M-Me too,” the maknae whimpers. “I-I’m gonna cum, hyung.”

“Be a good boy and cum for me, yeah?”

Jimin crawls over in front of Jungkook, cupping his face in his hands. “You still have cum on you, Jungkookie.” Without another word, he kisses Jungkook’s face, licking off Namjoon’s cum before locking him in a heavy kiss. It’s all too much for Jungkook, and his hand stills on himself as he cums hard, nearly crying into Jimin’s mouth as he succumbs to the pleasure.

He doesn’t even notice Jin has cum until he’s pulling out of him, and he’s whining with how empty he feels. He topples onto the bed in complete exhaustion, having been utterly spent. He doesn’t even care that his and at least two other people’s cum are drying to him now. He just wants to sleep.

They don’t allow that, though, carefully rolling him over and cleaning him up before dressing him in the biggest, comfiest hoodie they could find. Jungkook finds himself cuddled in-between Taehyung and Jin, sleep gently taking over his body.

“Hey, Jungkook?” Yoongi speaks up from the end of the bed.

“Mm?”

“You know we love you, right?”

“Yeah, hyung,” he whispers sleepily. “I know.”

[cam-the-orange-cat]

A Master-Guide for Overcoming Writer’s Block

Writer’s block is the woe that befalls every writer at some point. To overcome writer’s block, however, you must identify the source of the blockage. This guide will go over common reasons writers find themselves stuck and will offer some simple suggestions that can help. Although suggestions are catered to each problem, don’t hesitate to mix-and-match possible solutions; everyone is different.

The Common Blocks We’ll be Overviewing:

Problem vs. Solution

Fear & Doubt

Perfectionism

Boredom

You Have No Ideas

You're Easily Distracted

Procrastination

Problem vs. Solution

You’ve crafted an incredible conflict, a far-reaching problem that your protagonist must solve. Then you realize: you must solve it. Or you’re making progress in your first or second draft when you discover a plot hole. It’s not something easy you can cover over with a rug, it’s something you wonder you didn’t see sooner and are now overwhelmed with how to fix it and still preserve your progress. You have “painted yourself into a corner” and now you have to paint yourself out.

How do you overcome this block? 

Take a shower.

Take a nap

Go for a walk.

Or  — as Margaret Atwood recommends  — iron some clothes. 

Repetitive, mindless activites seem to work best for stimulating the mind. Most writers can testify that taking a shower is a magnet for interesting ideas. The more mindless, the better. 

Exercise gets new chemicals flowing through your brain; showering stimulates new senses; ironing is a hands-on-activity with a bit of danger involved — these are palate cleansers for your mind.

Sometimes this sort of block requires doing additional research for your story. 

Maybe there’s something in mankind’s military history that can help you solve how your protagonist’s army is to cross the uncrossable river. Maybe there’s a modern-day cure that would work against the disease you made up, and it has humble origins your protagonist can discover. Maybe your protagonist will lose this battle, but go on to win the war in a way you hadn’t considered before.

Fear & Doubt

The blank page mocks you. And the mockery hits a little too close to home. You’re afraid of criticism, you’re afraid of not doing the story justice, you’re afraid you’re not actually a good writer at all  — you’re afraid you’re a fraud.

The sucky part is, some of that is true. First drafts do tend to suck. There will be people who don’t like what you write. But what is absolutely, definitively not true is that you’re a fraud.

You’re a writer. 

You are a writer.

Say the words aloud. Say them again. Say them louder. 

You are a writer.

Now, how do you overcome this block?

Free write

Write stream of consciuosness

Brainstorm ideas in bullet points

Work on a writing-prompt for five minutes

Try your hand at a whole new genre or category

Whatever you do, write. Practice makes perfect, and practice is also the best way to conquer Fear and Doubt. Refuse to give Fear and Doubt power and soon Fear and Doubt will stop pestering you. 

Interestingly, the antidote for Fear and Doubt are similar to the antidotes for Perfectionism, writing’s most infamous villain. The next subheading, however, will go over this particular monster in more detail.

Perfectionism

You’ve been crippled by your own standards. Your story just doesn’t make sense. Your characters don’t feel right. Your writing sounds atrocious.

At least, that’s what you keep telling yourself.

Perfectionism is a choice. We choose to criticize ourselves until we’re beaten to a bloody pulp and have no will left to go on. We run ourselves through the consequences of this headspace and, despite how painfully frustrating it is, we don’t let ourselves escape.

Fear and Doubt grow from perceiving unrealistic expectations of perfection from others and being afraid of not measuring up to that standard. Whereas Perfectionism is not a fear of external criticism, but is a person imposing an unrealistic desire to be perfect unto themself. This is why Perfectionism is a cycle that cannot be broken by friends and family reassurances that you are, in fact, a great writer. You, and you alone, are holding yourself back.

In order to break free from Perfectionsim, you must accept that your writing will never be perfect. Let go of the ideal of perfection. There is no such thing as the perfect story. Writers are imperfect people as is everyone else — even the holy god of fantasy Tolkien was human. And because we are imperfect, so too is our writing.

Acceptance is not begrudging. Acceptance is contentment with the present. 

So, how do you find contentment in imperfection?

Read bad books. Make fun of them, laugh at them — enjoy them. See how beloved these awfully written books are and embrace the idea that you don’t have to be perfect. You, as you are, are more than enough.

Write badly. Do it purposefully. Research overused cliches and tropes and then write them as awfully as you can. 

Then, share how bad it is. Laugh with your friends and family over it. 

Most of all: don’t compare yourself with others. Admiring and learning from other creators and their work is healthy. Comparing yourself with them is never healthy. 

Now that you’ve faced your fear of imperfection and realized how fun it can be, writing won’t seem so daunting. Free flowing creativity relies on realistic expectations.

Boredom

You are no longer excited about writing. You’ve been working on this story for too long. You’ve been dragging yourself through it. You don’t want to give up, but this is becoming a chore. Or you love this story dearly, however writing in general has become a chore. You’re just plain bored, but that’s something you don’t want to admit because losing your passion for writing feels like your first death.

First: it’s entirely possible you have moved on from writing. That is not a bad thing. Far from it, in fact! If you’re bored, your feelings are telling you this isn’t the right fit for you right now — so try new things! Maybe, after a while, you’ll get that zeal for the written word back. Maybe not.

Don’t become discouraged, though; your time as a writer is not invalidated just because you’re not writing currently. You were a lovely writer. You have written much. Don’t be hard on yourself, but give yourself a pat on the back. You have enjoyed a very turbulent and difficult hobby for likely many years! That is something to smile fondly upon.

If, however, the above sentiments don’t settle in your stomach very well:

What can help you overcome this unending boredom?

Hands-on activities are good at jumpstarting the creative battery:

Play — play a board game with friends, play an RPG video game, build a lego house, mold with Play-Dough.

Apply your creativity to a different outlet — follow a Bob Ross tutorial, cook a new recipe or decorate a cake, crochet a scarf.

Change is a good stimulus for your mind:

Change your environment. Try going to the park and writing. Go to the library. Go to a room on the other side of your house.

Change your medium. If you often write on your computer, try handwriting; pick out a nice notebook and use a smooth-flowing pen. If you often handwrite, try typing; explore different word processesors, like Microsoft Word or Google Docs.

Listen to music or a podcast as you write. Or: if you often listen to classical, try rock. If you often listen to a podcast about true crime, try a comedy channel. Or listen to absolute silence.

You Have No Ideas

This is the essence of the blank page fear. It’s not self-bout, it’s not perfectionism, it’s not a plot hole you’re trying to fill. You simply have nothing to write. You are uninspired.

How to overcome this blockage:

Read good books. You could even study literature: follow along with Shmoop as you read Solaris; Sparknotes as you read Hamlet; or Cliffnotes as you read The Life of Pi.

Research writing: there are many books, websites, blogs, and services that offer advice and tips on writing. Whether you can afford the hefty $180/year subscription to MasterClass, or you’d prefer borrowing a book from your local library, learning something new about your craft could get your brain back to storming.

As a writer, it is your first and primary responsibility to live your life. Creating your own experiences is the best thing you can do for your writing. You write what you know — so try new things!

Spend time with friends: chat over the phone, play Jack-Box over zoom, or (when circumstances safely allow) get coffee at an obscure coffee shop.

Play with your pet; brush your dog’s teeth, or try giving your cat a bath (it will at least be entertaining for those around watching you).

Pick up a new hobby: painting, drawing, cooking, sewing, running, biking, hiking, gardening, dancing, guitar or piano, darts, soap-making, scrapbooking; here’s a list you can browse through.

Introduce yourself to a stranger (not online) — make friends with the person ahead of you in the grocery store line. Characters come from someplace real, so meet more people!

You’re Easily Distracted

It feels like there’s a toddler in your head, and the little devil is hell-bent on driving you absolutely mad. What’s that song on the radio? Let me look up the lyrics and follow along with them for an hour on loop. What’s a synonym for epitome? What’s a synonym for essence? — Extract is a movie? Let’s watch it.  

I personally feel for writers who struggle with this block. We hear time and time again: just limit your distractions! Or try this new web-browser or add-on!

But I don’t have the money to spend on a weird looking typewriter or a monthly subscription for a browser add-on. And far from it will either of those options save me from the toddler in my own mind! The typewriter doesn’t stop me from feeling like eating some ice cream. The browser add-on doesn’t keep me from scrolling through Instagram on my phone.

I have Good News, though: We’re not a hopeless case.

And no, this isn’t a self-discipline issue. As someone who grew up with an impulse-monkey of their very own running rampant inside their head, I’m still an industrious and ethical worker. 

So what’s the secret to overcoming this block?

Self-compassion. 

Instead of shaming and punishing yourself for falling down the YouTube rabbit-hole, take into consideration the toddler when you first approach a task. 

If the toddler often gets sidetracked by music with lyrics, try listening to classical music. There will be no chance then of wanting to sing along with the lyrics, and the toddler will be satisfied while you get some work done.

If the toddler often gets peckish, prepare some healthy snacks (like fruit salad, yogurt with granola, pretzels and peanut butter) ahead of time, get a large thermos of cold water, and the toddler will munch away happily while you work on your magnum opus. 

Set up a dedicated space for writing:

Maybe you don’t have a spare room — or even a desk. But you do have a soft lap pillow and a comfy chair you can move to a quiet corner. Drag your writing supplies over and dedicate this as your safe space for writing. Only write here. Don’t eat breakfast here, don’t do homework here, don’t chat with friends here. 

This may seem straightforward, but teaching the toddler is another story. To start, then, use this dedicated space only for a few minutes at a time. Spend fifteen focused minutes on a project while you sit here, then take a break. Overtime, you’ll find you can focus for longer and longer intervals in your writing space.

Procrastination

The Final Boss. The End-All Villain. Procrastination often doesn’t appear on its own. It’s inspired by something. Maybe it’s something we’ve already covered in this guide. The first thing you must do, therefore, is identify the source of your procrastination. Which may vary from project to project.

Once you identify what it is that’s deterring you from action, remember that you hold the power to break through this cycle. So when you put a plan into action, stick to it.

What are some ways you can beat procrastination?

“I’m overwhelmed by this big project.”

Prepare short-term goals: Long-term goals just about beg to be procrastinated. They’re far away and easily forgetable. Short-term goals, however, offer an opportunity to check something off a list. And boy — is that satisfying to do!

Make a list of what you’d like to get done. Prepare achievable goals; SMART goals are goals that are Specific, Measureable, Attainable, Relevant, and are set within a Time-frame. So, for instance, if you have a book you’d like to write, make it a goal to write five hundred words during the next hour.

“There is only one way to eat an elephant: one bite at a time” — Desmond Tutu

“This is boring.”

This kind of boredom which inspires procrastination is not necessarily the same as creative boredom. This kind of boredom exists because you do not feel challenged in your writing. Whereas the boredom we previously discussed is caused because you are not excited about your writing. So how do you challenge yourself? — Some previous suggestions can be applied:

Try your hand at a whole new genre. Do you write a lot of Fantasy? Try Science Fiction, Urban Fantasy, or go as far out of your comfort zone as you can, like Contemporary Romance. Or have you ever written NonFiction? Jog your mind with a memior prompt or an essay topic — just make sure it interests you!

Research writing: there are many books, websites, blogs, and services that offer advice and tips on writing. On Tumblr alone, some include: @writingwithcolor, @referenceforwriters, @ wordstuck.co.vu, @writing-problems​, @thewritershelpers​, @youreallwrite​, and @fuckyeahcharacterdevelopment​

Try throwing a monkey wrench into your story! You can try picking a random prompt to try and incorporate into a scene. You can kill a character. Add some spice into your writing to renew your writing zest!

If all else fails: archive this project. Don’t delete it — never delete what you write; put this project aside for now. Step away from it. You may be too close to it to see what about it isn’t working, or what about it is making it unattractive to you. Give it some time. When you feel ready to return to this project, it will be waiting for you. In the meantime, enjoy creating a new story.

[pretendtobepunkrock]

Divinely Uninspired to a Hellish Extent

a/n: yes! the preferences are back! these are all based on Lewis Capaldi songs, if you haven't heard his new album you need to go check it out. also, because of the theme of his songs and the album, these are all sad. sorry not sorry. if you have an idea of stuff you’d want to see me write, hit up my ask and let me know xo

Ashton

I let my guard down, and then you pulled the rug,

I was getting kind of used to being someone you loved

Ashton didn’t let people in very easily.

It took time and patience and a lot of trust for him to bare his soul to someone new, to reveal all of his emotions and to share them with somebody. There were a hand selected few who saw all of Ashton, the parts of him that he usually kept locked away from the public eye. There was his family, the boys, and even a couple of other friends.

And there had been you.

Ashton had let his guard down to you at a record speed. He wasn’t sure what it was about you that made him feel so comfortable; why he’d given you access to the intimate pieces of his brain and his heart. Despite the warning words of his friends and the cautions they tried to give him, Ashton had given all of himself to you unashamedly.

Then one day, you left.

It wasn’t a dramatic exit, fuelled by screaming and yelling and the slamming of the door on your way out. It wasn’t a secret, him returning home from tour to find your belongings gone and a note telling him goodbye. Ashton even thinks he’d have preferred it if you’d have blamed him, called him names or told him he was unlovable, somethingto make him hate you.

Instead, he came home one day to find your bags packed, a sad smile on your lips as you waited for him on the couch. Ashton felt like the wind had been knocked out of him, words escaping him as you apologised for not being able to stay anymore, for not being able to love him the way he deserved. All he could do was bluntly nod as you said your goodbye, gritting his teeth as you brushed a kiss to his cheek on your way out, hand lingering on his arm as he squeezed his eyes closed in an attempt to keep the tears at bay until you’d gone. That’s when he’d fallen apart.  

Ashton had gotten so comfortable in the cocoon of your love he didn’t know how to go on without it.

Michael

I’ve been told, I’ve been told to get you off my mind

But I hope I never lose the bruises that you left behind

The drinking was counterproductive.

It was all Michael had been doing really, since you’d left him. Not to a reckless extent, but enough every day to take the edge off. He never went alone either, always accompanied by at least one friend. They all said the same thing to him, all encouraged him to do something that would take his mind off of you. He’d always reply that he was, that that’s what the drinks were for. Michael ignored their eye rolls, because he knew just as well that he was lying.

Because the truth was, there were parts of you Michael didn’t want to forget.

And his friends had been right all along. The two of you had never been destined to last, taking too much from the other until one of you had nothing left to give. Evidently, he’d run out first, because one day you walked out the door the morning after and never came back. Michael hadn’t even been surprised when he’d tried to call you and found his number blocked, he hadn’t bothered to go around to your place to fight for it. It was always going to end like this, it had only been a question of when.

Michael just wanted to cling onto the pain.

He couldn’t explain it, why it was so important to him. It wasn’t even that he was overly devastated at the loss of you, or the loss of the pieces of him you’d taken. But the pain you’d left him with, the bruises on his heart where you’d carved out the parts you’d wanted for yourself, they were reminders of what he’d allowed himself to also do to you. Because as much as he was hurting, he was pretty confident that wherever you were, you were too. And maybe that was why he drank, because it numbed the ache of knowing how selfishly the two of you had loved each other. Michael knew he shouldn’t think about you anymore, and he didn’t long for you, not now.

But he needed the reminder of the pain. Because he couldn’t do this again.

Luke

Don’t get me wrong, I’d love to stay too long

Don’t get me wrong, I’d love to tell you whatever you want

Neither of you were sure when it had come to this.

You both sat there, tears in your eyes as you desperately tried to work out a solution to save your relationship. Because at some point, it had deteriorated from one so full of love is was embarrassing, to the two of you constantly feeling like you’d settled for second best. And now you were left in this state of limbo, where neither of you could bear to be the one who called time on your relationship.

That was of course, until today.

It had been an accident, breaking the picture of the two of you that sat on Luke’s bedside table. The two of you had stared at it for what felt like a lifetime, before a strangled laugh fell from your lips and you’d sat back on the bed, hand covering your mouth as you hugged yourself. Luke had slowly sat beside you, the small space between you feeling bigger than it ever had before, the silence saying everything.

“I wish it were different.”

Luke had barely spoken the words, the sentence leaving him in a breath. You’d heard him anyway, nodding sharply as the tears had streamed down your cheeks. Neither of you spoke again, not for a while at least. After what felt like a lifetime, both of your eyes red and cheeks damp and glistening, you’d stood, carefully avoiding the shattered glass. He’d looked up as you’d run a finger along his cheekbone, neither of your smiles reaching your eyes. You both knew that the other felt the same, that you both wished there was a way to fix this, to go back to how it used to be. His lips had brushed your palm before you’d pulled away, and he hadn’t moved as he heard you grab your things and leave, the soft thud of the door closing making him flinch. He let out a shaky breath before lying back, his eyes falling shut.

He felt guilty for feeling so relieved.

Calum

Girl you make my heart break more every day,

But don’t fade away

Calum knew it was wrong.

He was addicted to you, and it was so unhealthy it was hurting him. The two of you had broken up well over a year ago, and yet somehow, you still ended up in each other’s beds more than either of you cared to admit. It broke his heart seeing you get up and leave in the dim light of the morning, and he knew it broke yours from the tight smile you’d send him when you’d turn to face him as you walked out the door. And then there were the phone calls, one of you so drunk that you’d dial the other’s number and slur how much you needed them. It was how you’d gotten into this mess, Calum answering the first call a month after the breakup. He’d been too weak to deny you, racing to your apartment and the two of you falling into bed together. That was the only time you’d spoken about it, the first morning after. You’d told him it didn’t change anything, and Calum had agreed, because you weren’t wrong. All the problems and the blame still lay between you, one night together couldn’t fix that.

And yet, you kept going back.

You’d both tried to move on, only hurting the other more. Calum had been so broken when he’d found out you were seeing someone new he’d been lost. And then one night you turned up at his door at three in the morning, complaining that it wasn’t fair that nobody compared to him. Calum’s heart had almost exploded as he’d pulled you inside, only to break again the next day when you left once more.

Neither of you could find an answer; a way to break the pattern.

The next morning, you’d vowed to never come back, apologising for putting him through this again. Calum couldn’t stop the words tumbling from his lips.

“I’d rather have this than nothing.”

You cried has you nodded, allowing him to kiss you. You promised to see him soon before leaving again. Because you agreed, neither of you could ever fully lose the other, not permanently.

Even if it broke both of your hearts beyond repair.

[goodnightkisseu]

Kim Jaehwan - Muse

Requested By: anonny~ (“ Hello there! I wanted to send in a request for Jae Hwan! I know he's portrayed as someone who's silly with a crazy laughter most of the time, but I rarely see a fic with him as a serious or deep person, which he totally is! You have to be to write and compose songs, right? So...I'd like to request for composer Jae Hwan who is struggling to finish a song but then meets his muse. Can't wait!!!! ”)

Genre: Fluff

Note: So when I first got this idea I was really anticipating it, because I do agree with the requester that Jaehwan probably has a deep and serious side to him that we don’t often get to see. I liked the idea a lot and this quieter fic came from it. I hope that you all enjoy it and as always, feel free to let me know what you think! ^^

Enjoy~

Because of the situation with tumblr links, please check my bio for links to my masterlist~

- goodnightkisseu’s admin / ashley <3

Jaehwan often wondered what word could pinpoint his current predicament. Struggling? Would that be the correct word? No, that was far too simplistic for what was going on. It was more than that. Overall, he was having a hard time finding the right words to form beautiful lyrics, to put together the proper melodies. It was deeper than struggling. It was more like, he lacked motivation. Things weren’t coming to him like they used to. He knew what this feeling was, and yet he didn’t want to admit to himself what was going on.

He was… uninspired.

Honestly, this was the most terrifying word for songwriters, Jaehwan included. To be uninspired meant that nothing was worth writing. It meant that those magical words couldn’t flow together to form anything exciting. Unfortunately, this was how Jaehwan had been feeling for the last two months. Nothing had felt right. Nothing had that emotion to it. Nothing made him want to keep writing, to keep composing. He was just in a state of being. Of these ideas existing, but not coming to life.

Normally, songwriting came easily to Jaehwan. Others liked to call him a prodigy of his craft, but it was far simpler than that. He enjoyed what he did. There was always something, no matter how small and seemingly insignificant, that got his pen moving and his fingers strumming the right notes on his guitar. Everything he saw and felt, could be transformed into a beautiful song. But now, when it mattered most, he was left with nothing. His mind was a blank canvas.

Jaehwan had been sending out demos to every company that came to mind for the past two years. He had to work odd jobs to keep himself afloat while he waited for a call back from someone, and there were times when he had thought of giving up. The wait to get his breakthrough was excruciating, and if he didn’t love writing so much, if he hated his odd jobs, he probably would have called it quits. However, by chance, a demo that he sent out to a smaller company was heard. The company was a young one, only around for about five years, but they already had a handful of well-known artists under their roof. They requested that he compose and write a song for one of their solo artists. If the track that he sent back was to their liking, he would come in and work with the artist to record it, the song guaranteed for the album. If the song did well, they would sign him on to work on a pre-determined number of songs for their other artists. If all of this was well-received, they would extend an offer to him to become an in-house songwriter.

Jaehwan knew this was the opportunity of a lifetime for him. He had never gotten a call back from a company, ever. If he could make this work, he could be on his way. No more working odd end jobs. He could have a secure job doing the thing he loved. So, in no time, he took a look over the contract and asked a pre-law friend to also read over it. When he got the okay, he signed it, and immediately started to work on a new song.

However, this was where disaster struck for the young male. At first, Jaehwan thought he was just having an off day. He thought that maybe his excitement over the deal had just distracted him. It’s hard to write a somber song when you’re through the roof about having your dream job. So he took the day off. Yet, one day became three days, and he soon realized that he was essentially having writer’s block with his music. Jaehwan didn’t really know what to do about it, but with his deadline fast approaching, he knew he had to get something done, something that would ensure him the rest of the contract. If he didn’t, he’d lose his chance and be back to working odd jobs. So he decided to change up his scenery, in hopes that something outside of his apartment would inspire him.

This was how you met Jaehwan.

There was this little shop near Jaehwan’s place. The food there was amazing, but due to its location, it was pretty empty during the day. It wasn’t in a high traffic area, but business was still good enough to keep it afloat. Thus they were usually very busy in the mornings when patrons would come for their coffee and breakfast, and usually around lunch. Every other hour, after the usual rush, it would be quiet, and a great place to focus. This was the place that Jaehwan had decided to venture to when all of his inspiration seemed to leave him. He thought some yummy pastries and coffee could help with his block… and it seemed to be working… kind of. For the first time in a couple of days, he was finally able to scribble something down. Admittedly, they weren’t his best work, but they were ideas for him to pursue.

He was quite happy with them and just as he was about to scribble away at a particular idea, it happened. A torrent of coffee came at him and his notebook, drenching him and the thin pages in the process. Jaehwan was quick to jump to his feet, but as he looked down at his notebook, the pages stained and the ink running, he knew it was a goner. He always knew that this was a downside to working on paper, but he couldn’t help it. There was something about writing his ideas down by hand that just made it seem… real. It appealed to him, but in a moment like this, when all those little budding ideas were gone, ink smeared in with the rich dark caffeinated liquid, he really wished he had done things digitally.

Jaehwan’s shock was quickly replaced by anger as he looked around for the culprit. Given his current state of mind, he was ready to give this clumsy person a stern talking to. It didn’t take him long to spot the offender. You stood there with wide eyes, completely petrified at what you had done. Time seemed to stop as you held the now mostly empty jump in your hands, your eyes seemingly getting even bigger.

You were absolutely mortified at what you had done, and you were quick to break from your initial shock. Jaehwan watched as you apologized profusely. You offered to help him clean up, pay for his dry cleaning and anything else he needed. And though Jaehwan could tell that you meant well, he was still upset. Instead, he decided that he needed to get out of there before he did something he would regret. So all he said was, “Don’t worry about it. You don’t have to pay me back.” He packed up his things, threw away the sad notebook, and told you to be more careful before leaving you, stunned, in that little shop.

This was the last that Jaehwan had expected to see of you. He didn’t return to the shop for almost two weeks, a bit paranoid that something similar would happen again. He tried going to other eateries to write, or even parks and libraries, but none of it worked. He decided to try that shop by his apartment again, and much to his surprise, you were there. At first, he had tried not to make eye contact, hoping that you had forgotten about that incident, but as soon as your eyes locked with his, you came over to him. You asked if he remembered you, and Jaehwan wanted to say he didn’t. To that day, he was still a bit upset about that accident and he wasn't exactly ready to forgive you. But still, against his better judgment, he told you that he did remember you.

You breathed a sigh of relief as you reached into your bag, pulling out a notebook that looked very similar to the one that had been ruined. Jaehwan eyed it, a bit confused, and this gave you the chance to explain. You told him about how horrible you had felt, and that you knew that your clumsiness was costly. You mentioned how the notebook he had looked important, so you had done your best to find a replacement for it. Embarrassed, you told him that you had come to this coffee shop every day at the same time in hopes that he would be back. “I know it doesn’t make up for everything that was lost, but I hope that you’ll still accept it." He remembered those words and the fact that you couldn't even look at him. Jaehwan could tell that you meant it with the best intentions, and even though he was still a bit upset, he accepted the gift.

And that was how it all started.

This was the start of your relationship with Jaehwan. No, the two of you didn’t instantly become a couple. Truth be told, Jaehwan still harbored some ill feelings towards you at first. But after you handed him the notebook and apologized for the eighteenth time, the two of you sat down to chat. You had decided, which Jaehwan thought was rather bold, to ask about what he did for a living. You had confessed that in the process of pulling his notebook from the trash to figure out the brand, you had admittedly taken a peek at it, and now you were curious.  

Though he was initially wary, he decided to tell you about himself. He told you about how he was a composer, how everything in that destroyed notebook was an idea for a song. The more the two of you talked, the more comfortable Jaehwan got with you, to the point where he felt a bit bad about how angry he had been the first time you met. Slowly, you started to see each other more, and on these chance meetings, he started to open up to you more, even telling you about the contract he had signed. In you, he found someone he could confide in.

You felt the same towards Jaehwan. The more he told you about himself, the more that you opened up to him as well. You told him about your ambitions to be a novelist. How you had been sending out manuscripts to different publishers in hopes that someone would pick up one of your books, much like how Jaehwan sent out demos. The two of you grew close over your love of telling stories and conveying emotions to your audience. You both enjoyed these meetings, and eventually, these get-togethers moved outside of the little shop. Sometimes you would meet up at your apartment, other times at his.

Soon, writing became easy for Jaehwan again.

It was simple to convey a sense of longing for someone when he was longing for you. It wasn’t something that Jaehwan had realized was happening at first. Yet the more time he spent with you, the more he realized that he wanted your relationship to be a bit more. He enjoyed the time when the two of you were together. He felt happy, and that happiness helped him to think positively about his work. However, he was unsure of where he stood with you. Your relationship with each other was as ambiguous as the ones that you wrote about in your novels.

Still, this weird state that the two of you were in did help him to finish and submit his song. Jaehwan was nervous for the days that followed, and you stayed by his side while he waited for the call. When he received it, the company said that they enjoyed the song that he wrote, and would like to continue his contract for five more songs. To make sure that the songs met the quality bar that the company was looking for, they even gave Jaehwan his own production studio in the building. On days when you were free, he would invite you there. One, because he enjoyed your company. Two, because he hoped that one of these times, he would finally be able to confess to you.

“Hey,” he started leaning back against you to get your attention. You were both sitting back to back on some pillows on the floor of his studio. You were typing away on your laptop, penning the next chapter of your newest novel, and Jaehwan was strumming away on his guitar, trying to come up with the melody for his next song.

“Yes?” you asked softly, his sudden weight on you getting your attention. You leaned against him, trying to get comfy again as you turned your head to catch a glimpse of him out of the corner of your eye.

“Do you enjoy this?” he asked, his question vague. Jaehwan was having a hard time with his words, and with his mind so concentrated on not screwing up, his fingers now just aimlessly strummed chords. Funnily enough, they were reminiscent of that song he finished because of you.

Your ears perked up at his question, their fingers ceasing to type as you turned to him. “You mean, hanging out like this? I like it a lot. I get so much done when we’re together.”

Jaehwan could feel your eyes on him now and his fingers were still strumming, trying to keep him focused on what was important.  “Yeah, but is that all you like?” he inquired, feeling you shift next to him. Soon, he realized that you had moved away, the lack of support on his back almost making him topple over. But as soon as he regained his balance, he found himself face to face with you, and a pink tint crept across his cheeks. Normally, when the two of you were this close to each other, he would have said something silly, but he couldn’t bring himself to do that today.

Though you were eager to let him continue, Jaehwan seemed to be having a hard time. It was like he couldn’t get the words out. And so, you decided to help him. “I like you,” you admitted, gently resting your forehead against his. You might have jumped the gun a bit, but you knew that if you didn’t say it now, you wouldn’t be able to say it again later.

Relief rushed over Jaehwan at your closeness and your confession. “I like you too,” he told you gently, giving you the softest kiss, hand gently moving into your hair to pull you closer…

A few years later, you found yourself at an award show as Jaehwan’s plus one. Since that night in his studio, your relationship had blossomed quickly. Your little hangouts became actual dates and within that first year together, you moved in with each other. Things had moved fast, there were fights, but they weren’t anything that the two of you didn’t eventually get through. Having each other so close made you both more productive, as strange as that may seem. You managed to get your first book deal the month after you moved in with Jaehwan. You always called him your lucky charm because, after that first book, you were signed on for more.

As much as he was your charm, you were his. His songs and how well they were doing on the charts didn’t go unnoticed by the company he was working for. He became that company’s in-house songwriter, while also getting the opportunity to work with other artists when they reached out. And with how much recognition his work was getting, it was no surprise when he was nominated for a songwriting award, and subsequently won. You couldn’t have been prouder as you clapped and cheered for him while he made his way onto the stage, your longtime boyfriend ready to give the speech that he worked so hard on.

Jaehwan cleared his throat and thanked the necessary people. The company that had taken him in, the lovely artists that had sung his song, as well as the rest of the production team. He thanked his parents for helping him get through school, as well as the teachers that helped him become the songwriter that he was today. Then, the gentlest smile formed on his lips. “There’s one more person I would like to thank tonight. She’s actually the reason why I can stand before you all today. A few years ago, I was struggling to write a song. It was the song that would essentially get me started on this road that I am now. I was having such a hard time that I decided to take myself out of my comfort zone and visit a nearby shop. She was there that day, and,” Jaehwan paused, stifling the smallest chuckle, “she spilled her coffee all over me. That was the moment I met her, and I would never have been able to finish that song if I didn’t meet her on that day. Thank you to my muse and the love of my life.”

Just as those proud words left his lips, Jaehwan caught a glimpse of you in the audience, face beet red that he had told such a story during his acceptance speech. He knew he was going to be reprimanded for it later, but it felt right to tell it. After all, he really wouldn’t be here without you. He wouldn’t be here if he had never met his muse…

[nanowrimo]

How to Put Your Writer’s Block on Mute

Camp NaNoWriMo has officially begun! A lot of writers feel like they struggle against writer’s block, so how do you overcome that when it overwhelms you? Today, participant Stefanie McAuley shares a tip for getting past those moments of doubt:

I sit at my desk, eyes glazed over. Why can’t my mind go this blank when I attempt to meditate? On my screen it’s just there staring back at me. Blink. Blink. Blink. Blink. How can something so small and controllable be so taunting? And yet, right now I can’t think of a single thing more jeering than the flashing cursor of writer’s block.

“You’ve got this...?” I whisper to myself in what’s intended as a pep-talk but comes out like a question. Inhale. Exhale.

Of course, this usually happens to writers when a deadline is looming—for school, or a paid piece, or a goal set by an over-achieving mind. We must, so we can’t. We freeze under the pressure.

I’m sure you, too, have an arsenal of tricks to get your brain to stop buffering and start flowing. Crowd favorites include a quick walk around the block, wire framing your story arch and filling in the spaces, and my usual choice: the scream-into-a-pillow. While they can be cathartic I’ve found these methods are still too cognitive. Nothing stifles a piece more than muscling your way through the creative process. Even if I manage to hit the deadline, I’m rarely happy with the outcome. What’s worse, I’ve had a really rough day of writing—isn’t this supposed to be fun?—and I’m left deflated, uninspired, and disappointed in my final work.

I needed a better strategy. My poor throw pillows.

“Find an outlet that triggers your creativity and allows you to drop your inhibitions. The time will not be wasted, it’s a simple reset into your creative mindset.”

It wasn’t until one day I was driving home from a dance class that it struck me: creativity breeds creativity. After an hour of being lost in the movement and music, my neurons were firing. Stagnant pieces of my storyline were developing into clear, humorous bridges. I blew through my apartment door, barely taking off my shoes, to frantically write everything down before it escaped me.

Yes. Writing is really fun.

Since then, I have a new lease on my writing life. The eleventh-hour used to freak me out—I had no time to waste! Now, I lean into burning time on non-writing. I crank up a killer playlist with a similar tone to the piece I’m writing, and slide my coffee table out of the way. When I’m stuck, I feel like a jammed record player and the end of the last sentence I’ve typed just repeats over, and over, and over, like it’s trying to knock the next one out. That’s not an option when the music is blaring and I’m letting the lyrics flow through me. There’s just me, my body, and the 90s pop diva du jour.

One side-effect of a catchy song is having those lyrics stuck in your head. Make room for your own word flow by setting back to work with some white noise on in your headphones. This proves an effective way to ward off an earworm.

Whatever you do, stop putting the pressure on yourself. While Whitney into a hairbrush mic isn’t for everyone, find an outlet that triggers your creativity and allows you to drop your inhibitions. The time will not be wasted, it’s a simple reset into your creative mindset.

Have fun with it—isn’t that what it’s all about?

As a writer and marketing specialist, global brands call on Stefanie McAuley for thoughtful strategic-planning and effective creative writing. Not one to sit still, Stef has lived on three continents and traveled to fifty countries. Inspired by her travels and life lessons, she started sharing stories on her blog, Broad World. And, her time living in Ghana inspired the work of her first novel—coming soon! Check out her blog, Instagram, & Twitter.

Top image licensed under Creative Commons from Jeremy Keith on Flickr.